The pain numbed and bled into his scarlet stripes, dripping off of his fur and onto the rock that was his throne.
"Vengeance," he thought to himself, the growl building in his throat. Once their necks were in his claws, he'd have them begging for mercy.
And he'd stare into their faces, unleashing a roar from his maw...
Vengeance, blood on his claws, a shade of red he could scarce forget, spilled onto the verdant greens of his home. Never to be wiped off, never to be flaunted.
But always respected.
A token of his desire, his passion, his ambition, his pride, his honor, his suffering, his pain, his... shame, like the arrows that now stained his flesh...