14345/The Lion and the Bluebird

The Lion and the Bluebird
Date of Scene:	07 March 2023
Location:	The Narrows - Miagani Island
Synopsis:	Harper's patrol in the Narrows goes awry when she's set upon by a pack of vampire... hunters. She finds herself outnumbered and outgunned, and even her would-be guardian angel Ariah finds herself quite hard-pressed.
Cast of Characters:	Harper Row, Ariah Olivie

---

Harper Row has posed:
    Bluebird is out and on the lookout for trouble again. And it's pretty soon after a rather big kerfuffle with a number of gangs up to no good and lots of property damage. The young punk on patrol still feels the bruises and aches from teaming up with allies. "Alright...a quiet night would be quite...alright." she sort of fails to palidrome or begin a successful lyrical career, but she's sure she's focused. There's always the chance of sweeping up a few remnants even though the cops had surely taken a billy-club broom to the lot.

    Harper tries to keep to the rooftops, but there comes a time when she has to descend to check out something suspicious, or a particularly bad alley with poor visibility even to her gadgets. With her climb boots engaged, she takes a breath, steels herself, and starts to drop down between two apartments. Her descent uses one wall, and then the opposite, the clever hooks in her footwear helping momentarily brace. Ain't good for hte masonry but then neither is crime or grime. "Hup...hup..." The bottom of the alley is close and her hands are free, no doubt another happy landing in store.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    For the most part? It is quiet. Maybe that gang war had left a lot of factions licking their wounds. Maybe a lot of resources were being shuffled around, flux happening. Whatever it is, the Narrows are... quiet. And not in a good way. Like the calm before the storm. Or the air of emptiness after an artillery barrage. That pregnant pause before a gunshot.

    ...

    KRAK!

    It's not a military grade piece of hardware, but it's enough. A hunting rifle sounds out after Harper's been on the ground for a few moments. The shot? Wide. Whomever fired it clearly not the most accomplished marksman. Just another jerk with a gun. They're a dime a dozen. Speaking of... "You suck at this!" grunts one of them while the gunman cycles the bolt. "Oh can it, Larry!" he growls. "She the one?!" he asks.

    Another man, clutching at his side as if he'd been jogging injured points his free hand towards Harper. "YEAH! That's the bitch who ran off with that freak! That was our payday and she took it! Scott died for nothing!" There *are* about a dozen, filling the alley. Guns. Clubs. Knives. The only one that seems to be unarmed is Larry, likely too injured to fight.

Harper Row has posed:
    Bluebird feels her hackles raise. That telltale sound of a firearm never fails to illict a reaction. She intinctively ducks, just in case, as if that would even help ~after~ the report. It doesn't take long to register the lack of cover, and after another few heartbeats that the odds aren't in her favour. Harper doesn't need to look up to remind herself that she chose a descent without easy access to fire escape or balconies. She'll congratulate herself later on her cool assessments later, because it's fight time now.

    She's not as cool and silent as some of her fellow birds and bats. She lifts her chin and offers a smirk, tossing her hair. "Spoiler alert...you ~all~ suck." Her grapple isn't far from the small of her back, but she's got to lay out the ranged foes first she figures. What is near to hand are the smoke bombs, and she reaches for and flings down a trio of smoke bombs just after she sucks in a breath.

    An rapidly expanding cloud of dense blue baby-shower-reveal powder and she's using the distraction to hopefully create a little confusion. She's not going to go for Larry, she's going to practice a bit of kick-boxing on a duo of armed jerks...for a start. "Suckin through a straw!" WHAP WHAP.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    It really is a ragtag bunch. Eleven men armed and dangerous, and then Larry. "Fucking bat!" shouts one as he tries to rush at Harper. Right into the wall of smoke. There's a flurry of coughs as the ones who tried to rush get caught in it. Perfect and easy pickings for one like Harper. She's a trained fighter and has no lack of useful toys, while these guys don't even have plate carriers or probably any real combat experience. Well. Ok. Maybe one or two do. But not the guys in front. The pre-requisite "OOF!" and "AGH!" come from the guys carrying pipes. It's like they got them at the local hardware store or something.

    They probably did.
    "Lousy costumed piece of--" growls one of the guys in the back, the very distinct sound of a shotgun racking a shell sounding out in the middle of the scuffle. Then BLAM! It's bright, intense, and hot. A Dragon's Breath shell lights up the alley, filling the smoky area with heat and flame as the shell's namesake comes out like a sudden snort of a dragon's fiery belch.

