Inmortui's Den

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Main account: https://www.lioden.com/lion.php?mid=236646
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Lore
They thought it was rabies. They were wrong. It did start like it, your average October swarm. The Half-Moon pride did notice the number of infected was high that year, but they didn't mind it. Devil's claw - the herb that's been used to cure rabies without fail for centuries - grows everywhere in their territory. Infact, the herb practically thrives in the mushy shrubbery, thick blankets of fog, and brisk days of their boscage. And yes, they never seemed to stop harvesting that year, since the number of infected animals only seemed to grow larger and larger, but they were determined to assist the once-friendly forest dwellers. Surely they would be better soon, perhaps they just built up a tolerance to the herb's effects. That's what they had thought, when the plague first knocked at their doors. If they had known, maybe the Half-Moon pride wouldn’t be just a legend now.

The Half-Moon woods used to be home to hundreds. The pride that lived there was known for their peaceful nature. The lionesses that made a home on that mountain side, finding joy in the forest that entangled it. Turns out the almost muggy place, equipped with dense woodlands, towering trees, cold winds, and a seemingly never-ending fog, was the perfect place for herbs. It wasn’t long before they were known as a great clan of healers, practicing medicine that lions once thought only a shaman, or a miracle could perform. If someone, anyone, was in need of healing, whether they were sick, injured, or already half-way dead, it was said the Half-Moons could cure them. They welcomed lions from far and wide, offered food, water, and a place to rest, a place to mend, to become whole again. Never was there an ailment that they could not cure, a tonic they couldn’t cook up, a creature they couldn’t save. Until this.

They called it many things: Jungle nose, the rot, sage’s malaria, the green rasp, and so much more. But now, most just call it ‘Mors’ or, if you translate it, ‘death’. It took too long to realize it wasn’t rabies that they were dealing with. All the regular signs were there, foaming at the mouth, increased aggression, refusal of water. But then there was more, then it got worse. Herbivores became carnivores, what were once bouncing bunches of bunnies or flighty red squirrels were now packs of flesh seeking rodents, angry and always hungry. And, of course, the bears, the wolves, the cryptids, and any of the others who got inflicted were the same. That’s when the growth started, and with it the rot. It started simple, mold and moss latching itself onto their skin. But it grew, and grew, until the infected was shed of its fur or feathers, of what once made it whole, covering them in algae and plants of all kinds, like a walking ecosystem. Their fur wasn’t the only thing either, the roots dug their way beneath the skin and into the bloodstream, pumping more and more of the vile disease into its host until there was no shred of humanity left. Until the animal, lion, or creature that once existed was nothing but a bloody, pus leaking, rotting thing.

The pride scrambled for a cure, tried everything they could muster up. But nothing worked, not devil's claw, dream root, buchu, imphepho, umganu, uzara, nothing. Not a single one, nor combination, nor concoction. The King, a wise but old ruler, tried to save his lionesses. He told them to escape, to run from the woods and warn the neighboring prides of what was spreading. But it was too late, they would never make it down the mountain without risking the lives of the weaker members, or - spirits forbid - the cubs. The King was the first to go, bitten by an infected shrike while trying to protect his newest litter. With their strongest member now down, and soon to turn on them, the lionesses were flung into a panic. Desperate to save themselves, their families, their children, and the home they once knew, the pride was inevitably split. There were those who wanted to fight, those who wanted to flee, and those who wanted to hunker down and hope that waiting it out was possible.

The ones who wanted to fight died off first, then those that hunkered down. The survivors? The ones who were slowly trying to make it down the mountain like the King had said. After all, bravery is for the dead. Their pride never learned to fight anyways, they were peacemakers, healers. Perhaps that's why the disease began. Maybe the spirits, unhappy with their beloved Shamans being made a fool by a clan that just so happened to learn medicine, cursed their forest.

There are survivors still, still stuck decades upon decades after that initial October. They’re few in number, and growing fewer by the day, but they’re out there. Some say it’s the reason the disease hasn’t spread, because there are still victims to be made in the Half-Moon woods. Others say that the second the last survivor finally perishes, all the infected will die, and the forest will become quiet and peaceful once more. Whatever the reason the disease hasn’t spread, that the contagion is kept up on that mountain side, be thankful. Once it spreads, there is no stopping it.

But, if you truly don’t believe, all you have to do is walk to the edge of the woods. As you stare in, thousands of soulless green eyes will be staring right back at you, hungry and waiting for you to take just one step into the undergrowth. And, if you’re really unlucky, you’ll hear the frightened and desperate dying roars of another survivor falling prey to the Mors.

Css credit to Shad #16848

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