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Whisper Beach. Of course, Larkspur has to have the first Harlowe thread. ;D
The tawny-furred youth made his way carefully away from Phoenix Valley, keeping close to the ground and moving as quietly as he could at first. He honestly had no idea how anybody felt about him leaving the pack—not that he cared, mind you, he just didn't want to get caught. He had been spending entirely too much time around his siblings and his mother lately, and the insatiable desire to wander was blossoming in his chest. He did not want to get caught—being caught would mean returning home and being shoved back into the midst of his quarreling, loud, troublesome, bedamned siblings. Harlowe did not understand why he couldn't just strike it out on his own—he didn't need his anyone for anything. Well, maybe he needed Naniko, but that was all. Beyond his mother, he didn't need anyone.
Once he had stolen a fair bit further away than the Valley packlands, Harlowe's gait changed, and he walked more freely, drawing himself up from the ground. At six months of age, he was nowhere near done growing, but he was already quite large. Still, he had the awkwardness and gangliness of youth about him, and there was no mistaking him for an adult wolf, not yet anyway. The young man tilted his head back into the breeze, blinking his bright olive-colored eyes. He had already shifted once, but he was not yet comfortable enough with shifting and attaining his other forms yet. It was weird being an Optime, that was for sure—for now, Harlowe much preferred to be low to the ground. He felt it was much more natural in this form.
The creamy-furred male made his way along the highway, interested in following it to see where it went. He had never been here before; he had hardly ventured outside of Phoenix Valley territory before this day. Most of the time it had been with his mother and siblings—this was the first time he had been outside on his own, and it felt damn good. Independence had taken ahold of Harlowe's mind, and he was determined to grasp at it.
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300+ and I suck and am slow.
Since the burning of Dahlia, Larkspur had kept to himself. He did not socialize outside of aiding the peculiar woman with her chains and bondage. He left his own home rarely, living within a home that was much larger then his own needs demanded. The horse, still unnamed, was comfortable with the much larger yard. Larkspur had done his best to clear out the must from the abandoned house, and was settling into living more as an Optime then a lupus. Misery had begun showing him how to do this, and now on his own, he was attempting to learn without a guide.
For the time being, though, Larkspur was doing something rather uncommon—he was relaxing. Without a true need to be obedient, the black wolf was free to do as he pleased. Though the fire had upset him greatly, there was a terrible need to escape this fear. For this reason, he had mounted the mare and taken her for an early morning run. He thought of nothing as they flew across the sandy ground, his hair flying behind him. Only when they crossed outside of the Dahlian borders did he slow the horse and turn back, following the broken road.
The horse stopped suddenly, snorted, and until this moment Larkspur was unaware of a second presence. Not far down the road a young wolf was approaching. As he studied the boy, the stone around his neck, the can tah began to whisper. He did not need to listen long, for its voice was as powerful to him as a thunderclap. He recognized his blood as easily as he recognized the shadow of wickedness in his alpha. Haku had not understood what the fire meant. Larkspur did, and he read the signs as clearly as he read the ones carved on his arms.
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I LOVE THIS THREAD ALREADY ASJKFJKSDFJS
Behind him was Phoenix Valley, his siblings, and his home—everything he should have cared about. There was none of that in him; he cared only for his mother, and his sisters only served to bother him, tackling him to play or roping him into conversation when he wanted only to dive further into a book. It was intolerable being around them sometimes, and the six-month-old had taken to finding secluded spots in the Valley packland to hunker down with one of his novels. Today, though, there was something drawing him along this very road, calling him over the wind. He could just barely taste it and he did not know what it was. It was as if something had magnetized beneath his feet and was drawing him along, mechanically and autonomously—Harlowe could almost tune out to his own thoughts as he walked along, and though there was determination and a destination in his step, he could not see that destination in his mind or with his eyes. The creamy-furred youth was not even sure it was truly there.
