and a season to sleep.

Harlowe D'Angelo · 03-27-2010, 06:04 AM

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Raven Beacon, all welcome. ((520))

Generally, Harlowe was a very quiet child. He preferred to spend his time indoors, wrapped up in books. At six months of age he was already reading at an advanced level, though he'd only recently learned to shift—prior to his first transformation, Harlowe had been working the books entirely with his mouth. Despite his reading abilities, there was definitely something wrong with him—thus far, he had refused to speak to anyone save his mother, father, and siblings. Harlowe was entirely quiet around anyone else, refusing to even address those he normally spoke with until his familial privacy had been regained. The young wolf knew he had a lot more family than just that, but even so, it didn't matter! He didn't know them, he wouldn't speak to them—it was that simple.

And it was not as if Harlowe hadn't tried to talk to people before. He had, he had tried very hard! But it simply was not to be; his tongue got all thick and twisted in his mouth, and the words simply would not come forth from his throat. Lately, he'd even stopped trying—what was the point of trying to talk to everybody else if they rarely said anything interesting? The tawny-furred male was especially bored with his siblings; all they seemed to be interested in was running about and playing and moving and making noise. They made it incredibly hard for Harlowe to concentrate; that was why he had taken his books with him almost to the edge of the Valley territory today, intending to curl up on the beach for a few hours and spend his time devouring Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. He was loving it; he had already worked his way through The Old Man and the Sea but he was enjoying this one even more.

The gangly Optime made his way across the beach, moving carefully. Though he had only just learned to shift, the addition of his opposable thumbs was miraculous. He no longer had to hold the books with his forepaws, carefully flipping each page with his teeth. He'd torn a number of pages that way, though thankfully he hadn't damaged any of the books beyond repair. Some of them just had a few toothmarks, that was all. But now—thumbs! He could actually hold his books. The lighthouse loomed up in front of him, a somewhat familiar sight—Naniko had, of course, shown Harlowe and his siblings all over Phoenix Valley. Still, Harlowe felt as if he was just learning the lay of the land—he was only just allowed to run around by himself, though he'd been forbidden to leave the packlands. He'd already broken that rule at least twice, venturing beyond the perimeter just to see what it was like.

The cream-furred youth leaned up against the off-white wall of the lighthouse, sliding down to a sitting position. The sun shone rather merrily, and there was little wind to whip his pages around—just the perfect day for reading. Harlowe quickly became absorbed in his novel, his olive-green eyes scanning each page with remarkable speed.

Cerridwyn · 03-28-2010, 06:06 AM

word count: 419

Finally. The snow was melting, the grass was sprouting, and the air was warming. Winter wasn't quite gone, and spring wasn't quite here yet, but it was close and Cerridwyn was so happy she could barely contain herself. She had awakened this morning to the first dandelion of the season right outside her little thicket, and her morning devotional had carried a joyful note. When the dandelion went to seed she would center a personal celebration of spring around it and keep the stem until summer solstice.

On this particular morning she knelt in the woods just at the line of the beach, where the sand barely began, head down and hands on the earth. She hummed to herself, a tuneless but lilting melody. There was no ritual here, simply an attuning with Danu and the tri-color's favorite season. She could feel the brimming power of the sleeping seeds within the ground, ready to explode in their quiet manner to turn the barren land into a lush, green carpet.

After a few more moments she stood gracefully, gripping her forked staff and facing the ocean. She hadn't been back out here since the day she'd washed up, and she figured that the first day that spring showed its face was a perfect time to have a walk along the shore, a place of which she'd been shy since she'd spent those days surrounded by saltwater. She took a deep breath and struck out.

She lost track of time as she wandered along the coastline, the lighthouse on a fork of land a vague goal but not one to which she was in any hurry to reach. She did eventually make it there, though, as Danu was just shy of her zenith in the sky, and that was when she noticed a cream-colored figure huddled against one of the walls of the structure. She approached him at a steady pace, positively radiating jubilation. She paused for a moment as she saw that he was preoccupied; he had one of those -- what were they? Books. He had a book in his lap, one of those things that told you stories without talking, she hadn't quite figured those out yet. Cerridwyn began her approach once more a little more timidly toward the adolescent, though her mood was still radiant. "'Ello, there," she said in a friendly tone. "D'ye mind if I join ye? Th' day's jus' too pretty to spend it alone." She gave him a winning smile, chocolate eyes dancing.

Harlowe D'Angelo · 03-29-2010, 04:34 AM

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OMFG WHAT IS WITH THIS SHMEE ALL UP IN MY THREADS GUH

The pages flew before Harlowe's face, and he was entirely sucked into the world painted by humans. He did not fully comprehend their society, but he was fascinated by it—in this novel, most of the characters seemed to resemble him. Their emotions were choked, buried way down inside of them to present a polite social face. This seemed strikingly similar to the way Harlowe interacted with the world; he did not truly enjoy its company, but society said he had to pretend to, and so he did. What would happen if he stopped pretending one day? This question struck him, and the young man stuck his thumb into his place, closing the book gently over his finger to contemplate this for a moment. What would happen if he stopped trying to fit in, stopped pretending he did? Even as young as he was, Harlowe was aware that there was something different about him—he had yet to identify it, of course, but he was already distinctly aware of the differences between himself and those around him.

A moment later the youth had dived back into his book, and his mind was lost in the world of his story again, transported away to the strange world in which these humans lived. He was confused by many of the references and some of the words were strange to him, but he was enjoying it nonetheless. The tawny-furred canine was completely oblivious to the approach of his unknown packmate, failing to detect her until she was practically on top of him. Hurriedly he shut the book, fidgeting nervously as she approached. The multi-hued woman was a stranger, though she had to be of the Valley pack on this particular coast—intruders wouldn't make it this far in. As she approached, she spoke, and the tawny-furred youth listened to her words. He understood her, of course—he had already mastered reading the language, so listening comprehension was not a problem.

His bright olive-colored eyes darted up to her face for a moment, his youthful face showing clear nervousness and agitation, and almost immediately he again averted his eyes, drawing them to the dirt in front of his paws. A slight, almost imperceptible shrug issued from his fawn-colored shoulders, and he continued to fidget with the closed book in his hands, running his fingers over its edges over and over again.

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