"Tiny little dog..” Stiles mumbled while scratching through Prada’s fur and messing it up until he looked like he had rolled around in uncut grass for ten minutes. He had never really liked little dogs - this little dog in particular - but now that he was drunk off his butt it actually seemed pretty cute. And loveable. There had to be something about it, or else Lydia wouldn’t hold on to him like he was the most precious thing on the planet. “I can do it,” Stiles announced when Lydia warned him to be gentle with the dog.
Stiles looked around to see what Lydia meant with over there, but didn’t find anything that looked familiar to him. “No?” he therefore said, turning back to her and pulling a face. “Hmm, yes. Good idea.” With that he turned on the spot, staggered, and sat down on the grass right next to the sidewalk. Looking up at Lydia he blinked a few times and held up his hand, as if to pull her down.
Raising her eyebrows at the drunken mess that was her friend, her eyes lowered to Prada in her arms, surprised to find that the little dog had closed it’s eyes in appreciation of the attention he was getting. Strange how usually Stiles seemed as though he could barely stand to be near him, and now? Well, he was showing the dog more attention than he had ever shown Lydia… —— okay now that was a slight lie, but still, it almost seemed that way. “I know you can do it just…—— forget it. He’s obviously enjoying it.”
Closing her eyes for a moment as Stiles to look behind him, she rolled her eyes to the sky before turning her attention back to her friend. Holding Prada up a little, she almost reached out to steady the drunken brunette before she moved forward herself. Reaching out, she took Stiles’ hand gently before lowering it in an attempt to show that she was okay, she didn’t need the help. Sitting herself beside him, she placed Prada on the other side, allowing the dog to settle down beside her comfortably. “Want to tell me what’s going on? Why you’re here by yourself? And I know; coping, but… —— details?”
“——- maybe something like that actually does exist.
A manual, I mean. If there are books like the bestiary,
why not banshee handbooks? You can’t be the only
one having problems with her powers - and I did find
some good stuff on werewolves when Scott first got bitten.
Why Allison’s name, though? What does she have
to do with this list? Unless.. whoever is paying those
assassins is her sadistic psycho grandfather, who
never actually showed up as corpse.”
"So you think some banshee out there made some
manual for new banshees like me so we know how
to control everything? What’s next? A banshee school?
I want to believe that, Stiles, I do… —— but the more I
think about it, the more I’m starting to believe that I might
be alone in this town.
Gerard? He’s in some home right now. Allison told me
about it before. They paid him a visit when the Alpha
pack were in Beacon Hills. It wouldn’t surprise me if it
was him, but at the same time… I’m keeping my mind
open for other options. There has to be someone else…”
Alternate Universe (?) in which Allison Argent gets a real funeral
*laughs and cries hysterically*
no but seriously
“I’m such a dickwad, why do you even like me?”
”Sometimes I don’t even know….
—— maybe you should just kiss me, I might
find a reason then.”
“Honestly?! No! I’m 17! I’m just starting my career,
I don’t want a fucking kid, Lydia! And you shouldn’t either!”
”Well then fine. We’ve got our answer. Haven’t we?”
True Irish Ghost Stories - Banshees
The Banshee’s method of foretelling death in olden times differed from that adopted by her at the present day: now she wails and wrings her hands, as a general rule, but in the old Irish tales she is to be found washing human heads and limbs, or bloodstained clothes, till the water is all dyed with human blood—this would take place before a battle. So it would seem that in the course of centuries her attributes and characteristics have changed somewhat.
Very different descriptions are given of her personal appearance. Sometimes she is young and beautiful, sometimes old and of a fearsome appearance. One writer describes her as “a tall, thin woman with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white cloak, or a sheet thrown hastily around her, uttering piercing cries.” Another person, a coachman, saw her one evening sitting on a stile in the yard; she seemed to be a very small woman, with blue eyes, long light hair, and wearing a red cloak. x