#794214396157
Belongs to ☆ Cherry Blossom ⚝'s Pride
(View Former Prides)

Orchid

"b; incubus/diabolic + dun/grey"

This lioness gave birth in the past two years. She is on a breeding cool down and will be breedable again in 15 real life days.

Lion Stats
Experience	4820 / 5390 (89%)
Level	8
Strength	62	Speed	52
Stamina	51	Smarts	43
Agility	41	Skill	14
Born With:	Unknown	Total Stats:	263

Lion Currents
Age	13 years, 4 months old
Hunger	24%
Mood	92%
Sex	Female
Pose	Good
Personality	Cuddly (Good)

Adult Stage

Breeding Info
Father	Ikăros	Mother	Newly Claimed Lioness	View Full Heritage
Last Bred	8 days ago	Fertility	Very Low	View All Cubs Bred (3)

Appearance		Markings
Base	White (White Skin)	Slot 1: Scoundrel Pelage (33%) Tier 3 Slot 2: Scoundrel Feline (43%) Tier 3 Slot 4: Onyx Rosette (49%) Tier 4 Slot 7: Vitiligo 4 (50%) Tier 2
Genetics	Black Light Solid Common
Eyes	Glaze
Mane Type	Hellraiser
Mane Color	Ivory
Mutation	None
Marking Slots	10

Equipped Decorations Hide/Show
Setting Sun Above Silver Black Quartz Ornaments Delicate Lavender Crown Shiny Rock Septum Ring [Black] Maghreb Magpie

Lifetime Hunting Results
Total Hunts	49	Successful Hunts	49	Success Rate	100%

Biography
Just as I wonder whether it’s going to die, the orchid blossoms and I can’t explain why it moves my heart, why such pleasure comes from one small bud on a long spindly stem, one blood red gold flower opening at mid-summer, tiny, perfect in its hour. Even to a white— haired craggy poet, it’s purely erotic, pistil and stamen, pollen, dew of the world, a spoonful of earth, and water. Erotic because there’s death at the heart of birth, drama in those old sunrise prisms in wet cedar boughs, deepest mystery in washing evening dishes or teasing my wife, who grows, yes, more beautiful because one of us will die. - Sam Hamill

Biography

Just as I wonder
whether it’s going to die,
the orchid blossoms

and I can’t explain why it
moves my heart, why such pleasure

comes from one small bud
on a long spindly stem, one
blood red gold flower

opening at mid-summer,
tiny, perfect in its hour.

Even to a white—
haired craggy poet, it’s
purely erotic,

pistil and stamen, pollen,
dew of the world, a spoonful

of earth, and water.
Erotic because there’s death
at the heart of birth,

drama in those old sunrise
prisms in wet cedar boughs,

deepest mystery
in washing evening dishes
or teasing my wife,

who grows, yes, more beautiful
because one of us will die.

- Sam Hamill

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