Up ahead of him there was a strange creature. It appeared to have two heads at first; there was a much taller one up and behind the first one, and the features of this taller one were almost canine. The sun was behind this creature, illuminating the backdrop while obscuring its features, and Harlowe stopped in his tracks, squinting his olive-colored eyes as he peered at this fascinating thing. He sniffed, and the illusion of a single creature was gone—his nose immediately told him that this was wolf and horse. He had seen some of the Valley pack's horses, of course—but never up close. They were so big, and he was so small—even so, there was something that almost compelled the youth to step forward again, approaching at a much slower pace, his head tilted back to stare at the face of the other canine. There was a scar there, pink and puckered tissue just beneath a burning orange-colored eye.
“Hello,” he said calmly—surprising even himself. He had never spoken to anyone but his parents and siblings before; what in the devil had inspired him to speak now and here to this total stranger was utterly baffling, and the confusion showed plainly on the young Valley wolf's face. Whatever had inspired him to speak had given him confidence, and there was no fear or nervousness toward this dark-colored man. Harlowe should have been intimidated—he should have been silent, certainly, but that same thing which had drawn him along this desolate road toward this man had almost certainly made him speak there. Though Harlowe was confused, he was not afraid—he did not think this was a menacing situation, and he had never been in one before, so he had no reason to fear this wolf or this horse before him.
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I like Harlowe. :> Larkspur is going to steal him.
Here was a boy in the throws of his youth, gangly and not yet grown into his feet. He showed potential—he showed this well. One day this boy could carry weight behind him, but the D’Angelo did not think thay this would be much. A thin face and sharp lines spoke of a body that would always be lithe. Yet for his size, for his youth and all of his inexperience, there was no fear. The boy came towards him, moving slowly but not hesitating to stare him in the face or speak in a high alto voice, one that was echoed by a frantic whispering of the stone eagle around his neck.
Even then, Larkspur knew that his path had been given to him. Under him the horse shifted, uneasy, but her rider was still and calm. His eyes focused on the boy, a Jack-O-Lantern orange, as if they might pierce his skull and reveal all the answers that he sought. The wind turned, bringing an unfamiliar pack’s scent up, but it was enough to confirm the suspicions that were only made truth by the can tah. It was faint, and it was tainted by muddled and mixed bloodlines, but it was there.
This boy was his kin. “What’s your name?” He asked, sparing no time for greetings. Though his speech had improved, it was still thick with a twang, a sign that he did not belong here. As much as he pretended, Larkspur would never belong anywhere but in those mountains, and with the family that would have burnt him alive if they had been able.
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DELAY SLEEP TO REPLY, Y/Y!
Whatever it was that had made him come here, it was silent now, perhaps having fallen in awe of the creature before him. There was no instinct to flee and no fear within Harlowe; all of the nervousness he knew in strange wolves and being around them had evaporated, sucked right out of him. He could not explain it, but he would not question it. The man's piercing gaze had fixed onto him like a spotlight, searing down from high above to scrutinize the child. There in his face, Harlowe saw utter confidence; what reason did this dark-furred wolf have to fear a small thing like Harlowe, after all? The orange-eyed man was on a horse, he had years on Harlowe.
The question rang out in a strange tone, one that caused one of the boy's dark-tipped ears to flick, straining to catch the man's voice. It spoke of a place very far away from the quaint and cozy Valley that the tawny-furred wolf knew as his homeland. His name? He could hardly remember it anymore; it should not have mattered to this dark-furred stranger on the horse what his name was. Even so, the man had taken an interest, and Harlowe was compelled to respond again. He had been freed of his fear of speaking, though he did not know for how long, and he intended to make use of it. “Harlowe D'Angelo,” he responded. Once again the speech flowed easily; there was no hesitation in the Tyro's voice, which was rather melodious once he actually used it. He had not yet acquired the deep voice of a man; he still spoke like a boy, of course.
