Sun Mote Copse Emotion sickness.

He was on the mend—there was a stiffness in his flanks that would likely only worsen in age, but overall, Pippin was simply happy to not have been mauled to death by the hungry cat. Given just that escape, life could be considered good.

Not that Pippin ever stopped to enjoy the roses, or whatever the fuck that saying was. His paws itched with the need to explore, but he had yet to leave the pack territory, not wishing to draw any unwanted attention to himself.

The only reason he was here was for Towhee, and he would openly admit that to anyone who asked—but what that meant was still undecided. Pippin didn’t have friends. And he sure as hell didn’t have any inclination to become romantically involved.

At least, he didn’t think so.

When his gaze flashed upon a rather restless looking Firebird, a small frown crept upon his golden features. With a sharp growl, the concerned Ostrega strode quickly to her side, his nose bending down to nudge at her, announcing his presence in case she hadn’t seen his arrival, and knowing she wouldn’t have heard it.

The moans escaping her made it seem as if she was in pain—and then the scent hit him at just the smallest twist of her lithe frame, and if the color could drain from his face, it would have.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbled, instantly back-peddling in a less than fabulous manner. The stumble of his paws finally gave them some distance, and Pippin looked like the kid caught putting his hand in the cookie jar. He was seasoned enough to know what this meant—had even indulged in the past, though he was by no means an expert.

“Uh. Want me to get Niamh or something?”