Lost Creek Hollow the days are muted

It had been almost two months since Pippin had seen his family. For all intent and logic, the boy should have been dead – withered away to nothing now. Still, somehow he had managed the life of a lone wolf – albeit barely. His golden fur was drab – hanging from his frail body as if it would fall out in tufts. His eyes were dull, lifeless almost – but there was a peace he had found in his days at Lost Creek Hollow, and despite missing his family with a terrible ferocity, he insisted to himself that he was finally home.
 
He cleaned off a mouse then, as he lay by the Ostrega’s old den. The bones crunched in his teeth, and while the nourishment was not much – definitely not enough – it would tide over the gnawing hunger for now.
 
He had not spoken to another since his run in with the strange she-wolf who had wanted to kidnap him – and her male companion who had suggested killing him. He slept little – his dreams only described as nightmares as he relived the feeling of Tambourine’s tender flesh and bones within his angry jaws. The more he thought of that day, the more blurred it had become to him, until now he was convinced that he was purely a monster.
 
And monster’s deserved to die alone.