Lost Creek Hollow Poison and Whine

Now that he could actually walk again, he could hunt. He was in tip-top shape, but had managed to lose a few pounds while he was sick. He needed the exercise as much as he needed the mental reward of a successful hunt. Being confined to one place while his leg recovered was torturous in every way. 

He didn't want to venture far, so he didn't. And this place seemed good enough as any to find small prey. Rabbits, mice, maybe an otter. He wasn't even really hungry, just bored. And he needed something to feel normal. Nothing was more normal to him than taking down prey--it's what most of his life to this point revolved around. 

He was more or less scouting out the area now, looking for signs of anything that might be edible. He'd seen a few dead rabbit dens. Their scents were too faded. Either they had been picked clean, or the rabbits moved. He hoped the latter, but it was too early to tell. 

The wolf's muzzle was painted brown with mud, indicating he'd been rooting around in the abandoned homes. His paws were in no better shape, either, covered in black soil nearly to the shoulder.