The flowery male had grown up in Sabertooth, with no particular adults to call his parents. Everyone had kind of contributed to his growth, with most of the efforts from Achilles and Pandora despite their own families and pack issues to tend to. But Admon had not expected this plague – no one had. It ravaged many of Sabertooth, resulting in the sickly being quarantined to one half of the lands and the healthy to the other half. The flowery male had acquired the infection early on and was one of the first to be sanctioned off to the sickly side. He coughed, noticing a little bit of blood splatter on the ground – this was bound to happen. Admon couldn’t keep food down, and his energy was only maintained by whatever nutrients he could absorb in that short time. But the repetitive throwing up had irritated his throat, cut it open, and now it appeared it had gotten worse. Admon would not make the effort of talking given the extent of his now likely shredded throat. A shiver ran through his body from the fever that plagued him since day one. Another cough came from his maw, and more blood this time. He could not stop it; he coughed, and coughed, and coughed. It was torture to not die quickly or in their sleep as he had seen others. Admon let silent tears flow from his eyes, coughing one last time before his head collapsed to the ground, a small trickle of blood flowing from his mouth but no other signs of movement as he passed away from the plague’s infection.