Ghost Lion Crag why don't i just take off my clothes and have a nightmare.

Ghost Lion Crag. Artaax didn't know the name of the canyon he'd taken up residence in, so he never realized how incredibly perfect of a place it was for him to wind up. It had likely been named for the mountain lions that called the area home, but it didn't suit them the way that it did the feisripa. He was the lion, once proud and strong with a brilliant future ahead of him. And now he was a ghost, haunting this ugly scar in the mountains, hiding away from the world. A mere shadow of his former self.

He awoke early that morning - or was it late at night? - and crept into the inky black before down to hunt. He had made his peace with the whole remaining alive thing, though that didn't necessarily mean he was pleased with it. It had eventually occurred to him how little sense it made for him to be angry with Thuringwethil for taking her own life and then turn around and cost himself his. The pain of losing her was still agony, but every day, he grew a little more numb to it. Or maybe he was just used to feeling terrible.

He spent an hour or two hunting and eventually had a nice, fat grouse, dead in his jaws. Artaax didn't bother carrying it somewhere safe before he dug in (being at peace with staying alive also didn't mean he would go out of his way to remain so). It seemed likely the scent of fresh meat would draw one of the other cats that haunted the area, but he wasn't too concerned about this. He was more interested in sating his hunger and then crawling back into his hole to get back to withering away in solitude.