01-12-2010, 05:41 AM
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http://i204.photobucket.com/albums/bb17 ... Angelo.png); background-color:#000000; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; text-align:justify;">Word Count: 656
Larkspur knew rage, and he knew hate. He had seen it every day for his entire life, when his parents and his kin had turned against him because of what he was. Tak’s chosen heir—Tak’s blackened messenger. Misery had promised to make him whole, but she had left him only with the vaguest of ideas and the singular stone entity that would be his power from this day forth. When the bird found its voice, when it rose from a whisper to a shout, Larkspur would know his way and know it well. Places of great power could make themselves known even in the wastelands of a place like this. A portal, a thinny, a door that was not a door; these were signs that Larkspur looked for and things he had learned to recognize. In time, he would know them fully. Four years had given him what he needed—four months alone, with only the can tah to keep his mind whole, would push him over that final ledge and into the realm of pure truth. He would know then what his destiny was. The white fur on his muzzle, and the way his fur had rejected the dye, was proof enough of that.
Had Haku been able to warn Larkspur of the weakness of his family’s line, his education would have become much more aggressive. They needed to be taught and be judged. Those who were weak were not worthy of the families name, and he would grant them one chance before bringing down all ten thousand years of judgment on their unworthy heads. He knew the way to purity, and the way to make things right. Fire, above all things, could do this. Larkspur feared flame, as it had intended to claim his own life, but he did not fear it enough to abandon it completely. Like everything in House D’Angelo, the Jack o Lantern wolf with the white holy signs burned into his arms was a contradiction. They would survive atop a tower of cards because it was built on bones and blackened boughs. They would survive because it was the mad ones who always do, in that peculiar way that fate seems to honor.
And indeed, had he been able to speak to this man, had he been able to read his mind as clearly as he could read his eyes, he would have told him this. He would have found a brother in another madness, in another legacy built out of the dead. Larkspur respected Haku not because he was the alpha, not because he had shown him violence and threatened his well being, but because the darkness inside of him was so familiar it could not be ignored. One day, when Haku Soul fell to his own madness (for this was the way of all things, from first generation to last), he would be pulled into the ini and Larkspur would speak to his spirit and those of all the past dead through the dream catcher. He would not understand all the signs they would show him, but he knew that they would come. They had come before, and would do so again.
Fate was predictable, in so many ways. “Ay, but they’re be a truth in all illusion, eh? M’coat won’t change n’less it chooses to, n’there’s no way it’ll do that n’less m’path turns one way or another.” He had continued to move forward, and now stood next to the much larger Secui male. “D’you wish me ta go look fer her or would ya rather escort me?” His peculiar twang, though thick, had begun to waver. It would, over the next few weeks, fade nearly completely—carrying only the drawl of the mountain folk that had inbred their madness into each generation born over the Catskills. Larkspur was no different. His grace was a pathetic act in an attempt to hide what he truly was.
Larkspur knew rage, and he knew hate. He had seen it every day for his entire life, when his parents and his kin had turned against him because of what he was. Tak’s chosen heir—Tak’s blackened messenger. Misery had promised to make him whole, but she had left him only with the vaguest of ideas and the singular stone entity that would be his power from this day forth. When the bird found its voice, when it rose from a whisper to a shout, Larkspur would know his way and know it well. Places of great power could make themselves known even in the wastelands of a place like this. A portal, a thinny, a door that was not a door; these were signs that Larkspur looked for and things he had learned to recognize. In time, he would know them fully. Four years had given him what he needed—four months alone, with only the can tah to keep his mind whole, would push him over that final ledge and into the realm of pure truth. He would know then what his destiny was. The white fur on his muzzle, and the way his fur had rejected the dye, was proof enough of that.
Had Haku been able to warn Larkspur of the weakness of his family’s line, his education would have become much more aggressive. They needed to be taught and be judged. Those who were weak were not worthy of the families name, and he would grant them one chance before bringing down all ten thousand years of judgment on their unworthy heads. He knew the way to purity, and the way to make things right. Fire, above all things, could do this. Larkspur feared flame, as it had intended to claim his own life, but he did not fear it enough to abandon it completely. Like everything in House D’Angelo, the Jack o Lantern wolf with the white holy signs burned into his arms was a contradiction. They would survive atop a tower of cards because it was built on bones and blackened boughs. They would survive because it was the mad ones who always do, in that peculiar way that fate seems to honor.
And indeed, had he been able to speak to this man, had he been able to read his mind as clearly as he could read his eyes, he would have told him this. He would have found a brother in another madness, in another legacy built out of the dead. Larkspur respected Haku not because he was the alpha, not because he had shown him violence and threatened his well being, but because the darkness inside of him was so familiar it could not be ignored. One day, when Haku Soul fell to his own madness (for this was the way of all things, from first generation to last), he would be pulled into the ini and Larkspur would speak to his spirit and those of all the past dead through the dream catcher. He would not understand all the signs they would show him, but he knew that they would come. They had come before, and would do so again.
Fate was predictable, in so many ways. “Ay, but they’re be a truth in all illusion, eh? M’coat won’t change n’less it chooses to, n’there’s no way it’ll do that n’less m’path turns one way or another.” He had continued to move forward, and now stood next to the much larger Secui male. “D’you wish me ta go look fer her or would ya rather escort me?” His peculiar twang, though thick, had begun to waver. It would, over the next few weeks, fade nearly completely—carrying only the drawl of the mountain folk that had inbred their madness into each generation born over the Catskills. Larkspur was no different. His grace was a pathetic act in an attempt to hide what he truly was.
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