Basil sim Fath was not a particularly young lion, nor was he considered to be powerful. In his youth, quite possibly, or at least he liked to think he was. He had been a hot-headed young ruffian back then, eager to sink his teeth and claws into the vile, rival pride that they so often skirmished with. Back in his heyday, he had been a formidable opponent and a terror to the Qyrhyeshti, or at least that was he conveniently recalled and would certainly tell his offspring, should he have any, when he was an elder to the pride. His day to leave would have long since come and gone, had his father not been the sort to think ahead. It was his father's insistance that his son learn the art of healing that ended up saving his life. Had he not known the skills, he would have had to wander off and leave his beloved home. He'd drift into the desert and attack the Qyrhyeshti head on in a final, suicidal act, or worse, get lost and die in the desert with no blaze of glory behind him.
But that was not how life had gone for him and, instead, the dusty gray lion admired their Baj-Jer, which they had fought so valiantly to claim. It was glorious and simply being there filled him with a joyous pride. Prey was plenty, as were healing supplies, which he had journeyed with the express reason to find. He had many scars, most notably one across his right shoulder, which often stove up and ached. Some days, he walked well enough, others he limped and refused to put weight on it. It was a cocktail of leaves, which he often consumed when they were readily available and easy to contain, that made the pain bearable.
He inhaled deeply, relishing the coolness of the oasis and the freshness of the air. It was still fairly early, the sun only just beginning to peak over the dunes of the desert. He wanted to be back before midday, when it would be unbearably hot.
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