( OPEN ) just a pinch of salt in the wound; you'll be fine

[gynvael]

Who: Geralt + Victims You
When: August // Aguril
Where: Various
What: Full moon feral shenanigans; events/quests later down the line
Warnings: Violence

[ prompts in comments. find me at discontinued for plotting. ]

OPEN: feral wolf | post full moon | basement bonanza curses

CLOSED: feral wolf: jaskier+yennefer | antler fruit: jaskier

Comments

C

[mensrea]

[ The twin moons, heavy and pregnant, light his path home as he returns from a late-night shift at the store. While Aefenglom at large is more than accustomed to the monstrosities sired by the waxed Sisters, this is one of the few times Stiles has been out in public during his full moon shift. Accordingly, discomfort encourages him to stick to the shadows as he walks slowly back to the Haven. For once, he doesn’t bother to utilize the enchanted tattoo inked along his spine to transmute the Arachne limbs smaller as he normally would. All eight stretch out to impressive length, tarsi clicking quietly across the ground and walls of buildings he passes, clinging to anything within grasp.

One of the bright red eyes centered on the back of his hand sights the silhouette of a wolf before the three pairs on his face do. There’s a moment, stupid with homesickness, where he thinks, Derek? It’s a vain hope; not only has Derek been gone from Aefenglom for months now, the former werewolf shifter was also a Witch here. And yet Stiles can’t help but allow curiosity to guide him on a detour to investigate. Instead of continuing onward to the cottage, he heads closer to the Bright Wall where he saw the animal’s shape slip between buildings – toward the Wilde. Chewing on his bottom lip nervously with a fang, he follows.

When he finally manages to catch up to the wolf, disappointment settles hard in his stomach at the white, not black, fur. ]

Well, shit, [ he muses aloud, voice carrying in the dead silence of the night. ] You’re not my guy, buddy.

[gynvael]

[ In the soft snow, the skittering of limbs is harder to hear. Caught up in his instincts, Geralt is too honed in on his newest trail -- what smells like a deer -- to notice that he's being trailed from afar. Not until Stiles catches up to him does he lift his head and pause.

There's a long moment where he simply looks, as if he's unsure of what he's facing. It has too many legs to be his usual meal. Definitely far too many fucking eyes. If he had his human senses, he'd realize what monster this was, but as it is, for a split second, the wolf thinks it's looking at more than one creature stacked together with that many limbs and red eyes blinking back in the moonlit darkness.

When Stiles speaks, his ears draw back. It's large and it looks like it might be encroaching on his territory. (He's been in these woods not very long, but a part of him has already claimed it as his.) He gives a warning growl and steps forward. His intent is clear: if the other creature doesn't back off, he's going to pounce. ]

[mensrea]

[ Even if he hadn’t spent the last few years around werewolves and werecoyotes, Stiles would recognize the warning signs for what they are. The Arachne limbs stiffen in response to the threat, tarsi claws scraping against each other menacingly, but the human part of his mind recognizes the potential for a pointless scuffle. The only area his inner Monster actively treats as his own territory is the cottage he shares with Jonas and, to some lesser degrees, the homes of his close friends. There’s no reason to rise to the fight here, so far from his loved ones.

And so, hands held out as if to calm the wolf, he slowly takes a step back. But the full moon makes him cockier and more confident than he normally is; Stiles doesn’t treat the encounter with the level of apprehension he should. It doesn’t help that his many eyes, with perfect lowlight vision, take note of the familiar medallion. ]

Geralt, [ he greets airily, an Arachne paw waving. ] You still in there, or has animal hindbrain kicked you to the curb, big guy?

[gynvael]

[ The sound of his name is enough to draw hesitation from him. He almost recognizes it. Almost. It also speaks of a familiarity he's rarely liked from anyone, especially from a face he's now deemed a stranger: he might've recognized Stiles if Geralt had been himself, but not with so much of his mind clouded.

