I'm sorry. ;~~~~~~~~~~; Please forgive me! ♥ (441)
The afternoon's quietness was not lost on Harlowe, who had taken a break from his incessant reading to enjoy the afternoon. Almost as much as he enjoyed reading, the yearling also enjoyed his own thoughts. There was nothing better than losing oneself in imagination and dreams; the creamy-furred youth would often contemplate the stories he read, the ideas presented within them and the themes running beneath them. He did not often understand them immediately, for they were quite often foreign concepts entirely—honesty, altruism, and facets of other human culture he was doomed to misconstrue. And so he ruminated over these stories, thinking them over and twisting them until they satisfied his mind. Naturally, his conclusions and ideas were far-fetched and distant from the historical interpretations or even actual intent of the authors. Harlowe, however, was more than likely doomed to a life of undue self-certainty and confidence. Scholars of his caliber were difficult to come by, and the chance to debate the merits of literature with another canine were astronomically small.
In his walk, he was soon disturbed by a strange scent. He recognized it as the flowers that often grew about the lovely Dahlian territory, though there was an almost chemical strength to this smell—as if someone had purposefully steamrolled an entire field of them to crush the scent out. The youth was intrigued, and altered his course to the scent, finding a faint canine accompaniment to the flowery smell. It was female, and the youth found himself more intrigued. The days had been almost lonely lately, and Harlowe had, strangely enough, begun to desire companionship—not just any companionship, of course, but female companionship. His sexuality had been late-blossoming at best, and what had happened with Rio was hardly sexual in the youth's mind; such a thing had been a game or test, entirely separate from the realities of the world.
He did not know this woman, and upon seeing her, he was delighted—she was all pallid white fur, dejected seated beside a pile of crushed flowers. A romantic might have swooped in and offered some consolation or even a hello; awkward Harlowe remained staring from afar for a moment too long before he gained his composure, making his way toward the four-legged woman awkwardly in his two-legged form. He had not been four-legged more than he needed to hunt since he had gained the ability to shift. Bringing down prey in this werewolf form seemed entirely beyond him. “Hello. What happened to your flowers?” he asked, showing not an ounce of concern on his chocolate-masked face. Emotions were rare and fleeting in the jade-eyed boy.
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