Anasema'hadithi hadn't seen another lion in ages. He was paw-sore, tired, yet far too stubborn to crack into his bundle of herbs, and thus had a pronounced limp in his step. Scars littered his silvery coat, the most pronounced of which was what caused him to keep from bearing his weight on his rear, right leg. He was both proud and ashamed of his scars, marred trophies from conflicts he had participated in his earlier seasons. Those that marred the face and forelegs were reflectant of a ferocious fighter, while lions who usually had rips and tears about their hindquarters were ones that usually fled battle. He had both.The male inhaled deeply, his mind briefly flitting over his most recent confrontation. The young, yellow-furred lass had tried so hard to impress and seduce him, yet all she brought from him, other than a chuckle of amusement, was concern. Such a young lioness on her own! And trying to woo strange males? It was nonsense in his stubborn, old mind.
He did make a note, however, that he probably should find a place to stop and rest, soon. The sun was starting to drift from the highest point in the sky, as it was just past midday, and he wasn't as spry as he once was, which was obvious in the way he carried himself. He frowned slightly around the bundle of herbs he carried in his maw. The downside was the fact that it cloyed his senses, somewhat. At least it helped take away the bite of pain.
