[EVENT Ch 2 - Story] The Jungle of Morpheus

The first true test of Faramond’s resolve came not from fang or claw, but from roots and leaves.
He had wandered far from the Pond, tracing the winding rivers until their waters grew darker, muddier, and clogged with strange reeds that whispered as though they carried voices in their hollow stems. Beyond the marshland rose the jungle; a towering maze of colossal trees whose canopies choked the sunlight and whose undergrowth pulsed with life both familiar and alien.
It was here that the name of Morpheus first reached Faramond’s ears, carried by the croak of frogs that glowed faintly blue in the shadows and by the silence of birds who dared not sing. Some force had worked its will on this place, twisting ordinary flora into something monstrous, purposeful, and hungry. Faramond felt it before he even entered: the jungle was not merely alive, it was aware.
The moment his heavy feet pressed into the leaf-littered soil, Faramond knew he was trespassing.
The air was thick, heavy with humidity and spore-dust that clung to his nostrils. Massive ferns arched overhead, their fronds large enough to roof a shelter. Lianas as thick as his horns dangled like serpents, writhing when brushed, retracting with subtle malice. Even the trees seemed unnaturally swollen, their bark puckered with breathing holes that exhaled sweet, dizzying scents.

Stoic as always, Faramond did not falter. He moved cautiously, ears swivelling to every sound, nostrils flaring at the scent of rot and honey that drifted in waves. His intelligence warned him that not all beauty could be trusted, indeed, in this place, beauty itself might well be a trap.
Hours passed as he pressed deeper, seeking water, shelter, and the faint promise of a clearing where he might rest. But the jungle did not welcome him.
The first danger came in the form of light. Amid the gloom, a patch of pale-gold blossoms glimmered with their own inner fire, glowing like captured starlight. Their petals shifted as though they were silk under water, mesmerizing in their hypnotic dance.
Faramond, though cautious, found himself compelled. His kind relied on sight to read subtle signs in the land, and here was light where none should be, an invitation in the shadows. He approached, nostrils catching the sweet perfume of the blossoms. His tongue flicked out to taste the air, and immediately bitterness crawled across his palate.
He froze.
Intelligence cut through instinct. Beauty here was deception. The blossoms were more than they appeared: at their heart bristled spines slick with resin, each drop glinting faintly blue. His memory called upon the teachings of his herd, elders had spoken of “sweetkillers,” plants that lured prey with light before impaling them with venomous barbs.
Instead of retreating, Faramond did something daring. Lowering his horns, he swung them wide and shattered the nearest cluster, sending petals and thorns scattering. From the broken stems oozed sap that hissed when it touched the ground, eating into the earth with corrosive fury.

Had he brushed too close, his hide and feathers would have been pierced, and the venom would have coursed swiftly into his blood. His stoic calm carried him forward, but inwardly he acknowledged the risk: one mistake here meant death.
Further in, the air grew warmer, almost feverish. A faint mist began to curl low over the ground, trailing from bulbous pods clinging to the roots of trees. Each pod pulsed like a beating heart, then exhaled in bursts, releasing clouds of glittering spores.
At first, Faramond thought them harmless. He trudged onward, only to feel the ground sway beneath him, the shadows twisting into shapes. The trunks of trees rippled into the bodies of ancient predators, their bark turning to scales, their eyes glowing with hungry fire. Voices rose in the mist; his herd calling to him, urging him to return home, begging him not to leave.
Faramond slowed, lowering his head, sides heaving as confusion thickened in his mind. He saw the Pond before him, glistening, his kin gathered at its edge, their eyes full of warmth. His heart ached.
But then, his honesty, the core of his being, cut through the falsehood.
“This is not real,” he muttered in his mind, though his kind had no words for speech. His soul whispered truth: his herd was far away. They would never call to him here.
He stamped the ground, shaking his frill, his horns clattering against a trunk. Pain bloomed from the impact, sharp and grounding. The visions shattered like mist in wind. All that remained were the pulsing pods, oozing spores in their ceaseless rhythm.
Snorting hard, Faramond charged through, unwilling to linger. He burst free into clearer air, heart hammering, but mind once again his own.
Night began to fall, though in the jungle it was hard to tell, the canopy had long blocked the sky. Faramond searched for a safe place to rest, settling beneath a massive root system where the soil was dry. Exhaustion tugged at his eyes, and for a time he allowed himself to sink into drowsiness.
But the jungle would not grant him peace.
The vines above him stirred, inching downward with unnatural speed. They coiled together, twining like serpents, their tips ending in barbed hooks. Slowly, silently, they crept toward his body, one brushing his flank, tasting.
Had he been less alert, sleep would have claimed him, and with it, the vines. But Faramond’s instincts, honed by risk, flared awake. He lunged upward with a roar, his horns snapping through the vines. They writhed, lashing around his legs and frill, tightening with terrifying strength.
The more he struggled, the faster they grew, sprouting fresh shoots that wrapped his torso. Their hooks sank into his hide, shallow at first but deepening as they pulled.
Faramond’s humility saved him here. He did not believe himself invincible. He did not waste strength on blind panic. Instead, he thought, fast. His horns tore free, ripping a mass of the vines, and he turned toward a nearby tree where the vine-thick stems anchored. With all his weight, he charged.
The impact cracked bark and bone, but it tore the vines free from their root. Deprived of anchor, they slackened, twitching in death-throes before going limp. He stumbled free, his sides streaked with shallow wounds, blood seeping into his pale hide.
The jungle had tried to claim him in his rest. It would not again.

For days he pressed on, wounds healing, resolve hardening. Each step was risk, each mouthful of leaves suspect. Yet he learned; adapting as his kin always had. He avoided blossoms that glowed, he skirted mists, and he slept only where no vine shadows stretched overhead.
In time, he came upon a clearing unlike any other. The ground was bare of undergrowth, the soil cracked and blackened. At its center rose a monstrous plant, towering, with a trunk like a tree but topped with a flower so vast it blotted out the moonlight. Its petals glistened red as fresh blood, and from its center dripped nectar thick as tar. Around it lay the bones of beasts who had wandered too close, their skeletons half-dissolved, gnawed not by teeth but by root and acid.
This, Faramond knew, was the heart of Morpheus’ garden.
This was no plant of the old world, it was a weapon, a predator of predators.

The flower stirred as though sensing him, its petals spreading with a hiss. A low vibration thrummed through the soil, roots shifting toward him.
Stoic though he was, Faramond felt awe. Here was a force not meant for his kind, a danger his ancestors had never known. Yet he did not turn back. Instead, he stood tall, horns gleaming in the pale light, and bellowed his challenge into the night.
The sound rolled through the jungle, shaking spores from branches, sending lizards and insects scuttling. The monstrous bloom quivered, but did not advance. Perhaps it knew this prey was too large, too stubborn, too strong to be taken down, even heavy to consume.
Faramond turned and left it behind, choosing not to fight but to survive. That, too, was a kind of victory.

When at last he emerged from the green maze, sunlight struck his hide, and fresh air filled his lungs. His body bore the marks of struggle, scratches, scars, the faint ache of venom that had nearly taken root. But his spirit burned brighter than ever.
The jungle had tested him with deception, with beauty turned lethal, with dreams made false. Yet he had endured. He had adapted. He had learned the ways of Morpheus’ domain and walked out alive.
One day, he would find others, his own herd, bound by shared trials and adventures. And when he did, he would tell them of this place, warning them of the weird, alien plants and the flowers that preyed on others. His loyalty to his kind demanded no less.
For now, he pressed onward, unshaken.
The world was vast, and he said to himself he would see it all.