I was there when the cub was born, squealing for his mother's milk as they all are at the entry to the world; a tiny scrunched up face filled with needs yet to be met. It saddened me that years later, while his words were silenced by reserve, there was a void where his clan had failed to fill those needs, ones more complex than the base requirement of food and shelter. He stood amongst them, yet separate, even when young. He did not notice me then, nor years later when I saw him once more.
Age had tempered him by then, inured him in part to the distance of his clan. I found myself hopeful that he had found something to set his path upon in the hunting and the silence of it. There was silence all around him, stillness rarely ever broken by his own words, and such a profession would do him well with that. He came back with meat and furs, and some of the thankfulness of the clan seemed to give him sustenance where little was to be found in the chasm between them.
But it did not last. He saw me, briefly, unknowingly, in a tavern far from his clan years later. He had a weight of purpose about him, but not one that I would have wished. It sat about his shoulders like a shroud, quiet and contemplative as a funeral, and it did not surprise me that there was no bow attached to his pack, but instead a smooth stone icon around his neck. Someone had found him, and claimed the stillness of the tabaxi for their own.
To say that he was worse for it would be an inaccuracy, but it was not what I would have wished for him. I had hoped he would find a mate, one who would balance his quiet with joy, his solitary nature with togetherness, but that was not what I saw in that tavern.
At Leilon, I saw him again, and the years have not been kind to him. There is little hope now for my wishes for the cub I once saw birthed in the world. The unkind hand of a God has woven that shroud through his soul until little of the youngster remains. His eyes burn with death, and people shiver in his passing. There is no life to him, and I can see the guiding hands that point his way. Others follow in his wake now; a tide of the God's choosing, set to do their bidding, and I mourn. It was not what I had hoped for the quiet cub, and weathering the interest of a God is never kind.
Age had tempered him by then, inured him in part to the distance of his clan. I found myself hopeful that he had found something to set his path upon in the hunting and the silence of it. There was silence all around him, stillness rarely ever broken by his own words, and such a profession would do him well with that. He came back with meat and furs, and some of the thankfulness of the clan seemed to give him sustenance where little was to be found in the chasm between them.
But it did not last. He saw me, briefly, unknowingly, in a tavern far from his clan years later. He had a weight of purpose about him, but not one that I would have wished. It sat about his shoulders like a shroud, quiet and contemplative as a funeral, and it did not surprise me that there was no bow attached to his pack, but instead a smooth stone icon around his neck. Someone had found him, and claimed the stillness of the tabaxi for their own.
To say that he was worse for it would be an inaccuracy, but it was not what I would have wished for him. I had hoped he would find a mate, one who would balance his quiet with joy, his solitary nature with togetherness, but that was not what I saw in that tavern.
At Leilon, I saw him again, and the years have not been kind to him. There is little hope now for my wishes for the cub I once saw birthed in the world. The unkind hand of a God has woven that shroud through his soul until little of the youngster remains. His eyes burn with death, and people shiver in his passing. There is no life to him, and I can see the guiding hands that point his way. Others follow in his wake now; a tide of the God's choosing, set to do their bidding, and I mourn. It was not what I had hoped for the quiet cub, and weathering the interest of a God is never kind.