WHAT MOTIVATES ME - HATRED OR IS IT LOVE? —
An Exile but still a hoarder, the lion trotted into the trade center, Basil around his neck and a belt of pouches full of gold and other trades jingling on his hip. He paused, inhaling deeply with pale, ghostly blue eyes twinkling in his excitement. He had gotten a message that a rare book was here somewhere amongst the merchants and hopefully for sale for less than most of his books. A few merchants were busy with customers, their faces hidden by shadows of designed clothing, masks, and other assortments-tailors if you will-with lines of people to their stalls, looking at the rare silks, expensive fabrics, and overpriced handkerchiefs. The lion snorted and straightened his shoulders, pushing through one of the crowds with black ears perked for the sound of rustling pages, the soft voice of a typical bookseller, anything he had learned amongst his travels. But there was nothing but the speaking of others, whirring of air elemental street performers, and the shouts of sleazebags selling overpriced items. He sighed, ignoring a persistant reptilian creature as it tried to sell him... eyeglasses? The lion snorted, making his way to a shaded portion and sitting, downtrodden and... frankly disappointed. It had been a day's travel to reach here from the canyon and his fucking paws hurt so bad. He laid back against the stone, hitting the side of his head a couple of times in his stupidity.
— WHAT'S MORE WRONG - THAT I TOO WISH TO BE GREAT OR MY MOTHER WISHED SHE'D HAD A SON?