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man marks the earth with ruin
Who: Allison Argent, Stiles Stilinski, Malia Tate
Where: Their house
When: February 10th
What: A werecoyote without her anchor on the first full moon
Warnings: Lycanthropy and probable accidental violence from it
[Closed currently]
[ By the grace of a chink in the greater makeup of her amnesia lifting, Malia remembers how averse to full moons a werecoyote naturally, actually, is. Just that simple detail; it crashes into her mind while cruising down Main Street at a leisurely stroll. It's enough to send her gaze shooting up to the sky for the striking reminder that the man in the moon's gonna be on bright display that night. It's ominous, and she doesn't like it, sending a quiet snarl up at the offensive celestial body in question. How can it be a full moon when she doesn't even have her anchor?! Which, what is that even supposed to mean? A physical anchor? Was she supposed to hunt down a nautical item to carry around with her? Metaphors, they're not her strong suit.
Maybe it's placebo, or maybe it's because the hours have ticked by and night's falling fast, but she feels tugs within and around herself that she can tell amount, at least, to this aversion she has to the moon. Controlling her abilities hasn't come up yet. She's had control the couple of times she's lashed out at someone. There's only one place that she thinks to go. Home. Maybe the effects won't be so bad -- her mind may be playing tricks on her. God knows it's been through a hell of a lot (thanks, 'accident.') She moves quickly to the house she shares with two other people around her age. They've seemed okay -- nice. She's hoping they're still out so she can get a grip over what could happen. Not that there's going to be a sprinkling of more information as quickly as she wants.
She opens the front door, shutting it with a harder bang than she means to. Oops. Smooth. Ticktock: that moon's waxing high in the sky, and it's with the least graceful of strides that stumble, feet leading her to the kitchen, that her claws pop up, and she propels forward a short distance to grab hard onto the edge of a counter. They dig in enough to make for a solid grip, whoops, and she doesn't let go.
It's difficult to focus on anything than herself, so she hasn't reached out to listen for heartbeats but she can tell after a moment that there's someone there. Probably innocently trying to get something to eat or drink. Face tilting down, then up a smidge without making eye contact, her eyes flash blue with words gruffly passing form her lips. ] You gotta go. I can't tell if I'm gonna hurt you or not. [ If she wants to. There's a voice that's getting louder that tells her that she wants to. If this is what being a werecoyote means, then whoever made her one can damn well take it right back. Making matters worse, she still doesn't know what all might happen to herself from this ridiculous full moon. ]
Where: Their house
When: February 10th
What: A werecoyote without her anchor on the first full moon
Warnings: Lycanthropy and probable accidental violence from it
[Closed currently]
[ By the grace of a chink in the greater makeup of her amnesia lifting, Malia remembers how averse to full moons a werecoyote naturally, actually, is. Just that simple detail; it crashes into her mind while cruising down Main Street at a leisurely stroll. It's enough to send her gaze shooting up to the sky for the striking reminder that the man in the moon's gonna be on bright display that night. It's ominous, and she doesn't like it, sending a quiet snarl up at the offensive celestial body in question. How can it be a full moon when she doesn't even have her anchor?! Which, what is that even supposed to mean? A physical anchor? Was she supposed to hunt down a nautical item to carry around with her? Metaphors, they're not her strong suit.
Maybe it's placebo, or maybe it's because the hours have ticked by and night's falling fast, but she feels tugs within and around herself that she can tell amount, at least, to this aversion she has to the moon. Controlling her abilities hasn't come up yet. She's had control the couple of times she's lashed out at someone. There's only one place that she thinks to go. Home. Maybe the effects won't be so bad -- her mind may be playing tricks on her. God knows it's been through a hell of a lot (thanks, 'accident.') She moves quickly to the house she shares with two other people around her age. They've seemed okay -- nice. She's hoping they're still out so she can get a grip over what could happen. Not that there's going to be a sprinkling of more information as quickly as she wants.
She opens the front door, shutting it with a harder bang than she means to. Oops. Smooth. Ticktock: that moon's waxing high in the sky, and it's with the least graceful of strides that stumble, feet leading her to the kitchen, that her claws pop up, and she propels forward a short distance to grab hard onto the edge of a counter. They dig in enough to make for a solid grip, whoops, and she doesn't let go.
It's difficult to focus on anything than herself, so she hasn't reached out to listen for heartbeats but she can tell after a moment that there's someone there. Probably innocently trying to get something to eat or drink. Face tilting down, then up a smidge without making eye contact, her eyes flash blue with words gruffly passing form her lips. ] You gotta go. I can't tell if I'm gonna hurt you or not. [ If she wants to. There's a voice that's getting louder that tells her that she wants to. If this is what being a werecoyote means, then whoever made her one can damn well take it right back. Making matters worse, she still doesn't know what all might happen to herself from this ridiculous full moon. ]
no subject
1. Malia is a werewolf.
2. If she and Stiles don't run, they are both going to die.
But she can't leave Malia. Not like this. She looks at Stiles with barely contained horror, and then back to Malia, and clawing through the thick fog of memories is like trying to crawl through cement. There has to be something, something they can do. ]
Okay, Malia? I need you to just—
[ Just what, though? The answer is there, Allison can feel, but it won't come to the forefront of her brain, no matter how hard she tries. ]
no subject
What other option does she have?
She groans in answer to it, yes, being a full moon, as if the light from everyone's least favorite hunk of rock in the sky is literally cutting through her capacity for words.
They're not leaving, and confusion blasts onto her face as she looks over to Stiles. ] You know what this is? [ The shift, and with moments of remaining human grace (who knows how long that'll last), her gaze slides to Allison. ] Do you both know what I am? [ She can feel her face wanting to morph, lips sucking slightly in. She knows she can't stop it.
She also has absolutely no idea how the hell these two are going to help her when she doesn't even know how to help herself. ] What? What should I do? 'Cause I don't have any ideas.