roartonrisen | dated june 7th

Somehow, Kieren's lost track of time again. He'd been at one of the little art studios that offered lessons, curled up in the corner to work on his paint techniques. It's dark by the time he gets out, tucking his supplies under his arm as he digs out his phone to send Sirius a text to let him know where he is, apologising for letting the time slip away from him. The moon is bright above him, guiding his way through the dark streets.

He's got a bit of a hike to get home, but if he cuts through a few of the alleys, he can reach the bus stop and get the last bus before they stop running for the evening. He's still texting, grinning as he lets Sirius know that he's more than willing to make up for being late when a sound cuts him off. He doesn't drop his phone, but clutches it tighter. In the middle of a dark alley, Kieren starts to second-guess the brilliance of this plan.

"Hello?" he calls out warily, holding onto his bag a little tighter, both to protect it and to make himself feel a bit smaller. Fear pounds through him, seeing as now if something happens to him, he doesn't have his undead status to help him through the worst of it. "Hello, is someone there?"

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Lyall's ears flicker at the soft, nervous voice; some part of him exhorts the rest that it must be rational, must not do harm, and it sends a thread of uncertainty through him. The wolf sweeps a suspicious tail from side to side, not fully relaxing from his defensive position. He can understand the words, but it's as though listening to them through a well, filtered through the animal and human parts of himself.

The small, foxy wolf is cunning, despite not sharing the bulk of his Alpha; he's a sharp, good, fighter, and it's well that the man hasn't tried to fight back. Confronted with a presence both afraid and unwilling to run, Lyall stands a little taller, watching carefully.

Kieren's breathing turns sharper when the animal in front of him seems to loom a little, making him wonder if he's encountering an actual animal or if this is something stranger. He's ready to back up, but when he does, his foot clatters against a trash bin and it sends an awful, loud, abrasive noise that has him flinching, panic swarming him all of a sudden in waves he barely remembers.

It's that overwhelming feeling, too many emotions, and he just needs them to stop, because it's too much, and he's still clumsily trying to haul himself back to his feet and stumble backwards, wary of what the noise will do to the animal.

The noise startles the wolf, sending alarm and defense through him; he is without a pack, and that makes all his choices more erratic, less defined. Intense, full moon hunger breeds that fear into fight, and the terror of the strange human before him fuels all these feelings into a slurry of instinct that overrides any remaining human impulse.

He jumps, snarling, at the clatter of the trash bin, then directs his furor at what must be the poor attempt of defense of the animal in this territory. The growl of a werewolf is not that of an ordinary dog or wolf, something beyond nature; beyond time. Ears back, showing his teeth, he slowly advances toward this stumbling, panicked prey.

Kieren feels himself scrambling to get back, his shirt torn from a rip from the garbage cans, old rainwater staining the bottoms of his jeans, and he scrambles backwards. "Please," he gets out, trying to reason with the animal. It's not a normal wolf, he doesn't think. It looks a bit like something out of a horror story or a book, a fairy tale, maybe? "I'm not going to hurt you," he says, slowly and carefully as he holds up his hand.

He can't use the tricks he had at home, citing that he's just one of them, like the other PDS, but he has to at least try and get himself out of this by being calm. "I'm Kieren, I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to go home."

Lyall knows he's not going to be hurt by this panicked human, now; and he smells compellingly like meat. In the midst of having had all his bones broken and reformed, meat is what the werewolf needs, to rage and prowl and hunt. All instinct, the wolf slinks forward in a hunting stance, watching carefully, ready to cut off an attempt to run or to hurt him.

But the human tries to allay its fear, talking to him, and as he draws nearer, the terribly inconvenient remaining human part of his mind cries out to stop!. As Lyall -- and his human thoughts -- gain at least some measure of control, he pauses, hesitating. He cannot -- cannot -- simply kill and eat as he feels so inclined to; he will not let himself. The wolf hangs back, reluctantly, watching the human.

Kieren's eyes flash over him in a panic, managing to get to his feet and stumble into the nearest wall, scratching himself a touch against some of the scrap that he finds. Still, it's just enough of a delay in order to give him the chance in order to get him to the mouth of the alley. "I'm sorry," he babbles in a panic, trying not to make this any worse.

"I don't, I don't want to hurt you at all," he says, not wanting to leave in case the animal needs help. "Do you need my help?"

What Lyall needs, more than any else, is to be at home, where he'd have expected this. Have been properly prepared, properly caged and attended to by a claviger and able to weather the change with at least some dignity. Barring that, he needs to be at the farmhouse.

But in this state, he cannot explain nor even fully understand this; he whines, ears flickering. He is confused and hungry and utterly lonely. He wants Biffy. He wants pack.

This man he does not want to kill does not run despite his fear, but he isn't challenging. The wolf Lyall sweeps his tail from side to side slowly, eyes wary. This is not an enemy and he cannot bring himself to call him food. But nothing here is friend, quite.

He edges sideways, toward the opening of the alley. He doesn't want to hurt the man either. He simply wants to leave.

Kieren glances at the way the animal is looking, frowning as he tries to interpret it, but he's also noticed some of the way its acting. He doesn't do anything stupid like reach out and pet the animal, but he slowly inches back towards a bit of a dumpster that he wants to protect him, trying not to get too frantic in his movements.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promises, gesturing to where the animal is looking, heart pounding wildly. "You can, you can go," he manages, breathing in sharply.

dated june 7th

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