new thread soon? 
The boy was as turbulent as a summer storm—one minute was calm, the next full of turbulence. Larkspur could not fathom what drove the boy to behave in such a way. By and large, Harlowe was a peculiar boy. Even Lark could see that, when he himself came bearing holy signs and that odd accent. Yellowing teeth cracked out from behind his muzzle, pink-black tongue rising to the roof of his mouth. He looked as if he would either snarl or grimace, and it was apparent in his face that the D’Angelo cared little for the place he had come from.
“S’where yer family is from,” he repeated. “Y’don’t listen, ah?” Shaking his head slightly, the dark wolf grunted. Maybe he was wrong—maybe Harlowe wasn’t worthy of being chosen. The scarred man turned, placed one hand on the horn of his saddle, and pulled himself back onto the horse. She snorted, shifting at this movement, and turned on the road. One hand pulled the leather thongs of the reigns, and long haired Larkspur pushed his bangs out of his face. “I think y’best go home,” he grunted, orange eyes focusing on the boy.
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