Hideaway Strath tap the vein that bleeds

Ahh—he was caught. A booming voice echoed through the trees, and Pippin’s amber eyes fell upon the dense coat of a golden wolf—certainly one in far better condition than him, and also one he wouldn’t want to tamper with.

The question was a fair one, and the Ostrega allowed his muzzle to dip lower in what he hoped was a more humble appearance as his tail gave a thoughtful strike through the summer air. “Sorry,” he replied back, clearing his throat from the guttural misuse of his voice. “I recognized a scent here, and started to follow it… then realized my trespass.” Stupidity, on his part, given he was a scavenger who knew far better in terms of survival.

“Does Towhee live here, now?”