Harper Row has posed:
The satifying sounds and pressure against her heels and elbows lets her know she's in the zone. "Not tonight!" The adrenaline rushing through her, seeming to slow down time, the physicality of her body allowed to lash out, is part of why she does this. Not the most altruistic side of her, but at least she can focus it on someone deserving of it. "At least I won't ruin any looks tonight, right? Someone already beat me to it..." Harper ducks and rolls.

    Bluebird sweeps out her leg at the apex of her dodge to the side, taking the legs out under another. Hey, she's gonna get through this, no problem. A lot of knuckleheads but she's got superior tactics, training and toys. If she wasn't already needing a rest from the gang fight, she might even be trying to do this with more finesse. 'Oh yeah, I'm hot sh-'

    The sudden explosion of light and heat laughs at her bravado and sends her reeling up against the wall, her optics frizzing with snow and needing to recalibrate. Harper swipes at her mask for the filters to remove them completely, the hard siding taking some of the wind out of her sails as she staggers.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    The dragon's breath clears the smoke pretty handily, which is good for the guys. Not so much for the Bluebird. The two she had come at swinging are leaning against the wall on opposite sides of the alley, clutching at what are likely busted ribs on one and a broken nose on the other. A third is on his back from that leg sweep, but he's scrabbling for his knife with one hand and pulling a revolver out of the waistband of his pants with the other as he works to get up.

    "What was that, bat-bitch?" asks the one with the still-smoking shotgun. He works the pump, sending the orange plastic shell trailing a ribbon of grey to tumble to the concrete. Man, everyone in this town is a Bat-Something to these guys. Some of them... look a little more dangerous though, as the crowd approaches, now a little more thinned with the ones who were knocked down. More guns? Not so much, just the odd handful. But one guy has a handful of grenades clipped to a makeshift bandolier, a belt for pants across his chest. Another with what looks like shivs made out of tarnished silver. Home made stakes? Another has what looks to be a molotov cocktail sticking out of the pocket of his cargos.

    "Think you're hot shit?" spits another. The one who had been swept marches towards Harper and gets in close enough to try and pistol whip her upside the skull. Whatever the reason they're out tonight, though, their prey wasn't Harper--but they're going to take it out on her.

Harper Row has posed:
    Harper's smug grin has gone with the cleared smoke. "It's Bluebird...get your mammals straight." she grates and slides to the side to avoid getting her marbles rattled. When the pistol-whipping comes down, she helpfully pushes up to help yank the arm down and use her lifted knees as a focal point of pressure at the elbow joint. ~snap~

Harper lets him howl and dashes to the wall, engaging her hook-boots to give herself a bit of an anchor point to propel herself aggressively towards the upright and remaining gang of jerks. Still far too many. Way too many, and that one packing big time uh-ohs. Her progress takes her in close, hoping to berserker her way in amongst them and sow some fear or apprehension. She thinks she can guarantee herself one solid kick before she's amongst them and dangerously within swinging distance. If she can just get a few more out of the way, she can probably raise her odds of disengaging. Shame she didn't bring her rifle and just what her utility belt can carry.

    Just gotta close to the grenade launcher. That's their Ace. The Molly the wildcard if it gets used. Just gotta get in close. Holy fuck, she might just have leaped a bit too far...a couple are behind her...Harper turns and turns, trying to keep tabs as she lashes out, spinning, turning, dizzy...

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    "Bat! Bird! Whatever! Pigeons are just flying rats anyway!" shouts the guy with the shotgun over the sounds of the screams of one who now has a broken arm for his trouble. He's trying to get that knife in, lashing out but only catching brick. "FFFFFF--!" he grits his teeth and clenches them, gun dropped, forgotten. That's three of eleven out of the fight. But that still leaves eight. Eight armed, disgruntled, and aggressive criminals. But something's wrong. They're not dispersing or panicking. When Harper gets in close, they step back, moving more into a position to surround her rather than tripping over each other.

    Even as Harper lands a solid kick, the one that gets hit seems to stumble back as if he was already rolling with the hit. The guy with the grenades? It looks like a mixed bag. No pineapples or other fragmenting types, but sharp eyes will see that they're either flashbangs or white phosphorous. She's successful at keeping them from closing in to get any real traction in fighting her, but they play the cautious game, too. They're not opening fire so they won't hit each other, but some switch to pipes and bats to get some kind of reach. One or two still get a foot or a fist for their boldness and grunt with a mix of pain and agitation.

