Hasira, ever the early riser, padded carefully to the river on the edge of the clan's lands. It was the midst of Dambe, the Dumanne's sparring tournament. Typically, the participating members would gather with the other clans, but Hasira wasn't the biggest fan of those outside the Deathstalker clan. In fact, she wasn't the biggest fan of, well, anyone at all. She was a sour and irritable cheetah, and right now, she was looking for a fight.
Reaching the river's waters, she dipped her head low and drank, deep and slow. The first sip of the day was always the longest, parched from sleeping in the desert lands. When she was finished, she pulled her head up, chin dripping, and turned around, glancing about for any clanmates with which to pick a fight. In the distance, she thought she saw the striking pelt of Morte, one of the best-looking cheetahs around who also happened to lead their clan. A rare, thin smile place itself upon Hasira's maw. He was perfect. She had much pent-up frustration (for no reason in particular, she was simply a rather tense female), and who better to take that out on than her leader? She flexed her front claws, her muscles nearly vibrating with excitement.
Reaching the river's waters, she dipped her head low and drank, deep and slow. The first sip of the day was always the longest, parched from sleeping in the desert lands. When she was finished, she pulled her head up, chin dripping, and turned around, glancing about for any clanmates with which to pick a fight. In the distance, she thought she saw the striking pelt of Morte, one of the best-looking cheetahs around who also happened to lead their clan. A rare, thin smile place itself upon Hasira's maw. He was perfect. She had much pent-up frustration (for no reason in particular, she was simply a rather tense female), and who better to take that out on than her leader? She flexed her front claws, her muscles nearly vibrating with excitement.