When Stiles waves, combined with his boldness, it strikes him as enough of a threat to take action. He charges forward, feet surprisingly light on the snow given his size. Now that he's moving, it might be noticeable not all the blood is from his feast: there's more of it dripping into the snow from an open wound somewhere on him.

He's fast and single-minded, concentrated only on taking down what's in front of him and sinking his teeth into it. ]

[mensrea]

[ The metallic stench of blood isn’t just old from a previous kill – it’s fresh too, distracting Stiles long enough that he’s in the middle of asking if Geralt needs healing when the wolf charges. Instinct has him moving almost immediately after, Arachne limbs reaching for the nearby building façade to pull him up and out of reach, but it unfortunately leaves his human body completely defenseless. The Turnskin lunges at him, easily knocking down the too light teenager – who’s barely 120 lbs. soaking wet these days – and sinking teeth into the exposed forearm he raised to cover his face. Stiles grunts breathlessly, the air knocked from his lungs by the collision, and then stops trying to fight the way a human would. The Arachne limbs fold in on Geralt like the spokes of an umbrella being closed, clawed tarsi seizing tail and ears and fur and twisting. Stiles’ brief acquaintance with the hunter is the only thing preventing him from trying to instead gouge out golden eyes, a distant mantra of, full moon, it’s not his fault, it’s a full moon, not his fault playing in his mind. ]

[gynvael]

[ Once he tastes blood, it's near impossible to pull back. His jaws clamp down, grip vice-like and fully intent on either dragging Stiles with him into the woods or taking a piece of him off.

Then the legs fold around him, crushing. The small claws are stronger than they look, especially on his more delicate ears and tail. The sharp twist of both makes him release the arm in his mouth with a low snarl.

He thrashes, violent, trying to throw the creature off that's now wrapped itself around him. The movement aggravates the wound on him further, though it seems to only marginally slow him down. A clump of white fur comes off in the struggle, adding to the patches already missing where scars mark his body. ]

[mensrea]

[ Pain is something Stiles can handle far better than most people tend to give him credit for. Even as forceful jaws clamp down on his forearm, over old injuries inflicted by someone who is now a dear friend, he remains deathly silent but for the struggle of his many spindly spider legs. When the wolf releases him with a snarl, he exhales sharply in relief – the majority of his limbs release Geralt to fold in protectively over his human body while two remain to distract the Turnskin. Gingerly, Stiles begins to try crawling out from under the wolf, elbows and feet scrabbling for purchase on the ground. The Arachne limbs, fortunately, have incredible reach; the two still tormenting Geralt focus on yanking the tail, hoping to further aggravate the dog into leaving the teenage would-be chew toy alone. ]

[gynvael]

[ As soon as the legs loosen, he retreats back, sending a dusting of powdered snow into the air. He ducks out from under the other limbs as they snap at him, catching his ear in a sharp pinch.

With the boy wrapped in a cocoon of legs, the wolf seems to slow. Seems to consider if this is even something worth pursuing: large prey like deer look appetizing. This, a bit less so. Especially now that it's fighting back.

He's more cautious now as he lingers nearby. He's unwilling to turn his back on something that's attacked him, but he's also not about to get tangled back up in those legs for a bite of what looks like a hard, chitinous shell. Then his ears perk up, attention distracted by the scent of something else in the wind, something much closer to what his appetite desires. If Stiles makes a run for it, he'll likely let him go for fresher meat than chasing him down. ]

[mensrea]

[ But like a bat out of hell, the moment the trichobothria sense that Geralt has backed off far enough, Stiles is uncurling from his defensive ball of chitinous legs and leaping toward the nearest building wall. The Arachne limbs carry him well out of chomping distance, though the damage has already been done; a steady pool of blood gathers below in the slush of muddied snow. Stiles turns to look at the wolf silently, one hand grasping the injured one. ]

It’s alright, buddy, [ he lies, voice a little more hoarse now. ] S’not your fault. Happened to me too once.

[ And then, needing healing immediately, he takes off – traveling along the rooftops of buildings until he’s out of sight. ]