    Then there's that telltale sound of a spinning chain before one of them swings it, trying to catch Harper's legs.

Harper Row has posed:
    Harper would give them credit if she wasn't blaming herself so hard. That sense of biting off more than she can chew is right here, right now. Overconfident, thinking these jerks are the same chaff and category as a bunch of common hooligans. If she had thought about the way Ariah had gone about defending herself, maybe she would have been more wary. She tries to standing kick the same stumbling guy, but they've got her range sussed out. The failure to connect again helps convince her to change tactics.

    Those weapons wielded against her look like they'd hurt quite a bit, and the Bluebird grits her teeth, reaching behind her back for the grapple. Her hand is on the grip when the chain swipes her, quite well, and sends her footing from firm to none. A curse snaps off in the middle as she tumbles onto her back, hand momentarily trapped. All the aches and pains of the previous night nagging and annoyingly reminding her that tiger balm isn't a miracle cure. Shit...gotta activate the commlink.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    There's a series of gasps and laughs and maybe a cheer as the chain brings Harper down to the ground. "YES! QUICK, TIE HER DOWN!" shouts one. "No, wait! Bet you she's got more tricks up her sleeve!" shouts another. Then Larry staggers forward, grabbing the neck of the bottle poking out of the one guy's pocket. "Fuck that! I saw what happened!" he growls, pulling out his lighter. "That monster bit her! She's one of *THEM* now! She's so weak because she hasn't eaten, I bet! Light 'er up!"

    Clink. The flip lighter ignites. And then the gasoline-soaked rag hanging out of the bottle goes up next, filling the alley with the warm glow of fire and the scent of it too. "Suck on this, vampire freak!" he yells hoarsely and hurls the bottle at Harper. The group all spread out, not wanting to be caught in the literal firestorm that comes when the bottle shatters on the concrete. The wave of liquid and flame surges towards Harper with the momentum of the toss and the breaking glass, drowning out the momentary sound of anything else.

    Loud enough that the hunk of rock landing next to Harper's head isn't heard by anyone else. Had one of them added insult to injury and hurled a stone at her face, too, only to miss?

    Not likely.

    The moment the flames lick at the stone, there's a flash of blue-white and the resulting burst of light swallows up the flame before it can engulf the Bluebird. From above, a figure comes down hard into the alley, right in the middle of the blast and then stands up straight. It's a familiar figure, the short statured woman of dark skin and white hair. Mismatched eyes glow in the dark and those arms, bare, glow with the same blue-white but in runic letters under her skin.

    The expansion of light gets absorbed back into her, and those eyes, one purple and one silver, shine bright in the dark. Instead of a bloody white dress, she's in black leather pants and biker boots with a white buttondown, sleeves rolled up, staff in hand. "You were hunting for *me*, non?" she asks, voice cold and menacing. "...you found me, but can you handle me?" she snarls.

Harper Row has posed:
    The engagement enter a phase that Harper wouldn't have dreamed on her own. Being bound and at the mercy of these jerkoffs should have been one of the very worst outcomes. And she risks her neck and life quite a bit geared up as Bluebird. But accused of being one of the walking dead and lighting her on fire...takes the cake, new and absolutely terrifying. It manages to strike an icepick right in her hind brain and wriggle it around for effect.

    Harper can't deflect, can't dodge, the only thing she can do is try to mitigate. Time seems to slow again to her senses, over-oxygenated brain and hyped up on adrenaline. She's going to try and take the eventual liquid flaming explosion of certain death on her back, and shed the jacket. She's already mentally calculating the splash with be beyond uh-oh. She makes a sound in her throat that's frustration and fear that lopsidedly leaps down her spine like a Slinky on the stairs.

    The bright flash has no source Harper can pinpoint, but the flood of flame doesn't arrive to BBQ her either. She's opened mouthed, in shock, half-turned away, stricken by Ariah's arrival like an avenging angel. Glowing from different areas adds just more legit supernatural WTF and Harper is about as frozen in place as the shadows after a nuke is popped.

