Prairie Lion
The Prairie Lion is already watching you before you see it. That is the entire point. About the size of a modern cougar, with a mane-like ruff around its neck and shoulders, it sits motionless in the tall grass with a patience that borders on geological. Its fur is the reason. In daylight, the coat shifts to a bright, mottled orange that blends with dusty rock and sun-bleached grass. As the light fades, the fur darkens to browns and blacks that dissolve into shadow. The Prairie Lion does not need to stalk. It simply becomes part of the landscape and waits for the landscape to deliver something within striking distance.
The ambush, when it comes, is devastating. The first strike carries more force than anything that follows; the lion pours its full strength into the initial pounce, and if that does not drop the target, subsequent attacks are weaker. This makes it a gambler by nature. It commits everything to one moment, and if the moment fails, it retreats. Solitary by temperament, the Prairie Lion does not have a pack to back it up. Its preferred prey is the young or sickly Elkhorn Deer that stray from the herd's defensive circle, though a lone traveler moving through the grasslands of Sweet Grass Country presents an opportunity the lion rarely passes up.
The coat that makes the Prairie Lion so dangerous also makes it valuable. Purebloods prize it for its beauty, and hunters prize it for its near-camouflaging properties; a cloak made from Prairie Lion fur shifts color subtly with the light, providing a practical advantage to anyone who wears it. The irony is thick: the very adaptation that makes hunting a Prairie Lion so lethal is the reward for succeeding. More than a few hunters have died reaching for a trophy that was better at hiding than they were at looking.
The ambush, when it comes, is devastating. The first strike carries more force than anything that follows; the lion pours its full strength into the initial pounce, and if that does not drop the target, subsequent attacks are weaker. This makes it a gambler by nature. It commits everything to one moment, and if the moment fails, it retreats. Solitary by temperament, the Prairie Lion does not have a pack to back it up. Its preferred prey is the young or sickly Elkhorn Deer that stray from the herd's defensive circle, though a lone traveler moving through the grasslands of Sweet Grass Country presents an opportunity the lion rarely passes up.
The coat that makes the Prairie Lion so dangerous also makes it valuable. Purebloods prize it for its beauty, and hunters prize it for its near-camouflaging properties; a cloak made from Prairie Lion fur shifts color subtly with the light, providing a practical advantage to anyone who wears it. The irony is thick: the very adaptation that makes hunting a Prairie Lion so lethal is the reward for succeeding. More than a few hunters have died reaching for a trophy that was better at hiding than they were at looking.
