Staggering, huffing, puffing, and bleeding all over the place, Hroovitnir was trying to make his way back to his den after losing a fight horribly. It was his first duel against a rogue trying to gain entrance to the pride, and he had had the misfortune of volunteering to go up against a god spawn, and the former heir to a pride of demons (though he did not know that, they had not gotten that chatty). His entire body felt broken, and his head was throbbing. When he had come to, the giant purple lion had been gone, having won his way into the pride. Well, good for him, Hroovitnir supposed. Phlegyas certainly earned it by kicking his a**. He would have to lie in wait for a few days (or maybe weeks) to avoid being found out by his siblings as a failure. Brynhildr would be especially insufferable.
He ducked into the little cave and threw his body down, sending dust and flecks of blood into the air. He groaned and sighed. He would deal with the mess later. He heard a shuffling at the back of his den, but he was too tired to move, too broken. Was he mistaken about this being his or was someone else wrong? He rolled over, maybe it was just a small creature having the luckiest day of its life that it wandered into the den of a lion, but one who could not even lift a paw to do anything about it. He squinted into the dark, and was horrified to find it was the form of a lion, and it was walking towards him.
