Swiftcurrent Creek LET HER GO, BOYS | join

The invasion into his personal space was not something to have been (insert snicker here) expected. His brows leaped upwards as she drew near -- a saccharine, and rather unusual sensation trembled inwardly. This was more psychological, rather than a wholesome, and physical shake. It was the literal collaring of the boy wonder, and he found himself enjoying this new found calling. She spoke, as she had -- coiling as snakes do, each shift of scale against scale offering a new whisper of insight. Family -- what everyone sought in some capacity or another. It was different, hearing these words come from the blessed lips of a viper. But he accepted it; it had been what he'd wanted in so many words.

His thoughts, however, lingered on her own prediction. His brows would knit together, and fought a smile. He'd never been one to guess what the future held, but her assumption was probably sound in thought. There would come a day where discontentment (and expectation) would find him, and throw him off his pedestal. He'd cared little to dwell on this train of thought, and abandoned his estimates for the time to come. Instead, he'd turn his face to hers, and once more present a reply. This one, perhaps the most important of all: "Hawthorne L'amour," There came a small pause, one added for dramatics.

Well, he was a wolf who lived in his head: and it was quite certain, as he corrected himself he thought of all that he'd left behind. "But, I prefer being called, Thorne." Just Thorne. It was something of a family tradition: children given names much to long, only to be shortened by whim.