taurequine

Scar, the dark lion, the prince of misfortune, slithered out of his place behind the lone umbrella tree whose foliage had graced the otherwise dry clime in the canyon's bottom. The suppressed sunshine reappeared, pelting his clay brown hide and gradually slicking it with sweat as he walked slowly through the oppressive heat. With him was the golden child—who, contrary to common sense or the many degrees of heat and sticky humidity which was simmering in the deathly-still and torpid air around them—was bounding happily and jumping and playing and asking his uncle why he did not do the same. He almost chuckled. Him, play? In this h