Nuka ran a paw over his head, his claws entangling in the snare of a mane he had scraggled across his thin fur. What did THEY know. what did any of them know. He was the true heir of Scar, And this hapscrabble array of lions blown together from the four winds dared to call themselves his disciples?
The thin lion sneered, draggin his top lip across long white teeth. He looked back at the pride's colony in the distance, and then turned forward squinting into the setting sun.
Their plots, their revenge fantasies, all they did was sit around and bemoan their losses. He could remember the hoarseness in his throat as he screamed an attempted roar at his mother when they argued hours before.
And now he had gone, gone to make himself a true pride worthy of baring the name of Scar.
He walked long into the night, and then up again into the morning, away and tired. Long into the desert, his pawpads dry and harsh against the cracked earth, on the horizon he saw a small oasis. He ran to it, and moaned in relief as his paws hit soft, moist grass.
He collapsed, and his stomach rumbled. He moved his fore-paw along his side; he was so thin, and svelte. His small chest thinned into a smaller belly, his fur slight, and his breath jagged.
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