#794240003620
Belongs to Queen Of Duskbound's Pride
(View Former Prides)

~•Orran•~

"~•Clean-Long Gen•~"

Lion Stats
Experience	0 / 100 (0%)
Level	1
Strength	22	Speed	28
Stamina	28	Smarts	18
Agility	21	Skill	5
Born With:	117	Total Stats:	122

Lion Currents
Age	3 years, 3 months old
Hunger	60%
Mood	70%
Sex	Male
Pose	Default
Personality	Forgiving (Good)

Adult Stage

Breeding Info
Father	Adina Astra	Mother	Hermes	View Full Heritage
Last Bred	N/A	Fertility	N/A	View All Cubs Bred (0)

Appearance		Markings
Base	Isabel (White Skin)	Slot 1: White Soft Unders (44%) Tier 2 Slot 2: Inverted Rosette Saffron (79%) Tier 4 Slot 5: Onyx Ear Spots (59%) Tier 1 Slot 8: Lilac Freckles 1 (45%) Tier 2 Slot 10: Cimmerian Margay (41%) Tier 2
Genetics	Black Light Solid Common
Eyes	Blue
Mane Type	Diabolic
Mane Color	Jet
Mutation	None
Marking Slots	10

Equipped Decorations Hide/Show
[D] Mozambique Mountains Above Rabbit Skull Necklace Caracal Rib Ornaments Rabbit Fur Cloak Rabbit Corpse Rabbit Fluff Tail Fluffy Bracelets Bits of Kits

Lifetime Patrolling Results
Total Patrols	0	Total Stats Gained	0	Total Items Gained	0

Biography
Orran, the Bone-Hauler · · ─ ·𖤞𖤐𖤞· ─ · · He did not arrive with a roar. He came carrying prey. Orran was not born into legend. He wasn’t marked by starlight, or wrapped in prophecy. His mane is tangled, his frame lean from constant motion, and his eyes—steady, searching, unflinching—tell a story older than kingship: survival. But survival, for him, has never been selfish. He is a lion who runs not toward thrones, but into thickets. Into swamps. Into the stillness of dusk when prey freezes in fear and only instinct speaks. The hunt is his rhythm. The earth, his map. And his pride? His pride is Ashari. She was injured when he carried her across foreign lands, paws bleeding, ribs hollowed by hunger. He did not cry for aid. He did not growl in demand. He offered meat. And then more. And then more again. Every day, something new laid at the borders—not as tribute, not as tax, but as proof. I can feed your cubs. I can pull my weight. I will not be a burden. I do not ask for a place—I ask only for her to heal in peace. The Duskbound Pride watched him for days. Silent. Evaluating. And when Ashari rose from her bed, healed and whole again, Orran simply nodded. And rose to hunt again. Orran speaks little, and boasts less. His joy is not in glory, but in motion. In the weight of prey beneath his claws. In the scent of turned soil beneath hooves. He is not reckless—but neither is he hesitant. His judgment is sharp, his teeth sharper, and when the Pride calls, he answers without hesitation. He’s the lion who arrives just as the hunt begins. The one who circles back to check the flanks. The one who stays behind to ensure nothing trails the cubs. He does not sit at the high rock. He does not lead the charge. But his presence means no one goes hungry. He wears his kills like armor. Bones trail from his flanks, feathers tangled in his mane, a soft reminder that even the fiercest beasts must one day fall. But Orran? Orran endures. Not through dominance—but devotion. Not for pride or pride-born power. But for the simple, sacred act of giving. Orran, the Bone-Hauler. The lion who asked for nothing… and gave everything.

Biography

Orran, the Bone-Hauler

· · ─ ·𖤞𖤐𖤞· ─ · ·
He did not arrive with a roar.
He came carrying prey.
Orran was not born into legend. He wasn’t marked by starlight, or wrapped in prophecy. His mane is tangled, his frame lean from constant motion, and his eyes—steady, searching, unflinching—tell a story older than kingship: survival. But survival, for him, has never been selfish.

He is a lion who runs not toward thrones, but into thickets. Into swamps. Into the stillness of dusk when prey freezes in fear and only instinct speaks. The hunt is his rhythm. The earth, his map. And his pride?
His pride is Ashari.

She was injured when he carried her across foreign lands, paws bleeding, ribs hollowed by hunger. He did not cry for aid. He did not growl in demand. He offered meat. And then more. And then more again. Every day, something new laid at the borders—not as tribute, not as tax, but as proof.

I can feed your cubs. I can pull my weight. I will not be a burden.
I do not ask for a place—I ask only for her to heal in peace.

The Duskbound Pride watched him for days.
Silent. Evaluating.
And when Ashari rose from her bed, healed and whole again, Orran simply nodded. And rose to hunt again.

Orran speaks little, and boasts less. His joy is not in glory, but in motion. In the weight of prey beneath his claws. In the scent of turned soil beneath hooves. He is not reckless—but neither is he hesitant. His judgment is sharp, his teeth sharper, and when the Pride calls, he answers without hesitation.

He’s the lion who arrives just as the hunt begins.
The one who circles back to check the flanks.
The one who stays behind to ensure nothing trails the cubs.

He does not sit at the high rock. He does not lead the charge.
But his presence means no one goes hungry.

He wears his kills like armor. Bones trail from his flanks, feathers tangled in his mane, a soft reminder that even the fiercest beasts must one day fall. But Orran? Orran endures. Not through dominance—but devotion. Not for pride or pride-born power. But for the simple, sacred act of giving.

Orran, the Bone-Hauler.
The lion who asked for nothing… and gave everything.

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