×Springtrap×'s Den

Lore

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There is a part of the savannah the other prides dare not tread. The air there is thick, not with heat, but with a heavy, electric tension. The ground is scorched, riddled with strange tracks—some too wide, too precise to be made by anything alive. At the heart of this cursed land rules a creature not truly dead… but far from living.

Springtrap is king in name only. In truth, he is a curse wrapped in fur and metal, a being whose soul clings to a decayed body held together by blood, rust, and something unnatural. Once a lion of great strength, he tampered with ancient forces—forgotten spirits, broken gods, and machines buried beneath the earth. In his hunger for immortality, he tore open a path he could never close.

Now, Springtrap stands twisted and grotesque, his mane blackened and dripping with grime, fangs reinforced by shattered metal, and lifeless eyes glowing with a sickly white fire. His movements creak like rusted hinges, and his roars echo with static. Yet he endures. He rules.

His pride—The Pride of the Withered—are not like other lions.

Each lioness and submale has been changed, either willingly or by force, their bodies altered in the shadow of their king. Fur gives way to wires. Flesh stitched over plated joints. Voices buzz with garbled tones, as if an echoing growl plays behind every word. They patrol like machines, silent and swift, but their eyes betray their suffering. There is pain behind the code.

At the deepest part of the den, hidden by tangled brambles and fallen stone, lies Parts & Services—a chamber carved into the earth, lined with ancient bones and scraps of machinery humming faintly with residual power. Here, the Withered are born… or remade.

Some who enter do so broken, hoping to return stronger. Others are taken without choice. They return altered—efficient, quiet, obedient. Few ever speak of what lies beyond the inner chamber. Even fewer survive long enough to forget.

In the heart of this grim place stands a reinforced cage bathed in flickering red light. Inside: a half-finished heir, forged by Springtrap himself. A child of steel and sorrow, pieced together from scavenged parts and imbued with fragments of ancient code. It does not sleep. It does not eat. It simply waits—its dull, white eyes never blinking.

Some whisper that this heir is Springtrap’s final plan. That it will awaken fully only once the king falls. Others believe he’s trying to preserve himself in a stronger body—one not so broken, not so weak. Whatever the truth, the pride guards it fiercely. The heir is their legacy… or their doom.

Travelers speak of the Pride of the Withered in hushed tones. They say the land itself groans with pain. That shadows move where no light falls. That if you stay too long, you begin to hear things—old screams, metal grinding, distant lullabies corrupted by static.

And always, behind it all, is Springtrap.

Watching.

Waiting.

Smiling with teeth that are no longer his.

About me

im -99 born woman from Finland loving gaming, music and movies.
I love to chat with people and im glad to accept friend requests
This account is heavilly baset on horror!
My main account is #337657