Word Count → 338
There was a casual confidence about the woman that caught the pale youth unaware. He studied her with slitted olive-green eyes, oblivious to the awkwardness that staring generally brought about. She was petite and might have been his age -- he was quite poor at estimating such qualities, but he might have guessed anywhere from a year to three. Her fingers worked deftly at some project pulled into her lap, and Harlowe watched this in fascination even as she spoke. He could never speak and write at the same time, let alone listen and write -- if he attempted either task, it ended miserably, with words from speech ending up on paper and words from paper ending up popping out of his mouth -- an awkward experience altogether, and not one he cared to repeat.
“Trying to keep busy,” he responded, tersely and truthfully. The busier he was, the less he thought, the less time Scorpius had to chase after him, an improvement all around. He looked at her hand a moment, utterly confused as to what she wanted, and then recognized the gesture from a book. It was a handshake. He stuck his hand out awkwardly and picked hers up, shaking it in his a little too vigorously. “Harlowe D'Angelo. Naniko's my mother,” he responded, blurting the last piece of unnecessary information without thinking. “How are you?” he asked, remembering his manners only by mentioning his mother. Were it not for her, Harlowe would not be able to function in social situations.
Her invitation was unexpected, but he plopped down unceremoniously, still somewhat transfixed by her mending. “You're new here, then?” he asked, inferring from the statement regarding her journey that she had traveled some distance to this place. It was, of course, a silly question -- most of them were new here, himself included. He did not feel like a member of Anathema anyway. His mother might have lead the pack, but Harlowe felt like an utter outsider, completely oblivious to the ways of the pack.
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