𝓢𝓲𝓻𝓸𝓴's Den

He/Him

im 10 hours ahead of lioden time
Even though I appear to be online/active, might not be. sometimes i leave the tab open on my computer on accident :D


You went where no sane lion would dare go.

As you step into the Bone Pride’s territory, the air seems to shift, growing dense and heavy with an oppressive heat that feels alive, pressing against your chest with every breath. The sun hangs like a vengeful eye in the bleached sky, its unrelenting light glaring down upon a land that appears forsaken by life itself. The cracked earth beneath your feet radiates a searing warmth, its surface littered with fragments of bone—scattered remains of prey and predator alike, their jagged edges glinting like cruel teeth.

The landscape before you is a vision of despair. Sparse, brittle vegetation clings stubbornly to life, its twisted forms casting eerie, spindly shadows across the scorched ground. A dry wind snakes through the hollow, carrying with it an acrid scent of decay that turns your stomach and a low, mournful wail that seems to echo from everywhere and nowhere at once. It feels as if the land itself is watching, weighing, judging.

The first sign that you’ve entered the pride’s domain comes suddenly—a sharp sound as your foot crunches against a skull half-buried in the cracked soil. A warning. Around you, the landscape seems to close in, the sparse rocks and thorny shrubs forming a natural labyrinth that channels you deeper into the cursed land. And then, faint at first but growing steadily louder, you hear it: the sound of movement, of heavy paws against dry earth.

They appear without warning, emerging from the shadows as if summoned by the land itself. Pale lions, their bone-colored coats blending seamlessly with the desolate terrain, encircle you. Their movements are slow, deliberate, and calculated, each step a predator’s promise of violence held in check only by their will. Their eyes—some a dull amber, others a sickly pale—glitter with a mixture of curiosity and menace.

One figure stands out among them: Sirok. He is smaller than the others, his frame lithe and wiry, yet there is something profoundly unsettling about him. His pale eyes, nearly white, glimmer with a cunning intelligence that sends a chill down your spine. He moves like a snake, each step deliberate, each gesture calculated. He does not growl or snarl like the others; he simply watches, his gaze dissecting you as though already planning the best way to bring you down. His smaller stature only amplifies the predatory aura that clings to him, as if he has spent his life turning what others see as weakness into a lethal advantage.

The pride tightens its circle, their low growls rumbling like distant thunder. From the shadows emerges another figure, larger and far more imposing—Ra’khar. His massive form is a stark contrast to Sirok’s, his mane dark and wild, his amber eyes blazing with a light that seems to pierce through to your soul. His presence is suffocating, a force of nature unto itself. He stops before you, silent, his gaze heavy with judgment.

When he speaks, his voice is deep and commanding, carrying the weight of countless battles and decisions. He demands your purpose, his tone brooking no lies or hesitation. The pride waits in tense silence, their eyes fixed on you, their muscles coiled and ready to strike at Ra’khar’s slightest signal.

If your words falter or your presence offends, the pride reacts as one. They lunge with terrifying precision, their pale forms a blur of fangs and claws, their roars drowning out your cries. But if you are deemed worthy—through some show of strength, cunning, or sheer audacity—you are spared, for now.

You are led deeper into the cursed land, where the air grows heavier still and the bones grow thicker beneath your feet. The pride moves around you like ghosts, their pale forms vanishing and reappearing in the shifting shadows. Sirok stays close, his movements quiet, his gaze never leaving you. He seems to delight in your unease, a predator savoring the tension before the strike.

As you reach the heart of their territory, the land becomes an extension of their cruelty—a den of twisted rocks and jagged cliffs, their edges painted with the remnants of old hunts. The air reeks of blood and death, and the winds howl with voices that seem to speak your name. Here, in the grip of the Bone Pride’s domain, you realize the truth: this is not a land you conquer. It is a land that consumes.