Impulsive Exchange

Glaiven · 09-11-2010, 05:33 PM

[html]

Here goes nothing. Big Grin

Yarrow for bleeding, hawthorn for nervousness, meadowsweet for headaches, feverfew for fever reduction, and valerian for sedations. That was Glaiven's list. And here she was, still trying to collect yarrow, becoming more and more frustrated each time she crushed the delicate white flowers. Sure, she had knowledge of medicinal herbs and had used many before, but she had always just bitten them right off the stem, bush, or tree, because they were for her. Why spend time removing them and gathering them if she was just going to use them then and there, right? Now she was not using them for herself, and faced the dilemma of gathering them WITHOUT crushing them to the point of uselessness. To say the least, it was frustrating. If only she had opposable thumbs, she thought wryly. For the time being, she gave up and sat dejectedly next to her pile of ruined and mangled flowers by the patch of yarrow.

Harlowe D'Angelo · 10-08-2010, 06:54 AM

[html]

http://i73.photobucket.com/albums/i235/ ... rlowe2.png); background-position: bottom center; background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-bottom:60px; font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:13px;">

I'm sorry. ;~~~~~~~~~~; Please forgive me! ♥ (441)

The afternoon's quietness was not lost on Harlowe, who had taken a break from his incessant reading to enjoy the afternoon. Almost as much as he enjoyed reading, the yearling also enjoyed his own thoughts. There was nothing better than losing oneself in imagination and dreams; the creamy-furred youth would often contemplate the stories he read, the ideas presented within them and the themes running beneath them. He did not often understand them immediately, for they were quite often foreign concepts entirely—honesty, altruism, and facets of other human culture he was doomed to misconstrue. And so he ruminated over these stories, thinking them over and twisting them until they satisfied his mind. Naturally, his conclusions and ideas were far-fetched and distant from the historical interpretations or even actual intent of the authors. Harlowe, however, was more than likely doomed to a life of undue self-certainty and confidence. Scholars of his caliber were difficult to come by, and the chance to debate the merits of literature with another canine were astronomically small.

In his walk, he was soon disturbed by a strange scent. He recognized it as the flowers that often grew about the lovely Dahlian territory, though there was an almost chemical strength to this smell—as if someone had purposefully steamrolled an entire field of them to crush the scent out. The youth was intrigued, and altered his course to the scent, finding a faint canine accompaniment to the flowery smell. It was female, and the youth found himself more intrigued. The days had been almost lonely lately, and Harlowe had, strangely enough, begun to desire companionship—not just any companionship, of course, but female companionship. His sexuality had been late-blossoming at best, and what had happened with Rio was hardly sexual in the youth's mind; such a thing had been a game or test, entirely separate from the realities of the world.

He did not know this woman, and upon seeing her, he was delighted—she was all pallid white fur, dejected seated beside a pile of crushed flowers. A romantic might have swooped in and offered some consolation or even a hello; awkward Harlowe remained staring from afar for a moment too long before he gained his composure, making his way toward the four-legged woman awkwardly in his two-legged form. He had not been four-legged more than he needed to hunt since he had gained the ability to shift. Bringing down prey in this werewolf form seemed entirely beyond him. “Hello. What happened to your flowers?” he asked, showing not an ounce of concern on his chocolate-masked face. Emotions were rare and fleeting in the jade-eyed boy.

Glaiven · 10-17-2010, 01:49 PM

[html]

Haha, it's fine. Sorry for my belated reply; I've been a little busy. I feel inexperienced in writing after reading your post. Smile

Crushed flowers, decimated herbs, and snapped twigs littered the ground, leaving a cloying scent that masked all others--so much so that Glaiven did not notice the slim male until he was quite close. Golden eyes met green in surprise, embarrassed at the way she appeared and perplexed by the lack of emotion in those greenish-yellow orbs. "Hello. What happened to your flowers?"he asked, startling her out of her conflicting feelings. Glaiven did not know this strangely detached youth, but she was always open to new relationships, new beginnings.

"I was trying to gather herbs for healing but, as you can see, the poor plants are pretty much useless by now..." She trailed off into silence for a moment, the pent-up sadness of being confined to this four-legged figure threatening to express itself in tears. Silently advising herself to pull herself together lest she be seen as a sensitive "maiden in distress", she continued. "I'm sorry to say that this is my only form, and it's quite useless for delicate jobs, like gathering plants. My name is Glaiven. What's your name?"

Harlowe D'Angelo · 10-19-2010, 07:59 AM

[html]

D'awww, thank you. <333 (332)

She reminded him of Mother. They were not very similar in facial structure, and Mother clearly showed her age over this woman, but the resemblance was there nonetheless, and it made Harlowe vaguely uncomfortable. He did miss his mother, and he did not understand why she had gone away. He was supposed to be an adult now, though—he was no longer a dependent little puppy. He had just passed his first birthday, in fact, and he was really an adult now. Harlowe's body was finally beginning to resemble that of an adult, losing the stringy, long-legged awkwardness of adolescence. He was growing into his height at long last, and it no longer appeared ridiculous on him.

