Saturday's sword does not usually do that, but she's also kind of used to it pulling powers of its ass when necessary. So her surprise at its behavior falls by the wayside quickly, replaced by an intense focus on not falling off. Hopefully grabbing someone's pelt and holding on for dear life isn't a violation of werewolf etiquette.

The world spins and tilts around Saturday in a way that has nothing to do with Stacia's gait. She really hopes she hasn't broken something important in her brain - she's been concussed before, according her pops, but she's never felt it, not like this. She was an adept, even all the years she didn't really know it. Her magic was always ready to fill in the gap, dulling pain, augmenting fogged senses and slowed reflexes.

But not this time. Saturday hurts, in a way she hasn't since her arm got shot off. Her stomach roils.

"Staz - 'm gonna puke - "