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Attor brushed his paw against the rocks, grinding the broken bits and grit from his claws. He stared blindly past himself to the ground, watching an ant pick at the body of one of its dead. Fitting, he thought, to watch something so quintessentially raw on the eve of his own death. Of course, to him it felt that every night was the eve of his end. And yet, it never had been. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or enraged by the fact. A little of both, he supposed.

He kicked the rock away, crushing the ants beneath it. "You lost," he said under his breath, turning from it. His stomach growled, ants weren't a meal though. The skin hung loose over his ribs, pooling in a little swaying pouch beneath his stomach. He verged on starvation, inevitably catching just enough on the days when he could focus. This was one of those days, he supposed. He should hunt. And yet he didn't feel a need. Maybe he'd gone past that point, curious. His mother had warned him about feeling complacent, it was one of the warnings. A vision would be coming on. He could never predict when, but it was always crippling.

He swallowed back sour. Maybe he could find a hare. This area showed signs of population, there had to be something.

Attor lifted his head, his gaze settling on the lioness for just a few moments before sliding past her. "Nothing, I suppose," he told her as he looked back toward the rock. "But nothing is neutral, simple. I have no one to tell and no one to explain myself to."

He paused, "Well, except you, if you're here." A smile slipped across his face as he settled on his haunches and raised a paw to his mouth to nibble at the ragged claws. "Were they yours?" he asked through it, letting one eye lull closed as he raised the other to watch her.

"It would," he agreed, letting his paw fall to the ground as he took note of how more, well, conditioned she was than him. She might have some advice on hunting this ground, although so far it would see she was less than inclined to share. He hadn't truly needed help up to this point. Well, more accurately he hadn't died yet. That was a strange conclusion, he supposed. Someone who had died would never think it.

He shook his head, gesturing at the horizon, "Prey has a tendency to come to me when I need it, I do alright." His mother had taught him how best to hunt at night, one of the few helpful things she had done for him before disappearing into the dark herself. "A lone hunter in the daytime isn't particularly successful."

"Our lands?" He mimicked, tapping a paw on the ground as he examined the distance beyond her. He didn't see any others, but her confidence in standing her ground suggested there were many. Tangling with prides had never ended well, for him or for his mother when the family had roamed together. Prides meant power and power, inevitably, meant war. He shuddered, swallowing back the saliva that flooded his mouth.

"I am no we, and I don't concern myself with who calls the land their own," he told her, more confidently than he felt, "But you, you're someone I think. I wonder who." Her coat was dark, tinged with red. Familiar to his own, in the way that those things are. The fact that she hadn't fallen to pieces laughing or sobbing suggested they weren't kin. His half siblings he'd found to be, well, a little unstable.

Attor cracked a full smile, exemplifying the fiery maw his father had left him. When he bucked his shoulders the wings spread, making him a very disturbing profile. "I'd hope, for you sake, that we don't," he told her, "My mother was the last of her line and my father, well, he's not one most hope to meet." You had to need him, or rather, he had to need your hatred. The arrangement had been mutually beneficial, or so his mother had told him when he was asked.

Shetani, not a recognizable cadence nor a family name. That told him something, at least. This was a new place, he'd not run into them before. That meant that for the time being he was safe, so long as he didn't tip the scales with this lioness. She seemed level headed, he was thankful for that.

"I'm not looking for anywhere or anyone in particular," he told her, "So direction may not be the most helpful. I seek to escape war so I'm afraid I'll never make it."

He shrugged, the winged markings collapsing back into the heaps of loose skin. "No matter, it follows me," He said sadly, following her gaze. "Your home is troubled?" Had he been brought up in a pride he might have understood why such a question was inappropriate. As it stood it was probably the least offensive words fighting for his attention.

His visions hazed and he squinted his eyes closed. The metallic scent of blood burned at his nostrils. So it would come, as it always did. He cringed, "I apologize, but it seems our talk must come to an end." His ears rang briefly before silencing. If he tried he might be able to find a hole to hide in until it passed. He had time, he knew, but not terribly much.

A fit of laughter overtook him, shaking his body so powerfully that he nearly fell to the ground. The seriousness in her tone pushed the hazes back, and after a few moments he caught his breath and drew up again. "Would that I did, things would be much simpler. I thank you for the offer, it's very kind," he told her, nodding his head appreciatively.

"I have visions, I don't know what is real and what is not." He tapped his head with his paw, "My father's gift to my siblings and I." In his time with his mother he had encountered other seers, but most seemed to have a better control or at least a peace with their visions. His were always blood soaked and screaming. Just once he wished he'd see some glimpse of his own future, at least then he'd be able to tell that it wasn't all his own creation. Instead he sought the victors, so he might uncover the story.

"The Gods," he said dramatically, waving his paw at the sky, "The benevolent, powerful, awe inspiring Gods." His mother would have slapped him if she could hear him now. But she wasn't here, was she? As soon as his visions had truly started to manifest themselves she had vanished. Frightened, he assumed, or ashamed.

"I am born of a God and a desperate mortal, that much is true." His voice was quieter now, his actions more restrained. "My mother was weak in thinking she was strong. My father, well, I'll grant that he's powerful." He nodded, mulling through the stories he had been told by his mother and others. "My father is Neltharion, hatred."