merely degenerates [p]

Harlowe D'Angelo · 08-27-2010, 03:48 AM

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Word Count :: 601

The pale-furred youth wandered forward, taking his time as he went. There was no reason for him to hurry, for there was no reason for him to be here, there, or anywhere, really. Though he was a member of Dahlia de Mai, he truly felt no connection to the wolves there—he lived there solely for Larkspur, and otherwise he did not care a drop for anyone else in the pack. They meant nothing, they held nothing—whatever interest they had, it was nothing compared to the secrets within his uncle-cousin. There was no objective for him to settle within the pack; he had yet to discern any real duties that he needed to perform, and nobody seemed to care at all.

He no longer had a mother or aunt to attend to him, and he had alienated his sisters entirely—not only through what he'd done to Rio, but by leaving Caprica and Lucia behind. He did not even know that one of his sisters had already departed, heading off for parts unknown. He had severed ties—albeit temporarily, as he saw it—with that part of himself. He was free, though there was no particular elation at his freedom—he did not want to be free, and he had been doing exactly this for months now. No one had bothered him in Phoenix Valley, and no one bothered him here. Left to his own devices, Harlowe would surely go mad; he wished for nothing more than to serve Larkspur better, to serve his ancestors better by learning about them—he wanted to know everything.

The pale wolf wandered forward, heading for the Halifax library. Many of the books there were still in good shape, still quite readable. Harlowe could never get enough of books; he would have spent his life in them if he could have. There was such magic in fiction, the wild stories spun by men years and years older than he was. Harlowe could not write fiction. He had tried many times, but the only things he seemed to excel at writing were his thoughts, far too disjointed and randomized to so much as consider sharing with another living being. The youth would not have wanted to share these journals even if they were organized in any sensible fashion—he had written about Rio, and he did not know anyone to know about her. What they had shared was between them—no one could understand, and no one could know. Not even Mother.

He looked up and around, suddenly realizing he had no idea where he was. Harlowe had ended up in a completely unfamiliar place, surrounded by hulking metal objects. Sighing heavily, he made a rather disgusted face—for a wolf, he sure had a shitty sense of navigation and direction. He had been to the library quite a few times before, and he couldn't so much as find his way back there. He did not know what to call the large metal things just yet; they were broken and rotted for the most part, beyond identification. Some of his stories mentioned airplanes, but the youth had yet to connect those stories with what he was actually seeing before him. These rusted hunks of humanity could not have floated high in the air above them.

Movement caught the youth's eye, and he turned his head catch it, alertness crossing his features in raised ears and a suspicious, curious look across his chocolate-tipped face. The tawny youth made his way over slowly, perhaps hoping to find out more about these things and where exactly he was.

Table thanks to Fae!

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