    "Ariah!" Harper takes in a deep breath. "Ariah?!" Oh right, there's a lot of bad guys around. Bluebird reaches down to haul at the chain around her legs to try and jerk that dissadvantage into her possession rather than anothers.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    "I have not yet repaid you," Ariah states, tiny tendrils of flame still licking at the ground where the energy siphon hadn't reached. There's a pile of ashen dust where the stone had landed now, its purpose served, its power and integrity fully expended. The small witch, though, is suffused with power. The same runes that are etched on her staff are visible beneath her skin, glowing a cold blue-white.

    Thankfully, the throwing of the cocktail had spread the assailants out some so they wouldn't get caught in the fire, but the odd eight plus one are still there and fighting fit. Even with both Harper and Ariah's strength, they're outnumbered. "On your feet, soldier," she hisses at Harper and takes a long breath. The heat. The heartbeats. The hints of blood. It surrounds them both. Just like the sound of a shotgun cocking again. "ABOUT TIME!" grunts the one carrying it.

    The same scene plays out as before in the smoke. The shotgun is leveled, the trigger is pulled, and the report is followed in an instant by a gout of white-hot flame in a broad cone. Ariah grits her teeth and grips her staff, channeling energy into it, through it, and a bright blue-white shell of energy forms in front of her, shielding both herself and harper. The dragon's breath washes over it, seemingly harmlessly, but the barrier flickers, the sound of glass cracking is faintly heard--followed by more gunshots.

    The barrier holds against the flame, but the bullet impacts create more cracks until it quite literally shatters. Shards of energy like broken glass rains down around Ariah, jagged edges coalescing and melting into a ball of energy that she hurls at the one with the shotgun. There's an intense bass thud as it exploded on contact, like the sudden absence of air and then an explosion that sends him tumbling--likely with broken ribs and a broken pelvis, given where it hit center mass.

    That probably explains what happened to poor Larry.

    But there's still seven, and they're shooting now, focused on Ariah. A revolver lays on the ground next to Harper, dropped by the one whose arm she broke.

Harper Row has posed:
    The sensory overload is amazing, and there's some that Harper's mask can help with in terms of the auditory and visual. Magic is strange though, and her tech can't shake hands with the phenomena and quantify it. Gremlins temporarily infest her sensory suite, pops and squeals and echoes. Maybe it's the concussion, but Harper swears she hears whispers or words from the future tickled back into the present. Things out of order in her orderly understanding of the univesre. The magic that Ariah wields, runic or sorcerous, Harper can't grok it but she's about to give thanks and praise and promise to attend midnight mass if so required.

    Bluebird responds to the command, and snaps out of her flailing. She drags the chain into her grip and wraps it about her forearm for future use in parrying. Street style it is then. She's almost back to back with Ariah, falling into a mode where she's got an ally rather than going at it alone. And when the barrier is about to drop, and her lack of a ranged solution presents itself, there's an opportunity right there. Not a brick or a nightstick...a gun. The reports of gunshots put urgency into the siuation. She can't lay it all on Ariah to haul or ass out of the fire literally and take all the potshots. Harper lurches for the revolver and hauls it up. She doesn't check the chamber, trusting in a few rounds left. She doesn't want to do this, but she doesn't want to die.

She plugs one of the thugs with shots center mass before turning her sights on the next and trying to squeeze off another two if possible. Her instinct is to disable usually. She dispenses with that luxury without much time to debate.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    The only thing special about the revolver is that it's chambered in .38 Special. If you've seen one, you've seen them all. Every detective movie made since the 1930's has had someone with a snub-nosed revolver in their pocket or in their coat. And lucky for Harper, it's got all six rounds in it. Perfect for those double-taps. As far as shots to center mass? Unarmored targets still have sternums, and sternums are there to protect the squishy bits. Right? Right. The two guys actually in armor are hanging back, and unfortunately carrying something more modern than a six-shooter.

    The shots from Harper, though, legitimately surprise the others. The ones who end up taking two bullets apiece stagger back, clutching at their chests with wide eyes. "W-what the hell?!" one seems absolutely horrified, not the least which by the fact that he's bleeding from two holes in his chest. The other slams his back into the alley wall, dropping his weapons. "...s-since when do Bats SHOOT people?!" It hasn't been hammered into their heads that Bluebird isn't exactly a Bat.

