Sun Mote Copse Steal from the rich, give to myself.

Pippin was undecided to make of his new home. The stiffness in his joints stemmed further than the attack from the cat and the healing scars that adorned his flanks—the starvation from prior days wore at him still and he decidedly hated feeling useless.

It didn’t help his soured mood at how unfamiliar he was with the pack and land.

For as dark as his stormy mood was, Towhee was a small beacon—decidedly the only familiar face he had truly come here for, given Phox had maintained a certain distance in the Grove, as had their kids.

Moon cast before him, his sharp eyes cast upon the lightened path before him as he wove forward, trying to keep from settling for too long, keeping the stiffness of his injuries at bay for the moment.

His lumbering gait gave pause as he heard his name, his muzzle swinging to the direction of the crimson tipped fireball and he gave her a studious stare, waiting for her to catch up to him. “Hey,” he rumbled, his tail giving an idle flick.