Valley of Weeds

Prologue [Edited]

The tiger cursed as he pulled his paws away from the now-revealed thorns. First, he needed to stop the hunt so he could escape the storm, on account of he loathed when his pelt weighed him down when it was wet, and the fact that the rain washed away any scents of prey. Now, his paw hurt whenever he put weight on it.

The tiger's night was going as far from plan as possible. He had been planning on catching a nice hearty meal, bringing it home, eating it while it was still warm, and then going for a nightly walk in the moonlight. He enjoyed gazing up at the stars and reminiscing of better days.

At last, he was at the mouth of the small cave he resided in. After shaking the water from his fur, he stepped inside. It was a modest home, not too fancy yet better than a hollow tree. It was warm and dry, with a solid roof, and that was good enough. He was able to scare away anyone with the audacity to intrude his borders.

The only luxury of the cave was the large nest-like bed he had crafted himself. It was made of mainly moss, with things such as feathers and the down of fallen prey.

Like he often did, he was thinking of a certain cub, who had had features much like his own. Of course, these features did not include the tiger's ripped ears and long scar running down from his left shoulder to just above the paw. They did include the reddish fur and  the same markings. Perhaps the cub would have had roan eyes as well.

The tiger's muscles tensed as his recollection grew closer to the cub's ultimate fate. His claws stretched out and raked the stone floor, and he growled softly as he reopened his eyes. His lust for revenge flared again, like a flame searing his very soul.

"Sick murderer," he muttered. "Worthless blackheart."

He buried his huge head in his paws. Revenge. That was the one thing he wanted. Not a mate. Not cubs. Not a large gene pool. Revenge. The word echoed in his mind for hours.