Ｋｕｂｗａ's Den

Dawn-Pride Lore

📜 The Era of Astrien, First of His Name

Record of the Dawn-Pride, Volume I
As transcribed by Daro, Lorekeeper of the Stone Den

In the time before the blood-hunt moons, when the savanna was still young and the sun bore no scars, there rose a lion of deep fawn hide and blood-borne mane. He called himself Astrien.

Astrien was not born into greatness. He emerged, rather, from dust and instinct, a lion of humble origins marked by a quiet authority. His eyes bore no fire, yet those who met his gaze found themselves stilled, as if he carried the memory of older kings in his blood.

The lands were wild then—lawless, sprawling. It was Astrien who gathered the scattered lionesses, offering shelter, purpose, and unity. His was a fatherly reign, not one of dominance, but of guidance. He walked alongside his huntresses, not ahead of them, and under his rule, the pride flourished. Cubs nursed under the shade of acacia trees; the caves rang with the rhythm of pawsteps and song.

Though his coat was simple and his lineage unknown, his mane burned red as dried blood—a silent testament to his resilience. Some said he was blessed by the Red Mother, an old spirit who chose gentle kings for violent times.

He took no queen, though many courted his favor. His children, few in number, remained loyal, not by duty, but by love. They bore his lessons like old scars—quiet, enduring.

When Astrien passed into the grasslands beyond, it is said the sun dimmed for three days, and the wind whispered his name in tongues long lost.

Thus ended the first era. The stones still remember.

📜 The Reign of Demezel, the Usurper King

Record of the Dawn-Pride, Volume II
As scratched into stone and hidden beneath the dust of the Bone Cave, transcribed by Daro, Lorekeeper of the Stone Den

In the years after the First Lion laid down his crown, when the earth still mourned his passing and the sky knew not whom to follow, there came a lion not born of the pride, but forged in exile. His name was Demezel.

Demezel was not of Astrien’s blood. He was taken in as a cub, ragged and silent, his white pelt clinging to a body shaped by hardship. He bore the look of frostbitten lands—Ice-colored fur, brittle and bright, and a Barbary mane like blackened iron, thick and jagged as a storm-torn bush.

Astrien, moved by some fatherly instinct, offered the young outcast sanctuary, unaware that he was welcoming in the architect of the pride’s darkest age.

Where Astrien led with wisdom and warmth, Demezel listened, learned, and waited.

When Astrien named his trueborn son, Astrien II, as heir to the throne, Demezel revealed the ambition he had nurtured in silence. He rose not as successor, but as challenger—and with brutal certainty, he struck the rightful heir down before his paw could touch the crown.

Some say Astrien II was banished, maimed, or killed. His name was scrubbed from the stones, and his bones never found. The truth, like mercy, had no place in Demezel’s reign.

He claimed the throne by claw, not custom, and no lion dared oppose him. **His coat was a cold, gleaming white, but his body bore streaks and wounds like tribal runes—**Vitiligo blooming across his frame, cracks of Nacre, and feral reds clawing through his flanks. Dark onyx and inverted noctis markings stained his back like shadows that had clung to him from birth. He was beautiful in the way a bladed weapon is beautiful—elegant, but made for harm.

So began the Crimson Age.

Under Demezel, the pride became silent and obedient. The huntresses no longer gathered in song, and the caves no longer echoed with cubs’ laughter. He bred indiscriminately and frequently, not for legacy, but to leave his mark. His many children stayed near only from terror, or fled under cover of night.

Some say the Hyena-stripe and Skyward markings on his descendants are not gifts, but curses, carried forward from the cruelty of their sire.

None were strong enough to challenge him. His rule was long, brutal, and without reprieve. Bones gathered at the den mouth—more than could be counted. The ground itself refused to bloom.

And when at last he fell—how, none agree—the rains returned, and the vultures circled three days without stopping.

Let his reign be remembered not for its power, but for its cost. Let his name be carved in shadow.

📜 The Ascension of Kubwa, the Rose-Lit King

Record of the Dawn-Pride, Volume III
As sung beneath the flowering dens and etched into sun-bleached bark

After the storm, the world does not return to what it was—it grows something new. So it was, in the ashes of tyranny, that the pride rose again, led not by fire or frost, but by warmth. His name is not feared. It is blessed.
He is Kubwa — the Impeccable.

No songs were sung when Demezel fell. Only silence. A silence so wide and deep it seemed no lion would dare speak again.

But then came Kubwa.

He did not seize the throne. He was chosen—first by the elders, then by the lionesses, and finally, by the cubs who followed him without being told. He did not need to demand loyalty. He inspired it.

He rose from the younger bloodlines, born after Demezel’s first cullings, untouched by cruelty, yet shaped by the knowledge of it. His pelt was a soft, glowing Ardor, the color of embers warming rather than burning, marked with the vibrant strokes of a thousand sunsets. Sunrise vitiligo curled across his flanks, and Blood Moon mirages shimmered on his back like heat rising from stone. His Royal mane, windswept and green-gold as the first sprigs of spring, crowned him not with dominance—but with life renewed.

He walked with grace. His Chaos eyes, shifting and strange, held kindness even when the old pride braced for punishment. They quickly learned—this king was not like the others.

He ruled not as a warrior, but as a guardian. Lionesses returned to the pride, their songs tentative at first, then loud and proud. Cubs once again played beneath the acacias, their coats bright with Hibiscus and Cherry, their laughter unafraid. He fathered many, not to claim legacy or power, but because he believed in growing a future that would outlive the scars of the past.

His reign is known as the Era of the Blooming Roar.

The dens filled, not with bones, but with stories. The pride did not forget Demezel, but they no longer bowed to fear. They taught the cubs of the tyrant—not to hide, but to recognize what must never rise again.

And Kubwa?
He remains a presence of steady warmth. Even in age, he still walks among his kin—not above them.

Let his name be carved not in stone, but in blossoms. Let it be spoken in the dawn light and whispered to every cub. He is the lion who taught us that after fire... we grow.

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Kubwa