you can't make dirt clean

Harlowe D'Angelo · 01-01-2011, 09:21 AM

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Word Count :: 320

Things should have been perfect for Harlowe in Anathema, but the sad truth was that they were far from that. The pale-furred youth felt utterly ignored and rejected by his mother all over again. She had not made time for him, she had not seen to his settling in. He was surrounded by family and utterly miserable, and worst of all, Scorpius simply would not cease following him around. The dark-furred little imbecile was irritating Harlowe to no end, and so the chocolate-tipped Zepar had escaped the packlands, running as fast as his long and limber legs would allow. At thirteen months, Harlowe was finished growing, and he had become a rather tall Luperci, though unimpressive due to his wiry and stick-thin frame. There were no muscles to back up the imposing size of the D'Angelo boy; still, it was speed he needed to get away from Scoripus for at least a few hours.

When he stopped running, the Anathema wolf realized he had reached the beach. The ocean's waves hummed repetitively in the air, and the smell of salt and cold was thick on the air. This area was familiar to him, and Harlowe could not at first place this familiarity. The quietness of the afternoon indicated the coming of snow, but Harlowe was blind to these signs of the weather, rather unlike a wolf of his age should have been. As the first flakes drifted downward from the clouds, the youth realized he was quite near to Phoenix Valley. This unclaimed strip of beach was all that separated his current home from his former pack and the place where he had done those awful things. He froze and began to back up, slowly -- his olive-colored eyes peered toward the place from whence he had come, and he found no good memories there. There should have been, but the bad ones were too overwhelming for Harlowe to stifle.

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