    And vampire or not, neither is Ariah. She's already got holes in her, the white of her shirt stained dark red. She surges forward, fangs bared as she snarls at the on with the silver stakes, one in each of his hands. The dance she has with him could almost be considered beautiful if it weren't so deadly. Her small stature gives her an edge, though, as she bobs and weaves under thrusts and swings of jagged, shining silver. When he manages to catch her cheek in a swipe, the wound sizzles, a hiss rising up from her. He earns a smash to the back of his knees with her staff for his trouble, his head hitting the pavement with a loud -CRUNCH-. He's knocked out cold but still breathing. Shallowly. Four plus Larry.

    One comes at Harper with a knife, trying to get under the gun and find purchase -somewhere- with the oversized bowie he'd brought, bringing a lot of his bodyweight to bear. The two others with guns and plate carriers start to backpedal. They had the numbers but now are faltering, and hard. They don't turn tail yet but their panic-firing isnt likely to do anything. Larry, though? He and the grenadier are panicking. "THROW 'EM! THROW 'EM ALL!" he's shouting, and the two of them are pulling flashbangs and incendiaries off of the makeshift bandolier.

    Fucking Larry.

Harper Row has posed:
    Harper can only catch snatches of Ariah's excellence, but what she can get a gander of is wholey unholy and impressive. Magic makes her hackles raise. Things that defy good old physics. The action of a revolver is dependable, something she can trust her own aptitude in. It's just like range practice, except it's not. There's something...abrasive and wrong...about the damage she does to the two thugs threatening her. She's been too ingrained with what to expect with causing breaking bones, bloodying noses and dislocating thing. She's not squeamish. But when she causes bullet trauma to those two targets, what one of thugs exclaim could just as easily come out of her lips if she'd seen herself in a mirror. It's that kind of awkward reality check that lets the guy with the bowie knife comes in and tag her.

The slash she can take part of on her forearm wrapped in chains, but it carves downwards with enough of that huge force to find that part of her thigh that's not as well protected and open her her up. Bluebird screams, feeling the white-hot pain bloom and she jams the revolver up into the attacker's armpit and empties the last of her rounds in knee-jerk reaction while flashbangs are being deployed. Pop pop. Pow pow. Ow.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
        "Keep trying..." snarls the man that manages to tear into Harper's thigh--before he gets two bullets in under his shoulder for his trouble. Then his eyes go wide and Harper can see why. The last few inches of a sword are sticking out of his gut, torn through flesh and clothes, below the shield of his ribs. The straight saber with runes carved in it is stained red--and plunged into him far enough to the side to not get caught on his spine when Ariah yanks the sword to the side.

    The life leaves the man's eyes, facial expression filled with anger and regret as he lets go of everything but his midsection to keep his insides from ending up outside.

    The tiny witch, however, fares about just as well. She'd turned her back on the remaining four, taking several bullets in her own back in the process. It also shields her and Harper from the explosions of light from the flashbangs, but as the slashed hunter hits the ground, Harper can see the wide-eyed look on Ariah. Her ears are bleeding, the loud explosions of light and sound doing internal damage to her sharp hearing. The flashbangs, though, aren't the problem.

    The other two grenades pop, an explosion of pure white and flame that washes over Ariah's back. She grits her teeth and clenches her eyes shut as the flames burn through cloth and flesh. "End.... them..." she growls at Harper before whirling around and leaping like a screaming comet at the grenadier, sword in one hand, the other half of her staff in the other. She's leaving a trail of fire and ash in her wake, howling like a banshee in complete and utter agony.

Harper Row has posed:
    Harper's shock at the appearance of the sword...there's not time for this. The heat of battle is gathering her up, with each near miss and the threats piling atop one another. The stink of blood and guts being shown the light of day, gunpowder and mystical byproducts, swirling around. She shouts into the face of the man dying at her feet, full of lead and one less length of magic sword. It doesn't make her feel good, it just voices the defeat and losing control of the engagement.

    When Ariah's voice once again comes in and declares something be done, Harper latches on. The constant in this fight is the small fanged sorceress. These may be her enemies, and somehow, that gives dibs on how to dispatch. Harper clasps the big curved bowie knife. This is the reasoning that manages to bubble to the surface of her mind amid the chaos.

