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His mother had not raised him like this. Even as the overwhelming instincts, desires, or whatever else one wished to call the insatiable fire burning through his limbs and tingling down to the tips of his fingers pushed him beyond the ability to stop even if he wanted to, there was still that tiny voice inside. It begged and pleaded for him to listen to his mother and everything she had imparted onto him. This was not polite. There was something wrong with the girl here; to do anything less than escort her home would be to take advantage of her. He shoved those thoughts aside.
She stood, however, and made her way over to him. He bristled at this, the hair all along his spine steadily rising. Harlowe almost never appeared in this form, but something in the night had given him over to four legs, this wretched and fingerless form which could not form so much as a single legible letter. Had they not evolved fingers, he would have never learned how to read. In adolescence, this form had been as lanky and near-disproportionate as his gangly Optime form. Now, past the cusp of what many would call real adulthood, Harlowe did look the part of an adult.
Her nose pressed against his cheek, and he remained stock-still, his lip slowly, involuntarily curling. For all his attempts to channel Larkspur's generally controlled indifference, the pale canine was failing miserably, and in answering her growl, one rumbled from his own chest, and he jumped forward clumsily, aiming his shoulder for her in an attempt to knock her off of her feet. He estimated she was some sort of messed up—there was a strange, herbal scent that caught in his throat and made his tongue dry up about her.
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