Hopefolly
Shavu's ears pressed flat to his skull. His muzzle touched the earth and then he tucked it into his chest. A large paw wrapped around his nose, and he let out one, low whoomp from his chest. It was a similar sound to the one he'd made as a cub; it vibrated in his throat. For the cub, it was an attempt at a growl. For Shavu, the deepened sound was meant to inspire confidence in himself.
It only served to make him speak, and feel his intestines wind over themselves as he did. "Pridelands."
Or so they had been when he had left. Why did he leave? What conceited notion had made him decide he shouldn't grow up in a land filled with multiple species, endless food, and therein endless safety? At the time it had seemed boring, but after trying excitement, he was finding it wasn't his flavor.