Harper joins Ariah in rushing the remainders. The revolver is spent, and she hurls it makeshift style to bash one of them in the head or at least disrupt their aim long enough for her to be in among them. She simply cannot let them do more. They'll kill the both of them. End them or give them an opportunity to see their goals through. Harper's brain turns portions of itself off for damnation and review later. If she can manage it, the knife it there to deflect. To put them down is the goal now.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    WHACK! Larry gets a pistol upside the head before he can pull any more grenade pins. He falls over backwards, stumbling towards the mouth of the alley and collapsing on a rain barrel that spills over and fills the alley with a sudden wave of water. Perhaps a blessing in disguise for the vampiress who is currently being devoured by flame--and being consumed by rage. She ignores the two gunmen and goes straight for the grenadier. The sword is thrust clear up through his chest, the end of the blade sticking out of the other side, naked in the night air.

    But Ariah's momentum carries them both to the ground, where she buries her face in his neck and bites. It's not the careful, near-sensual bite when she fed on Harper. It's a feral, vicious bite. The kind you'd expect from a cornered lion. She takes two massive gulps while the man sputters and gurgles, water rushing around his head and blood bubbling out of his mouth. Then the witch wrenches away, ripping out his throat and sitting up, fingers tense and curled from the pain and damage she's still suffering through. Blood soaks her lips and chin and runs down her front, covering her shirt in crimson before she just... falls back into the water before it drains away, dousing the flames that had half melted her entire back half.

    Harper's chosen target is stuck in melee with her, dropping his useless gun and bringing up a police baton. GCPD officer? Not likely, the baton is worn and wrapped in barbed wire. He tries to dodge and feint, having to contend with not just the chain-wrapped arm, but his fallen friend's knife. The armor he's wearing, though, keeps his torso from being a risk area. And the baton has reach. Does he have the agility of Harper, though? Not in the slightest, and it's not as if the plate carrier he's wearing is fitting properly, or particularly flexible. His sides and his limbs are more than vulnerable enough to a skilled fighter with a wicked knife.

    The last guy? He's running. Downed friends, dead friends, and he'd seen that Harper is no average 'bat'. "SHE'S A FUCKING MONSTER!" he's screaming, having been staring, wide-eyed, at what Ariah had done.

Harper Row has posed:
    Harper uses her chain-wrapped arm to fend off the baton, trusting in the chain links and her own vambraces to handle strikes of that limb. She comes in snarling after a feint to the side. No fangs amongst those pearly whites, but she's feeling like she could take a piece out of her foe. Harper can hear the horror nearby of the death gurgles and things rending which indicate gross trauma.

    The bowie-knife is reversed and after an unsuccesful swipe up the front of the protectve plates, she makes her target stagger enough that she can get them to raise their arms to try and fend off her next strike. The curved blade, awkward for Harper, but a knife is a knife, drags across the inside elbow of both limbs. She opens arteries enough that the front of her blue uniform is doused in spurts of red. The flailing backwards doesn't dissuade her from following up with knee to the groin and a two-handed stab into their less protected side. "Fuck you!" Harper grabs a fistful of hair and wrenches her adversary off balance, a leg hooked behind theirs and they're sent sprawling to the ground bleeding profusely.

    Twin messy sprays have Harper's torso up to her neck and face scrawled with dripping blood as she turns, breathing heavily, to gaze upon Ariah's situation. It looks like she's been through an abbatoir. Glistening with running water and blood, Harper's dash over to her side is arrested by the sight. Some very strong self preservation signals practically strangle her, making her throat constrict. Ariah does not look angelic at all, unless one counts a fallen one. Harper actually takes a step backwards, the knife in her hand clatters to the ground.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    A litany of expletives follows the remaining man out of the alley and down the street as fast as his legs can carry him. He can be heard stumbling and knocking over trash cans in case he's being pursued, until no more sound can be heard in that direction. While he flees, the remaining man continues to stand and fight. His swings become more desperate, trying to hit Harper hard anywhere he can, filling the alley with the sound of baton hitting metal chain.

    That is, until he's hit in the chest and stumbles, surprised at the strength of the smaller woman. He tries to bring the baton up to parry but he's not fast enough, not enough to guard from the driven Bluebird. He drops the baton, reflexively hugging his arms tight to his chest to staunch the bleeding and dull the pain. All this does is render him more vulnerable, crying out as his unprotected crotch is smashed in and the knife is jammed into his side. He coughs and gurgles, choking on spittle and his own tongue as well as some blood. He hits the ground heavily, trying to curl up tight and keep from bleeding out but he's soon in shock and at death's door.