Harlowe peered at her in interest as she mentioned healing by herbs; he knew nothing about this subject, and his search for books on the subject had been fruitless. Humans practiced some other kind of medicine, and he had determined it was mostly chemical, infused with some mechanical elements. They also heavily relied on surgery, something unheard of—as far as Harlowe knew, anyway—in the Luperci world. What she said next, however, caught his attention even more, and he lifted his brows in surprise, a fleeting display of emotion that faded as he spoke. “You're not a Luperci?” he asked. “That's unfortunate...” he said, trailing off and frowning.

After a moment of hesitation, he spoke again. “Harlowe D'Angelo,” he said, almost forgetting to introduce himself—so interesting was her plight, the nuances of manners had almost entirely escaped him. He would not be so easily sidetracked from the subject at hand, however, and he returned to the Luperci issue immediately after speaking his name, barely a pause left between the end of his surname and the first word of the next sentence. “Mother said you could become one if you wanted to. Why don't you become one?” he asked, failing to consider the possible brashness of the question, and how abrasive it might be.

Glaiven · 10-22-2010, 11:01 AM

[html]

Haha. I've always regretted putting Glaiven down as 14 months (It seems to be a bit old), but I never thought she would be compared to someone's mother. ^_^ 350+

He stood in front of her, listening intently. Glaiven analyzed the cream colored wolf as she spoke, and hoped that he wouldn't mind. It was startling how much their appearances were like, actually. His main coloring almost matched hers. His eyes, although a different color, were bright and expressive like hers. He had about the same body type as her, slim and willowy. His body structure, however, was an entirely different story. For her, soft curves that belied the muscle underneath, medium hips and slim shoulders, and a small stature were the rule. For him, sharp angles, narrow hips and shoulders, length, and height dominated his form. Alike but different in many ways.

All this Glaiven took in, but as to his interior and emotions she could only guess. Once she knew him better, she could add a full profile to the neatly kept library in her mind. Some people would most likely find her way of organizing her thoughts strange, but she didn't mind. She also didn't mind people thinking that her random questions were strange, because those very questions added to the contents of the books, the people, in said library. She read as much as she could, which was not enough. Traveling constantly usually came with a shortage of good books to read. Maybe now that she was settling down that would change.

The slight interest he had shown seemed to intensify when she mentioned the fact that she was confined to this one form. He introduced himself as Harlowe D'Angelo, and a thoughtful look crossed his features. She braced herself against the coming questions usually made by an acquaintance who tried to mask his or her intrigue, and did a rather poor job of it. She was almost ready for the nonchalant interrogation she expected. Instead, a blunt question came out of the young wolf's mouth. It echoed through her head, and Glaiven was surprised at the simplicity of it. Why didn't she become a Luperci? "Well, Harlowe D'Angelo, I suppose the reason I have not become a Luperci is that I have never tried. I've considered it before, but never put any of my thoughts into actions. What do you think I should do about it?"

Glaiven query was earnest and she knew, as she had been told before, that her face was an open book.

Harlowe D'Angelo · 10-26-2010, 07:07 AM

[html]

Word Count :: 316 Ha! Just for her appearance, though. ;> Naniko was a white wolf. And awesome post, I enjoyed reading it. :O Also, hmm, this is where Harlowe is stumped, so perhaps Saluce could jump in...?

Were Harlowe to have discovered this pallid woman to be a bookworm in the same fashion as he, he might have never stopped talking to her. He would have wanted to keep talking about books and authors and themes and plots and words, the human ideas and ideals that did not make sense to him. As it was, he already thought she was pretty. This conscious thought had yet to emerge, though, and it would probably be weeks before Harlowe realized the strange awkwardness in the bottom of his chest while speaking to her to mean some sort of feeling, and more weeks before he deciphered the exact meaning of that feeling. Emotions were like language to him—as much as he loved the written word, the patterns of speech and how they linked to words would often escape him, moments of intense anxiety and pressure in group settings that rendered him utterly mute. No wonder everyone probably thought he was slow back home.

“You may call me Harlowe, if you'd like,” he murmured, distracted by deep thought over her inquiry. He did not know anything other than that Mother said it was possible. How to give Glaiven her other forms, or unlock them, or whatever it was that happened, exactly, Harlowe had no idea. His jade green eyes turned back to the woman, and he slowly lifted his narrow shoulders in a shrug. “I'm not sure. Mother didn't give me any more information other than the possibility itself,” he said, seeming apologetic. This was certainly disappointment rather than apology, however; Harlowe did not generally realize he had committed a social error worth an apology, let alone offer one for something entirely beyond his control. Instead, his own lack of knowledge had disappointed him, and he did not like that he could not answer her question, nor did he like admitting he did not have the answer.

Login




Remember me Lost Password?