A pair of ears swivelled above the brush and scrub of the forest floor, the feathered creature backed it's rump up upon a tree trunk. Slingshot ready an waiting, mounted upon a leg brace, the stone-coloured halfling cautiously surveyed the area; the same area where not a month or two prior his trusty, faithful saucepan had been stolen by an ursine criminal of great, great dishonour it would seem. To steal a saucepan from a hobbit? The lowest of the low in Pippigrin's opinion. Since that awful, soul-scratching event the poor chap had had to make do with field-food, gnawing on roots and grass, with no propper food or kitchens in his herd land (or any herd land). Proper food... Pippin craved proper food.
This is what had lead the halfling to the threshold today, armed with his slingshot, full of all intent to strike down the saucepan thief. All ten hands of him was fearful, enraged, though truthfully he had no idea where to even begin.

Scooting away from the tree he had parked himself under, Pippigrin gave one more glance over the greenery for any sign of that horrendous creature or his beloved saucepan, but alas, there was naught but greens and browns as far as the eye could see.
But then there was grey.
A peculiar figure wading through the trees caught Pippin's eyes; the figure of similar colour to his own lurked toard the nearby creek, and as Pippin continued to watch from the cover of shrubbery, he noticed the brute was covered in all manner of travel wear, dirt and sweat. Another traveller no doubt; lost, wounded, weary.

Waiting until the gent had lowered himself down into the spring to emerge, Pippigrin cleared his throat to announce his presence before continuing with his airy, strangely masculine voice (the kind one might not expect from one who appeared like a foal to most). "Hallo!" the hobbit bellowed, tail swishing at the flys that gathered over his own sweat-sheened pelt.
"How's the water?" was his next coo, striding closer to the man and dipping his muzzle into the downstream creek water (not seeming to mind that it was now filled with a stranger's blood, sweat and tears). Just a few sips was enough for the hafling, so when he lifted his head from the muddied water he gave a great smile, the water dribbling down his velveteen maw.