    Ariah... is unmoving. Her autonomous systems for 'blending in' have shut down, so focused on conserving energy she is. Her eyes are shut tight, and even as she's laying on her back, Harper can see how absolutely charred her flesh is. It's as if she had been standing on the thin line of light and darkness, her entire back half a mix of charcoal black and angry red through cracks in the burned skin. It's crept around her curves, too. Over her shoulders, along the base of her neck. Her sides. Hips. Legs. As if she'd taken a little back float in liquid fire.

    She doesn't look like an angel at all. She looks like a mess. Soaked in blood, lips dry and parted despite the crimson on them and the water washing away ribbons of red and black to the nearest drain. There's a loud cough from her, a glob of soot, spit, and blood that she chokes out, one arm curling slowly to clutch at her chest. Her lungs must be burning from inhaling that heat.

Harper Row has posed:
    Harper stares at the hellish aftermath. Ariah looks like she's been hit with a molotov. Or maybe more apt is one that would be even more anathema to her kind. Her fear of her in this state is overpowered by a need to help her. Angry at her earlier hesitation, she vaults dead and dying and comes to a skidding halt next to the short vampire. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry!"

    Harper's hands pat about Ariah's body, not quite touching, searching for an area that can be touched, for wounds to staunch, like she was a girl that needed first aid. It's all so frustrating! Another scream from the Bluebird and she gets in Ariah's face as she pulls off her jacket. "What can I do? What do you need me to do?" she blurts and babbles. There's so much blood. This isn't the same as their first encounter at all. "Tell me how to help you!"

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    For better or worse, Ariah's front is ok to touch. Her arms managed to avoid the brunt of the damage as well, by virtue not being held out behind her. Her clothing, though, seems to be partially fused to her, melted to flesh where it had been burnt through at such high temperatures. "S-shh..." she hisses as Harper panics. Her eyes clench tight before opening, the mismatched pair faded and bloodshot. "Safe..." she manages, "...somewhere.. safe.. Burns. Burns take time... time to heal.. even with... blood..." her voice is so soft, ice cold, but outside of the tension in her muscles, she's not outwardly showing signs of pain. No, that was earlier when she was on fire and howling in agony.

    "...good hunters... bring fire... blessed silver..." she mutters with contempt. The slice on her cheek is still weeping fresh blood, showcasing the effectiveness of even the graze of that cursed (from her perspective) blade. She shakes her head slowly, very slightly given the state of the back of her neck. "..smell blood.. you are hurt, ma chere.." she sighs out. "...apologies... not.. fast enough.. me they want, not you."

    There's a certain stage where even someone with an iron will slips to delirium, being lit on fire seems to do that to people--espcially when fire is super effective. "..can't stay here."

Harper Row has posed:
    Harper sets her jaw and listens carefully. It's hard with the blood pounding in her ears, but she tries to filter out all the extraneous stuff. The sight of these types of injuries is gruesome. It lends well with the carnage here aesthetically but rocks Bluebird to her core.

    "You save my life. I should have fought better, fought smarter. Concentrate on staying...a-...Concentrate on, just hang in there I mean. I'll get you out of here." Bluebird sees how it could be done, and she knows where she can take her at least temporarily. She turns her back to the girl and backs up. "Throw your arms over me. I'll carry you. I got you." she urges Ariah to hang onto her like a backpack. "Just lean on me and I'll do the rest."

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    "....they will.." Ariah mumbles. "...they will... hurt anyone... everyone... just to.. to.. get to.. me.. my Lady... n-now you... you... are tainted.. because.. of me.." she reaches up, hand shaky, practically painting Harper's cheek with blood as she tries to touch her face. Then she closes her eyes, listening to the other woman. Harper's instructions. The promise of safety. Somewhere. If only for now.

    There's the sound of metal scraping, the witch taking her sword and staff, locking them back together. She'll have to clean them later. Clean herself. The staff helps her to move, she digs the end of it into the ground and pulls herself towards Harper. A half-roll to the side and she hisses loudly, black flakes of once-skin falling away from her back, leaving angry red flesh instead that rolls and ripples as her muscles tense and relax.

    Then, somehow, with a surge of strength, she manages to get her arms over Harper's shoulders. The staff is placed into her hands, entrusted to her, so she can hold on better. Easier. And the witch? So small. Not surprisingly, she's fairly light. Dense musculature aside, of course. "...merci... ma chere."