Plague Moose
Ten feet at the shoulder. That is the first detail anyone mentions, and the number does not prepare you. Standing in the shadow of a Plague Moose is standing beneath something that should not still be upright. Bones poke through the flesh at the joints, blood congealing in dark crusts on sinewy tissue that strains visibly with each step. The antlers alone could span a doorway. The hooves could crack a chest cavity. And the thing keeps moving, because the Infection does not care about structural integrity.
Most survivors who encounter them in the northern forests believe they are undead. The debate is academic at best; whether the Infection is animating a corpse or merely ruining something still technically alive makes no practical difference when it is bearing down on you. What matters is that Plague Moose rip into anything they come across, indiscriminate in their aggression. They do not hunt selectively. If it moves and it is alive, the Plague Moose charges.
They share the cold forests with Plague Bears, and the two species coexist without conflict. Neither preys on the other. Both haunt the tree lines in search of the living, moving through territory that Reclaimers and Rovers need to access for timber and trade routes. The Reclaimers who haul timber out of the North know the risks. They travel in groups, keep noise to a minimum, and know which trees are tall enough to climb in a hurry.
A lone survivor who encounters a Plague Moose should find the nearest tree and start climbing. They are easier to bring down than Plague Bears when you have allies and ranged weapons, but "easier" is a relative term that only applies to groups. One on one, ten feet of Infection-driven fury backed by massive antlers and hooves is not a fight. It is an accident waiting to happen.
Most survivors who encounter them in the northern forests believe they are undead. The debate is academic at best; whether the Infection is animating a corpse or merely ruining something still technically alive makes no practical difference when it is bearing down on you. What matters is that Plague Moose rip into anything they come across, indiscriminate in their aggression. They do not hunt selectively. If it moves and it is alive, the Plague Moose charges.
They share the cold forests with Plague Bears, and the two species coexist without conflict. Neither preys on the other. Both haunt the tree lines in search of the living, moving through territory that Reclaimers and Rovers need to access for timber and trade routes. The Reclaimers who haul timber out of the North know the risks. They travel in groups, keep noise to a minimum, and know which trees are tall enough to climb in a hurry.
A lone survivor who encounters a Plague Moose should find the nearest tree and start climbing. They are easier to bring down than Plague Bears when you have allies and ranged weapons, but "easier" is a relative term that only applies to groups. One on one, ten feet of Infection-driven fury backed by massive antlers and hooves is not a fight. It is an accident waiting to happen.
Basic Information
Anatomy
The frame retains the proportions of a moose but stripped of anything that once suggested health. Bones press outward through the flesh at the shoulders, hips, and knees, creating ridges and protrusions that shift visibly when the animal moves. Sinewy tissue stretches taut between the skeletal landmarks, glistening where blood has congealed into dark, tacky layers that never fully dry.
Tendons strain and shift with each step, visible through gaps in the hide where fur and skin have sloughed away. The antlers remain intact and massive, their span wide enough to catch on tree branches as the creature moves through dense forest. The hooves are broad and heavy, cracked at the edges but still capable of delivering crushing force. The overall impression is of a carcass that has been partially disassembled by decay and then forced back into motion, held together by the Infection's insistence rather than any biological logic.
Tendons strain and shift with each step, visible through gaps in the hide where fur and skin have sloughed away. The antlers remain intact and massive, their span wide enough to catch on tree branches as the creature moves through dense forest. The hooves are broad and heavy, cracked at the edges but still capable of delivering crushing force. The overall impression is of a carcass that has been partially disassembled by decay and then forced back into motion, held together by the Infection's insistence rather than any biological logic.
Behaviour
Plague Moose do not discriminate. Anything living that crosses their path triggers the same response: a charge that brings the full weight of their frame, antlers, and hooves to bear on the target. There is no threat display, no territorial warning. The transition from standing still to full attack happens with an abruptness that catches even prepared survivors off guard.
They are not coordinated hunters. Each Plague Moose acts independently, ripping into whatever it encounters without regard for other infected wildlife nearby. They do not pack up, do not flank, do not share kills. The aggression is constant and unfocused, driven by the Infection rather than any survival instinct. When multiple Plague Moose occupy the same stretch of forest, the danger compounds through sheer density rather than cooperation.
They are not coordinated hunters. Each Plague Moose acts independently, ripping into whatever it encounters without regard for other infected wildlife nearby. They do not pack up, do not flank, do not share kills. The aggression is constant and unfocused, driven by the Infection rather than any survival instinct. When multiple Plague Moose occupy the same stretch of forest, the danger compounds through sheer density rather than cooperation.
