I edited in my prior post to make it evening here; I didn't see any reference to time of day in your post, so I hope that was okay! Great post, also. :3 Also marking mature. ^^; (590)

Try as he might, the cream-colored male could not empty his head of these thoughts. It was as if he was stuck on repeat—this feeling of being stuck was not unfamiliar to the pallid boy, and though he had long grown accustomed to such things going on in his head, he dealt with them no better. In fact, as this time it seemed no one would come to his rescue, the chocolate-tipped boy was worse off than before. His jade-colored eyes squeezed shut, though he knew this was utterly fruitless. There was not a single thing that would cease the clamor in his head, and he whimpered quietly, his pursuits of navigation utterly forgotten. He had felt so lost since Mother had gone away; he wished more than anything to have her guidance once again.

Harlowe believed she would have wanted him to learn, to seek knowledge—Harlowe was more certain than ever that Larkspur possessed this knowledge. Otherwise, why would he make it so difficult for Harlowe to obtain? The boy could not fathom his uncle-cousin tricking him. It was not that Harlowe thought it impossible; for perhaps the first time, an emotional want had overridden a logical thought process, and he refused to consider the possibility that Larkspur had duped him. It was not even that nothing had been revealed—perhaps Harlowe simply had not imagined it would be this hard. Perhaps he thought he might earn more physical skills; his hunting had not improved since stepping foot across Dahlian soil. He had risen in rank only briefly, only to be dropped down again promptly when he began spending time outside pack borders.

Sounds caught the pale boy's attention, and his head snapped up, olive-shaded eye narrowing as he peered through the fading sun's gloom. The forest was growing dark quickly; with the onset of fall and the eventual winter, the days had grown short and the nights came early. There was only silence, and Harlowe stood, slowly. He made his best efforts to conceal his own movements, lifting his paws and setting them down lightly, but he was still a tall and awkward figure, and as he made his way toward the ghostly-white figure, his heart leapt in anticipation. In his delusion and anxiousness, he honestly believed the sideview of this stranger could be his mother; he could see only the pale white parts of her, and he had not yet seen she was fully half-shaded.

The Dahlian stopped some feet from her, ceasing his movements as the woman seemed to notice him. Her eyes were glazed over and oddly colored, and he finally saw that half-shaded part of her body. His face turned downward in a faint scowl, ever the aloof and indifferent one, rare to fully display his emotions. This woman was not Mother; she was not anybody. A strange feeling began to fill him, something akin to a roaring, blazing rage but far more subtle and calculated. He did not yet move; so immense and captivating were his thoughts. The blurriness had faded, replaced by a whisper. For its quietness, the boy understood it perfectly well, as it spoke in a way he could feel rather than understand. In a single breath, it was more powerful and persuasive than all the logic he had devoured in his useless paper books.

Mother was gone. She would not come back for him. Larkspur wanted him to hurt the gray stranger, and he had failed miserably in this task. Maybe he would hurt this one, instead.

Aha, I have an even crueler idea (for Harlowe, anyway)! Aaaat the end of this, maybe your next post, since mine sort of aims to hurt her quickly (hope that is okay, if not please PM and let me know!), let him knock her down, and then maybe he'll cut her on the arms with his nails or something...? IDK what kind of injuries you wanted. :> You post, then I will do my cruel thing to Harlowe and he will run away. No rape! Also I am slow, I am sorry. ;~;

Harlowe did not know how to fight. He was not built for it, either -- when she moved for him, he swung his fists wildly once or twice, simply hoping to catch her in the head at some point. He did not aim any of his swipes, and his fists were rather loosely balled up. He moved forward for her and aimed to throw her to the ground with a push, following through with his whole body in an attempt to pin her there.

Again, he swung his fist, aiming for her head. She should not be fighting him -- it wasn't at all like he planned it in his head. She should have begged and pleaded for her life, and he should have been able to have his way with her, whatever he wanted. Harlowe did not know yet what it was he wanted, but the voice demanded his actions and so he performed them, his movements growing less jerky as he aimed his fist for her head again, aiming to knock her on the muzzle and stun her for a second to gain control of the situation once and for all.