#moonpains

[romythorne]

WHO: @moonpains WHERE: hardware store.

Romy stood in the middle of aisle seven like it had personally betrayed her.

One hand was on her hip, the other was holding… something. Possibly a wrench. Possibly a medieval torture device. Hard to say, really — she’d grabbed it off the wall like she knew what she was doing, then immediately realized she absolutely did not. Her jeans were still faintly dusted with drywall, and there was a smear of something (possibly paint, possibly coffee) on the sleeve of her oversized hoodie. She looked very much like someone attempting to renovate a house with equal parts stubbornness and delusion.

“This was not in the brochure,” she muttered, squinting at the label on a pack of screws like it might reveal its secrets if she stared hard enough. “Why are there types of nails? I just need the kind that go in things.”

She turned and spotted movement out of the corner of her eye — someone else in the aisle, familiar enough that her shoulders dropped a fraction. August; thank God. “Hey,” Romy called out, lifting the questionable wrench like it was a greeting card. “Please tell me you know what this is. Or, failing that, can help me find something that’ll keep my living room ceiling from turning into a skylight.”

A pause, then a crooked grin.

“I brought a list. I lost the list. I had a list,” she clarified, with a vague gesture like the list had floated away on the wind, along with her last bit of patience. “So if you see anything that screams post-hurricane home triage, point me at it. Or just steer me away from the power saws. I’m operating on one cup of coffee and pure spite.”

She tucked the wrench under her arm like it was a fashion accessory and added, more honestly, “Could use the company, too. This place gives off ‘final destination: tetanus’ vibes.”

[huntedarte]

The wind is howling louder than a pack of wolves outside, but they've managed to pull some tarps and gather enough buckets to make the Alley mostly intact while the storm rages on outside. They've warmed themself by the fire already, shoes still off as they make their way through the pockets of wolves and other people who have taken shelter with them.

There's nothing that needs their immediate focus right now, and they let out a slow exhale as they look around. Arte feels like they need to do more, tries not to worry too much about other Eventide wolves who chose to stay at their own homes or seek safety at the stadium, and tries not to think about the ones who don't have a pack to call their own. Are they okay?

They find August tucked away in a small corner and there's a wave of relief that rolls through them. It's usually peaceful around him and Arte approaches quietly, hesitant in case he wants to be left alone. The weather has their nerves frayed, and they can imagine it's probably the same for him too. "N-need anything?" / @moonpains

[howlonwheels]

closed starter for @moonpains when/where: morning, anywhere

He ain't her pack. She owes him nothing. But still, Arleen can't help but feel a scratch of guilt in her chest like a flea -- last time she didn't help one of her fellow true wolves, she had to turn tail and leave Kansas all together. Doesn't help much that Eventide has a meek, unsteady alpha unable to keep their fellow beasts in check. It's a mixed pack, but Arleen will extend a courtesy just this once. Until a weaker-willed wolf goes off and makes an abomination -- but even true wolves could be made to heel.

She doesn't admittedly know much about this August, but she knows enough to say that a string of animal attacks all come back to one of their kind. And she knows it ain't Warwick running wild, nor bellies-up Harford. And it doesn't have the mutt stink of Cerberus on it. But Arleen knows enough to be careful because any cornered animal would bite back, no matter if they shared fur and fangs in the light of the moon.

"'Scuse me, are you August Choi?" She approaches without a badge. This isn't police business, not this time. This is wolf to wolf. "My name's Arleen Bailey. Warwick. I hope you don't mind me saying, but you look... tired. Everything alright there?"

[oz--saffet]

( @moonpains )

It's just not a good night. That's what Oz keeps telling himself, convinces himself, as he sits outside in the darkness. A bench, on the outskirts of town, and a cigarette. He can't sleep and the open air is better than the stifling inside of his place. Maybe there's too much on his mind. Maybe it's the phantom pains, the pins and needles in his legs and feet from walking himself around on his forearm crutches for the past hour. It could be many things that keep him restless.

Maybe it's the loss of control. Those old marks now faded, ripped apart by claws. Powers, gone. The things that used to keep him sleeping easy at night are gone, and now his brain jumps from subject to subject. Person to person.

He feels the presence of another, but it's dark. Just some kind of flash of light... like how a flashlight or street lamp might catch on someone's eyes. Oz says nothing, but shifts slightly on the bench as he hears something. Rustling. And the witch feels for his pocket, where a knife is usually stored.