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The Quiet One plops next to you and tells how he's proud to work under your leadership. You wonder if he ever wants to be a king, but he nuzzles you and says no - he'd be a poor replacement for you!
You attempt to praise The Quiet One for a great job in that last play-tussle, but he shook his head and tells you it's all because of your great training.
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The icy wind sends shivers coursing through rattling branches of barren trees, the land blanketed under the cover of thickly falling snow. A river snakes through the valley, curling away into the horizon, its edges frozen but the churning middles dark, deep, unreadable. It is almost deathly quiet, most, if not all, sounds drowned out in the silence that permeates the valley.
You are in his domain now.
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Clouds wisped across the cold, bleak moon, so stark and pale in contrast with the deep, dark sky.
The only thing in the darkened landscape that could possibly compare with the moon was the nearly glowing pelts of an assembled group of lions, all looking up at an unusually large tree, before which stood the proudest of these stark white lions.
In between this proud leader and the assembled group was one young lion, so clearly different from the rest. In a normal pride, he might've been seen as normal, but this was no normal pride. These colorless, pure white lions cherished their 'purity,' and this grey cub was a creature not of the light, possibly even a threat.
To an onlooker, it would be hard to see him as a threat. The fear rolling off him was palpable, even as he tried to hide it. His mother had left him to be judged by the pride, ashamed of herself for her cub not being a being of light as well.
Leave now. Leave and never return.
The words, although an empty threat-for the lions of this pride were generally pacifistic-still stung, ringing even now in his ears, as he trudged through thickening snow, his pace slowing as the drifts grew gradually higher and he struggled to keep moving.
He was unwanted.
Unloved.
Abandoned.
It isn't long before his steps falter; the snow is so thick now, almost up to his shoulders, so he just sort of..stands there, belly-deep in snow, gazing hopelessly ahead. With an inaudible sigh, he sinks down, letting his head rest on the surface of the soft, thick, frigid blanket of white as his body sinks below, creating a quickly-filling hole around him.
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It is the gentle pitter-pattering of water dripping onto stone that stirs him into consciousness. He doesn't remember fading away, but he must've, for he finds himself in a dank, gloomy cave. Is it just him, or do the shadows seem to be moving?
Grunting, hardly noticing how his breath is wheezy, raspy, hardly audibly, creating almost a plume of wispy smoke before his muzzle, he peers into the darkness. As the settings around him shift and adjust under his curious gaze, he gradually realizes something that now that he's aware of, he can't shake.
He feels nothing.
The stone is not cold under his paws. It is not rough, slick, or even warm (although he is sure it ought to be cold, he can see the puffs of his breath so the cave or tunnel he's in must be cold). He almost feels like he is floating, but squinting and pressing down his paws, he can see that he is indeed standing firmly on the stone.
Perhaps 'firmly' is not the correct word to use though, for he feels rather faint, as if a strong gust of wind could carry him away. He tries to call out; someone must have brought him here, right? But his voice is hoarse, coming out as little more than a soft croak, his pleas dying in his throat.
He notices, then, a pinprick of light coming from the distance, standing out against the monochromatic stone and general gloominess of the caverns. It radiates warmth, drawing him towards it.
The light doesn't seem to be getting closer, even as it grows warmer. His head burns with heat, but he presses on until, with one more paw step, he is standing in a desert.
Dunes tower above him, only held still from the stagnant, hot, dry, air. He can feel it, the stiffness of the air, but strangely, it does not affect his breathing-only later would he realize he hadn't exactly been breathing, either. He hardly has a moment to realize that he can no longer feel the heat, either, despite this new location being a desert, before his eyes catch on the sight before him.
A beige colored cub, its limp body nearly camouflaged in the golden sand, the only thing standing out being the blackened, burnt-looking fur in an ominous skull-shape around its head. He approaches carefully; he's never seen a non-achromatic lion, only heard of them in stories, and they were always depicted as being cruel, vicious, unable to show true kindness for they were not of the light.
But then again, they were the ones who'd tossed him out, all because he hadn't looked or acted the way they did. Without another moment's hesitation, he approached, nudging the body lightly with his paw.
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The Quiet One plops next to you and tells how he's proud to work under your leadership. You wonder if he ever wants to be a king, but he nuzzles you and says no - he'd be a poor replacement for you!
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