fever dreams that scare you sober.

Harlowe D'Angelo · 04-12-2010, 12:25 AM

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The tawny-furred youth stood where he was, unwilling to advance forward to the strange man and the horse just yet. He was not wary, but he was smart enough to know not to walk right up to a strange animal, especially one that outweighed him by several hundred pounds and could easily kill him with a strike of one heavy hoof. But the man, the man was not something he was afraid of; he did not think that the dark-furred wolf would cause him harm. Perhaps he was mistaken, perhaps this was a moment of unthinking youth, the knowledge and feeling that he was immortal and nothing at all could harm him in the world. Teenagers were certainly subject to those feelings; the tawny furred child was not exempt from these grand illusions of youth.

The spinning of the world seemed to slow as the dark-furred wolf dismounted from his horse, landing gently on the ground. His fire-colored eyes regarded Harlowe fiercely, though the tawny-furred man felt no fear. The man spoke again, and the words confused Harlowe—was he not real? The tawny-furred youth had never considered that he was not flesh and blood—maybe Larkspur was talking of a different reality. The possibilities spun around Harlowe's little head, and he looked up in confusion. “Real? But I am real,” he protested, albeit gently—there was no nasal whine to his voice; he made this statement rather simply. “My mother branded me with this name. Do I have more family?” he inquired, certainly curious. Naniko had spoken only briefly of extended family; the young man could not even recall names from her ancestry beyond her father and mother, his grandparents—neither of which he knew, let alone the rest of his family. They were a mystery to him, and if this man had the answers, the young wolf was certainly willing to listen.

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