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The boy watched him like a child that knew too much—eyes like his sister, who had watched and said nothing as he was beaten and nearly destroyed. He did not hate her, for he understood the way of the Khalif. If she had so much as offered him sympathy, she too would be cast out or killed. Very few made it out of those mountains alive, and not without price. Misery had done it and become holy. Larkspur could only hope to follow in her footsteps. Yet even now, even with her blessings, he felt that most powerful darkness calling for him and understood he had been chosen. Behind his eyes a secret fire flickered and twisted, and around his neck a great power pulsed.
Then the boy spoke, and his voice woke the can tah and turned the pulse into a heartbeat. That heartbeat blossomed the whispers into a staggering scream, one that sought to deafen him. For an instant it was as if every star in the universe had flashed behind his eyes before dying, turning them remarkably hollow. Everything was muted, and the world had shrunk to their two bodies. Darkness radiated from deep within Larkspur’s body, causing him to move without being aware of it; he left the horse and touched asphalt. From there the darkness snaked through his shadow, climbed until it just barely touched the boy, then and there Larkspur understood that his purpose was much greater then he had originally believed.
He did not move, and one hand remained fixed to the leather throngs that served to guide the horse. Scarred arms spoke of prophecy, but the boy did not understand their meaning or his own purpose. In time, perhaps he would. The elder wolf, with his peculiar white markings, was no longer a being of his own consciousness. Something else had woken, something that had been stirring and as of yet, unaware. It had smelt blood. It had called.
Larkspur obeyed. “No yer not,” he began to explain. “There ain’t been a real D’Angelo in these parts fer years.” There was no question, but a challenge.
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314
The tawny-furred youth stood where he was, unwilling to advance forward to the strange man and the horse just yet. He was not wary, but he was smart enough to know not to walk right up to a strange animal, especially one that outweighed him by several hundred pounds and could easily kill him with a strike of one heavy hoof. But the man, the man was not something he was afraid of; he did not think that the dark-furred wolf would cause him harm. Perhaps he was mistaken, perhaps this was a moment of unthinking youth, the knowledge and feeling that he was immortal and nothing at all could harm him in the world. Teenagers were certainly subject to those feelings; the tawny furred child was not exempt from these grand illusions of youth.
The spinning of the world seemed to slow as the dark-furred wolf dismounted from his horse, landing gently on the ground. His fire-colored eyes regarded Harlowe fiercely, though the tawny-furred man felt no fear. The man spoke again, and the words confused Harlowe—was he not real? The tawny-furred youth had never considered that he was not flesh and blood—maybe Larkspur was talking of a different reality. The possibilities spun around Harlowe's little head, and he looked up in confusion. “Real? But I am real,” he protested, albeit gently—there was no nasal whine to his voice; he made this statement rather simply. “My mother branded me with this name. Do I have more family?” he inquired, certainly curious. Naniko had spoken only briefly of extended family; the young man could not even recall names from her ancestry beyond her father and mother, his grandparents—neither of which he knew, let alone the rest of his family. They were a mystery to him, and if this man had the answers, the young wolf was certainly willing to listen.
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For as lofty as the visions and the fantasies were of this boy, this boy who lived within a world that was not his own, there was a much deeper realm that would drag him down. It was not an earthly place, for there was not much that could be done to the body to break ones mind. Larkspur had watched as his skin was burnt away by hot iron, smelt his fur and flesh turn to smoke, and all the while clenched his teeth on leather and listened to a crone speak madness. There might have been a normalcy, between their two worlds, but in this moment they were a black hole and a white dwarf spinning out of control towards each other.
Larkspur’s eyes did not change, and remained focused on the boys face. He was confused. He did not understand. This was to be expected. “Yer mother don’t know her own blood,” the black wolf grunted, recalling how Misery had spoken of the man that had sired her. As far as he understood, after his aunt-mother’s children had died, the bloodline had grown weak. They had grown stupid and forgotten. “I’m D’Angelo. And y’got a cousin who lives in m’pack, but she’s about as D’Angelo as yer mother.” Snorting air through his nose, a peculiar smile pulled at the corners of the black wolf’s mouth. “But you,” he added, his peculiar accent fluctuating like a summer storm. “Y’got D’Angelo eyes. Even if’n y’ain’t worthy of th’name.” And certainly, the boy wasn’t—not yet.
