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# Montosho

The hungry jungle.

Story
The jungle ate us one by one.
It began with the heat. By noon our clothes were soaked, our mouths cracked, every breath like drinking steam. The insects found us soon after, biting until our skin was blistered and raw. We scraped them away, but they always came back, humming in clouds, crawling into our ears and eyes.
When we stopped to drink, the river turned on us. Marrus filled his flask and by nightfall he was doubled over, vomiting black water until he went still. We left him behind because the air already stank of rot.
The next day I slipped crossing a log. The cut on my leg was small, but within hours it burned like fire. By morning the flesh had turned soft and grey, oozing with pus. The others would not meet my eyes when I begged them to help.
Then came the snakes. Silent, sliding things that struck from nowhere. One man screamed and thrashed until the venom stilled him. Another simply disappeared, nothing left but his pack in the mud.
By the time I realized I was alone, the jungle was already closing in. Not with moving vines, but with silence. No birds, no monkeys, only the wet breath of Montosho itself.
I knew then it was never accident. The jungle wanted us gone.

A river deep in the Montosho

# Description

The northern jungle of Montosho is not just a place, it is a being. To walk beneath its endless canopy is to step into the body of something alive. The banyan stretches for leagues in every direction, its roots knotted in labyrinths below, its branches bridging into walls above. Every tree is Montosho, and Montosho is every tree. To the gods, Montosho is not an adversary but an inevitability, for it moves too slowly to ever be resisted, too vast to ever be defeated. Its thoughts flow like rivers through its roots, ponderous and eternal, but to mortals they are unfathomable. No one can speak to Montosho. It does not answer prayers. It simply exists, and that is enough.

To outsiders, Montosho feels hostile. Travelers whisper that the forest knows they are intruders. A snake drops from a branch just as a hunter steps beneath. A vine wall grows overnight where a path once lay open. A tiny scratch festers into a fever. Insects and leeches harass travellers. None of these things are accidents. Montosho does not seek to kill, yet neither does it stay its hand. It only drives intruders away. Civilization cannot thrive here.

For those who know where to look, Montosho is not only hunger and decay but also life beyond measure. Hidden among the strangler roots and swamp reeds grow herbs that knit flesh, flowers that cure fevers, and fungi whose smoke can ease madness or sharpen the senses. To the ignorant these plants are death, poison, blight, or hallucination, but in the hands of a skilled herbalist or alchemist, Montosho’s greenery is as valuable as gold.

Ruins in the jungle

## Peoples of the Edge

Along the jungle’s margins dwell the Catlings, agile hunters with the ears and tails of wild cats. They live in reed villages that perch on the floodplains, trading cautiously with Imperial merchants. To the Empire, Catlings are both useful allies and convenient slaves.

Catling scout Ileena, ready to pounce

Deeper still, among the strangler roots and broken temples, lurk the Boons. They are half-men, half-baboons, descended from an ancient empire whose name has been lost. Their ruined capital, Kra’thuun, lies swallowed by the jungle, its vine-choked temples, palaces and libraries rising like broken teeth. The Boons once carved their dominion from Montosho’s heart, but Montosho had time on its side. Stone by stone, vine by vine, it erased their works. Today, most Boons are little more than feral hunters, wielding stone clubs and bone knives, yet the echo of their empire lingers in the ruins and in the few clans who still remember scraps of old drum beats.

Boons in blood frenzy

## The Empire’s Grip

Where the banyan thins and the rivers meet the sea, the Great Empire claws at Montosho’s skin. They do not build cities here, only stations: fortified trade outposts that stand like islands of order in the green chaos.

Fort Jandrel guards the mouth of the Blackwater Delta, from where manatee oil is shipped to the Imperial heartlands.

Station Varrek lies upriver, where Catlings are lured into debt and slavery, and where hunters bring live beasts for export.

Drevas Post, furthest inland, serves as a staging ground for expeditions against the Boons. It is a place of cages and chains, from which captives are marched to the coast and sold into the arenas of distant cities.

But even the Empire bends beneath Montosho’s will. Walls crack, supply lines rot, and soldiers vanish into the night. Whole stations sometimes fall silent, consumed in silence by vines and swamp, their garrisons swallowed without trace.

Due to this resistance, the Empire has not tried to colonize, despite the proximity. It is simply impossible to build anything lasting there.

## The Struggle of Nature and Man

Montosho endures. The Empire persists. Catlings shift between allies and rebels. Boons linger in ruin. But beneath it all is the truth whispered by shamans and druids: Montosho cannot be conquered. It will never die, only wait, for its patience is greater than gods or empires.

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