Quidel was no fighter, but a strategist. Someone who stands on the back lines planning, and plotting. So on training day everyone always expected him to be good, using his tactical mind to out maneuver his opponent. He wasn't as quick when he was on his feet, however. He came away from training that day with more than a few wounds, but mostly bruised pride. That was nothing out of the ordinary though. And perhaps it was a reason why his great mind was given little credence. Who would want to take tactical advice from someone who always got their a** kicked?
It was hard for a full grown Firekin male to look small, but Quidel sure tried as he slowly walked away from the sparring area, head held low, ears back, until he lay beneath the shade of a large out-cropping rock where he set to cleaning his wounds. He supposed he was a disappointment to his mother. He'd never really lived up to the high expectations he'd always assumed his highly traditionalist mother, Kenna, to have. Part of him had perhaps given up.
The drought hadn't made things any easier on him. That was over now it seemed, but the feelings remained. What had he accomplished? Nothing. What did he have to show for his time here on this earth? Nothing. Who was he? Nothing. This spot of depression was deep for the lion. Perhaps he'd even lost his sense of honor as well....
