a poison on the street.

Harlowe D'Angelo · 05-20-2010, 07:21 AM

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His father was not a total stranger to him, but he did not admire the man and idolize him in the way that he did Naniko. She had opened the door of the literary world to him—she had taught him to read. He shook his head to the other man's statement. “Not too often.” Harlowe did not know all of the circumstances behind his birth and why his parents lived in totally different and distant packs. “I don't know if Mother would know,” Harlowe said, sounding disappointed. “Larkspur said she doesn't know a lot about the family.” It was difficult for Harlowe to accept this, but he knew he must—Naniko had not taught him anything about her own heritage, and so she must not have known. If she knew something, she shared it with Harlowe.

He listened to the other man with open ears, an absorbent sponge—they had stopped moving and King was looking at him, so this was important. Bright jade-colored eyes peered at the other man and nodded slowly. “You're right. One shouldn't be consumed by interests,” the youth said philosophically, tilting his head to the side. He wasn't sure if he even knew himself—he knew what he liked to do, he knew a lot about books and what was in them, but could he really describe himself? Was that was King even meant? He would have to learn to write, and one day he would write about himself. That was the way to know himself, he was sure. They were off again, and Harlowe fell into step behind King, suddenly quiet with contemplation.

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