; God, this place is filled with creeps. Perhaps it had been a bad move on Harte's part to make Romance River the first place he visited here in Blossom. It kind of tainted his expectations of the land and the wolves within it. But maybe he shouldn't have expected too much. The way some lupines spoke of this place made it seem as if it were paradise itself, some sort of oasis which embodied perfection. And seeing how some of his fellow wolves here act made him think it was overrated to come here. Clearly, there's nothing that it has to offer to him, and he isn't sure if he'd like to stay. But then, maybe he's looking too much into a single encounter, judging its inhabitants too harshly. After all, he's only been here for a few days, right? And he hasn't really been anywhere except the river, a place which he believes he will not be going back to again anytime soon. Harte hadn't even meant to go there... it just happened to be the first place on the figurative map. The sight itself had been beautiful -- the long body of water twined downwards, its liquid pure and fresh and a strange, shimmering color that was almost turquoise in its brightness. It'd been the occupants, though, that ruined it.

; He'd just been laying there, alone, minding his own business when suddenly some random girl just came up to him. It's called Romance River after all so it didn't surprise him all that much. The younger teenager who'd called herself Snowtail or Squirreltail or something of the likes was too giggly, the type of wolf who was pretty but only had the barest amount of substance between her ears. Her actions made Harte think she didn't understand the concept of personal space, because just seventy seconds after they'd met (yes, Harte was counting) she called him cute and she freaking licked him! Licking was something a friend or acquaintance or lover or relative did, not a complete stranger. So Harte had made some sort of excuse -- polite, of course -- and turned tail to flee. The Fates have mercy if she turned up again.

; He doesn't really know where he's going, really. The large mahogany boy is trotting briskly through the thick cluster of trees, inhaling the sharp, refreshing scent of forest. Dew clings lightly to the edges of the leaves and mist hangs like hazy silver on the air, thick and cold. Harte inhales deeply as he moves, his tail swinging jovially behind his haunches. Muscles rolling, he breaks through the forest which he'd previously thought would extend the entire land. Apparently not. Soft, lemony light spills onto him and heats his skin despite the chill in the air, and Harte shivers gently at the contrasting feeling, slowing his pace a little. What's in front of him is a dauntingly large, towering structure which looms inexplicably tall ahead of him, so far up that he can't see the top no matter how far he tilts his head back. There are several ledges upon it and many crevices and paths scraped out. Plus, it smells of wolf so it must be another destination. With a slight smile, Harte angles his fierce amber eyes to a spot on the base close to him, padding to it and staring for a moment before placing a large paw onto the ledge there, hoisting himself up.

; The climb is just as difficult as it looks. He levers himself onto a second rock, one with a flat platform with starry cracks over its surface. Harte is so large he barely fits on this one, but he jumps to reach the second jutting crag and this one is much larger and much more suitable. The teen's muscles roll and burn with exertion as he continues, sometimes having to step onto smaller ledges, using deep cracks as pawholds and then scrambling to push himself onto another boulder. A few stray pebbles tumble in his wake but Harte's so focused he doesn't notice. By the time he stops, the dark male is panting gently, his sides heaving slightly and ears slicked back against his head. He should probably stop now. The scenery is beautiful -- he sees a frosted, gray mountain across from here and there's a river feeding itself from its melting snow. And then across the sky, a great myriad of color arches, a rainbow vast and large. Harte sits, wraps his tail around himself, and watches.

; A loud voice, high pitched with lack of age breaks him from his reverie and he turns his amber gaze on the small, tawny gray and brown pup with a charismatic smile tugging at his lips. She looks to be the rambuctious type and it becomes evident when she skids past him, causing amusement to light in his eyes. "Hey," Harte replies. His voice, too, is only very nearly the husky deep tone he will retain in adulthood. A teen's rasp is still there. "I'm Harte. Who are you?"