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Word Count :: 339 agsdgsdg!!!
As the man spoke, a frown crossed Harlowe's face, obviously displeased with the talk of his mother, but he did not verbally protest. He could not disagree—he did not know his own blood, and certainly such knowledge should have been passed along to him, too. The only plausible explanation was that she did not know such things. The creamy-furred youth listenened to the other canine speak, the look of this olive-colored eyes changing from displeased with the talk of his mother to positively reverent as the dark-furred wolf announced his surname, his blood. There was clear excitement within Harlowe then, shining behind his jade eyes—no wonder he was unafraid, no wonder he was comfortable speaking with this man so soon and so suddenly. It made sense to him, anyway—family was supposed to be different, he was supposed to sense them somehow—he had met his close family before, of course, consisting of his half-siblings, his mother, father, and some of his father's side of the family—but his mother's ancestry was blank and unknown for the youth.
“Mother didn't tell me about the family. I don't think she knows. Would you tell me?” the young man asked cautiously. He wanted to know—there was a perpetual thirst for knowledge within the young canine. What he said was also in agreement with what Larkspur had said; after all, it only made sense—why would Naniko fail to tell him about his cousin, this man here who was also a D'Angelo, the myriad of old relatives he would seem to have? The tawny-furred man frowned again at the man's statement. D'Angelo eyes? His mother's eyes were the same color, as were her father Roman's. “I have Mother's eyes. They were not hers first?” he asked, wondering where they had originated. He was brimming with questions, so like a child but unlike his peers, he restrained himself—it would do no good to rapid-fire questions at the man; that was a good way to miss out on the answers.
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derp I am slow
He watched, as he had been bid. The boy was an open book, one whose pages were yet to be filled. Certainly, he knew pride. What boy did not, after all? Yet he knew patience, and he knew that he was on the cusp of a great truth. Such mysteries had never fascinated Larkspur. He had been born wrong, and for this, his world had become a narrow path. Larkspur was cursed, as all the Autumn People are. He was to go from the dust and into the grave, and know neither summer nor spring. Yet he had. Lark was a man who had defied his own destiny and embraced a much greater one.
The boy was eager, and he attempted to blame his ignorance on his mother. Misery had considered the girl a blight, and Larkspur would follow suit. Her nephew had sired the girl, her nephew who had rejected his teachings an been spared because he was not a true D’Angelo. In Larkspur’s world, those who had not been born into Khalif could not be called such. This boy was no different—but he was eager, and his eyes were not so different from Misery’s. Slowly, a wicked smile pulled back his lips and exposed his ivory teeth to the light. “Naw,” he explained, his own eyes glimmering. “They ain’t her eyes.” Yet he did not explain further.
“Y’got a lot of family, Harlowe. As I see it, I’m yer mother’s uncle. Y’can just call me Larkspur, though.” He needed no titles. The branches of the D’Angelo tree were warped and intertwined, and always had been. That peculiar smiled remained on his face, as if he knew a joke that the boy did not.
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The tawny-furred youth had been completely spared the knowledge of his family, though he did not wish for it to be this way; the tawny-furred youth had never been afraid to know anything. There was nothing in knowledge that was frightening; understanding made everything less scary. The tawny-furred coyote peered at the black-furred man, his jade-hued eyes never leaving the man's snow-dusted face. There were pale markings all over him, tiny swirls and squiggles that would have seemed to have no meaning to anyone, but Harlowe did not think Larkspur was the type to do things without meaning, without symbolism—those markings stood for something, the tawny-furred man was sure. But the idea of family was far more interesting to him, and he looked up hopefully as the man spoke again, the twanging drawl from his mouth simple and revealing nothing more than what Harlowe already knew. A normal puppy might have been frustrated at this continuation of cryptic words, but not Harlowe—he was a patient hunter of knowledge, and when it came to seeking it out he could wait days and days, starving it out slowly. “Who did they belong to first?” he asked quietly, wanting to know where he had gotten these things. Of his siblings he might be the only one—some of them had puppyish baby blues, still.
