We are not amused. Our eminent presence should be the envied focal point of high society. Our physique, a poet's muse, a paragon of sinuous grace merged with might, and of course, our allure, drawing the finest of lionkin to become our Pride. The capable young things should be content to groom our mane for hours on end. Such is the ministrations deserving of the greatest of a royal line. King of lionkin, the second to take the vaunted name of Kagrowr. This indignity we have been subjected to shall not go unanswered. Even if our captor were a queen amongst deities, rather then the dregs of their ilk, our ire shall burn through nine thousand lives till it has been avenged. We shall not forever be bound to this parody of our flesh, and when we are unleashed, our... "Fluffy!! Come down from there! If you don't Felix will get your treat!!" ...excuse us...our few remaining luxuries must be championed.