His mother's uncle? The young man's face contorted and he tried to figure that one out, trying to trace the man's relationship to himself... there were no words in Harlowe's vocabulary for this relationship. “Mother's uncle. Does that... are you also my uncle, then?” he asked, straining to put into words that which he was totally unaware. At some point maybe he would pick up a book on families or genealogy—maybe someday he'd know what to properly call Larkspur. Not that it mattered—the very same blood flowed in both of their veins, regardless of which way they chose to label it. There was no changing that. “Are the rest of them nearby?” he asked, eager—he was not so silly as to think they were here; Larkspur had already confirmed that they were not. They had been gone a long time, according to Larkspur—but where were they? He hoped they were not already in the ground; that would make it impossible for him to learn from them.
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“Oh, one of yer ancestors,” the dark man laughed, his eyes twinkling. How curious, this boy, who did not behave like a child. This was a sign, and for Larkspur, who believed that there were signs all around him, one not taken lightly. Perhaps there had been a reason for him to come along this abandoned road, and to find a…nephew, perhaps. A relative that came from the weak and unworthy bloodline that had spread from his aunt appeared in the wild, in this forsaken place that Misery had abandoned twice now.
There was a shrug of one broad shoulder, unsure of the title he should be given. His eyes shut for a moment, focusing inward, focusing on that whispering voice. Larkspur’s focus was broken as the boy spoke again, his tone changing and his tempo increasing. Both eyes opened, one after the other, and focused on the smaller wolf with an uncanny intensity. The Khalif were not here; Lord help him if they were. “No,” he said flatly, his voice dropping a dangerous octave. “They ain’t. Y’won’t find any of ‘em outside t’Khalif. S’where,” he added, anticipating the question. “, our family is from.”
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Word Count :: agsdgsdg!!!
Larkspur didn't know—that hardly gave Harlowe pause. A statement like that would indicate he had many ancestors, which... well, obviously, he knew he had to have ancestors, but he didn't ever think there was any chance of researching far back into his familial history. Now, it seemed that Larkspur could guide him in this quest for knowledge—though he didn't offer up the answers right away, Harlowe thought maybe they were there, lurking behind his fire-colored eyes.
The man's next words definitely caught the young Valley wolf's attention, and his dark-furred ears pricked forward as the man spoke of where they were. They were far away? His face fell, the brilliant olive-colored eyes growing dull with disappointment, before they once again looked to the man's face, the next words he spoke blazing in the youth's mind: Khalif. That's where they were. “What is Khalif?” What did they do there? What were they like? How did he get there? A million questions swarmed in his head, but he only asked one—there would be time later to learn everything.
He knew he couldn't go there. Wherever it was, it was far, and he was small. He would not survive this journey there, if he even made it outside of these lands. But whatever he could learn from Larkspur, he would absorb.
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new thread soon? 
The boy was as turbulent as a summer storm—one minute was calm, the next full of turbulence. Larkspur could not fathom what drove the boy to behave in such a way. By and large, Harlowe was a peculiar boy. Even Lark could see that, when he himself came bearing holy signs and that odd accent. Yellowing teeth cracked out from behind his muzzle, pink-black tongue rising to the roof of his mouth. He looked as if he would either snarl or grimace, and it was apparent in his face that the D’Angelo cared little for the place he had come from.
“S’where yer family is from,” he repeated. “Y’don’t listen, ah?” Shaking his head slightly, the dark wolf grunted. Maybe he was wrong—maybe Harlowe wasn’t worthy of being chosen. The scarred man turned, placed one hand on the horn of his saddle, and pulled himself back onto the horse. She snorted, shifting at this movement, and turned on the road. One hand pulled the leather thongs of the reigns, and long haired Larkspur pushed his bangs out of his face. “I think y’best go home,” he grunted, orange eyes focusing on the boy.
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