3794/Lost After Midnight

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Lost After Midnight
Date of Scene: 13 October 2020
Location: Alleyways: Brooklyn
Synopsis: Daimon and Ariah meet during an attempted shakedown. A handful of mutants find themselves outmatched. It is a show of infernal and arcane, blood consumed. Another late night in New York City.
Cast of Characters: Ariah Olivie, Daimon Hellstrom




Ariah Olivie has posed:
    The back alleys of New York City are a maze and a life unto their own. Though not quite the dank, dark spaces of the endless underground sewers and abandoned rails, they still span a wide swath, crossing districts and mixing territories. It's a cool, cloudless night, but the new moon offers no pale glow to see by. Weaving through these alleys, a girl, or young woman, finds herself crossing between Manhattan and Bushwick, back and forth, her destination unsure. Every now and then she'll pause, lifting a smartphone, pursing her lips at it, and then staring at the stars.

    She's not exactly clad for walking in the dark, looking more like she'd come from a club or a party, the depths of night crossing into the next AM by now and her dressed in a corset top and skirt, arms bared. Faces peer out of the shadows as she passes by a fire lit in a steel drum, soft groans, rattling breaths, and shuffling of clothes, people resting, watching, waiting. All flavors. All types of person. The girl, however, obviously out of place.

    "Hey. HEY!" a gruff voice rings out as she pauses again, staring into her phone, the battery light again starting to blink red, screen dimming into powersave mode. "I'm talkin' to you! This is Manticores turf!" A handful of men in varying outfits step out from the dark corners of a T-junction. One literally seems to phase out from the wall, skin and studded leather morphing from the brick pattern behind him into something vaguely scaly, showing off his long tongue. Another man seems to have quills for hair, spines rising up on his arms. A third, the one talking, is just fraggin' big. "Yeah, you, little girl, you're in the wrong side of Bushwick," he grunts. A couple of others with less obvious mutations watch from a distance, all wearing some combination of ragged studded leathers or patched up jackets.

    The three of them sort of surround her, and she's still... staring at her phone. "I'm lost," she says simply, holding her phone up to the big man, her voice cold and faint, nonchalant even as she's more or less backed up against the wall.

Daimon Hellstrom has posed:
There were really no places Daimon was known to fear. From alleyways to posh social events, he was likely to be less than concerned with the environment. The man was wandering through the streets, hands in the pockets of his jacket as he was thinking to himself. The tennants of the alley were largely ignored, one or two getting a glance over from the man - almost peering into their souls. Literally.

At the shout from the large man, he does look up - watching the man for a moment as he continues to walk towards the ruckus. He doesn't look as if he's going to veer to the side to avoid said thugs - just walk through them if they choose not to part like the sea.

His eyes do go over the lost young woman, narrowing a bit. Perhaps something in her demeanor, perhaps her soul, puts a slight grin on his face.

"You're not going to like what happens next." He offers over, almost glibbly.

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    The large man seems taken aback, not sure what to think about the girl suddenly thrusting a phone with a dimly flickering map in his face. Then he starts laughing. And like any good gang, so do his friends. "Oh look, little girl's lost!" The girl herself just blinks owlishly, lowering the phone. "...if you cannot help, then I will keep going..." she says, and starts to turn away. The brute's meaty arm reaches out to grasp her shoulder, though, and she's pushed, albeit surprisingly gently, against the wall.

    "No no no, you're not goin' anywhere... you pay the toll, and we'll be real gentle with... 'escorting' you out of here..." The one with the chameleon skin and tongue hiss-chuckles, "...yeh, real gentle..." there's a lascivious grin on his face. The one with the spikes eyes Daimon head to toe, his quills quivering. "What, you want a piece of her too? Wait in line, go sit by the fire with the rest of the vagrants," he spits on the pavement at the newcomer's feet. A few chuckles from the others watching from further out join a small chorus.

    Ariah, to her credit, doesn't seem too bothered by the big guy, and instead her dark silver eyes focus intently on Daimon, both for his words and for what she can glean from his heartbeat. If anything. "...savior or sinner?" she asks, voice soft and cold.

Daimon Hellstrom has posed:
No fear is shown from the newcomer, the man walking right up to stand behind the men who have cornered the woman. Daimon looks over each, shaking his head. "I have no interest in allowing a violation of the lady's person - though I am quite sure she'll be able to stop you and your crew." Each man is again, sized up. "It will be messy. It will be an incident, and you won't like where you wind up. Trust me on that. I'm familiar with the place."

His red yes turn then to Ariah, fixing his stare there. "Both. Though likely not in the way you are concerned with." He gives a wry smile, and a slight shrug. "But I'm not here to save you - you don't need that. And while I am a sinner, I am not one to take something not freely given."

Again he looks to the other men. "Again, you won't like how this turns out. I'd suggest you find your way elsewhere, and re-evaluate your choice of activities."

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    The three seem to focus less on Ariah now and more on Daimon. He's a stranger in their turf, and now he's telling them how to handle their mark. "Look, buddy..." quills steps in close, invading Daimon's personal space. "You wanna go?" he grins, showing off a maw of razor-sharp teeth to go with the spines on his head and along his arms. He sees those red eyes and scoffs, "Yer one of us anyway... you know what humans like her do to people like us..." he half-growls, half-purrs, though it's more menace than anything else. Chameleon just rolls his eyes, snapping his tongue back into his mouth. "Beat it, chump, unless you wanna pay up too..." he gives a wicked and... largely unpleasant glare at Daimon.

    "He's right..." Ariah responds quietly, having put her phone into a hidden pocket in her skirt. She's about to question Daimon more on his words, finding the mention of taking, saving, and possibly knowing of her nature to be quite curious. It's all too much for the guy holding her shoulder, and he keeps her in place while his other hand balls into a fist and heads straight for her face. "You want this the hard way, fine!" he growls. The fist, though, finds brick instead of flesh, her head jerking out of the way quicker than a human could. "...yes... the hard way..." she says quietly, looking at the hand that's embedded in the wall millimeters from her face, red dusting her white hair. Her hands come up, grasping the arm, and squeezing firmly.

    "I'm lost... and hungry..." she exhales a shaky breath, cold air making it vapor and condense on the man's arm. Her mouth opens wide, fangs extend into place with a faint noise, and there's a moment where Bulk's eyes widen in confusion before they clench shut in blinding pain. His cry is very unflattering as she sinks her teeth into that arm with no regard for his health or safety, and draws a deep mouthful of that powerful blood to swallow, her body shuddering as it fills her.

Daimon Hellstrom has posed:
Aggression. This, he is familiar with. "Not one of you, not by a long shot." He assures, his voice lowering in timber and pitch. There's a hiss of arcane syllables - a flash of hellfire surrounding him like armor. Quills is ignored, his focus on the one who suggested that he'd be next. Chameleon man.

Faster than humanly possible, Daimon's hand flashes out, backhanding the mutant with enough force to cave in the side of a garbage truck. The cocky mutant slams into the wall, cracking brick and crushing bones. His eyes then go to Quills, Daimon shaking his head.

"Are you a man of faith?"

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    "Nice trick!" hisses Chameleon, seeing the hellfire erupt. His fingers extend into claws, his scales start turning black and his tongue unfurls. "I don't like beating around the bush any--" The sickening sound of Daimon's backhand smashing skull and then the impact on the wall leaves the mutant incapacitated and quite possibly dead. His tongue hangs out, his face bleeding multiple colors as she slumps by way of weight and gravity to the ground. His scaled skin flickers, cycling through colors like a broken LCD television screen until it turns a sickly gray.

    Quill stares, the rapid movements and sudden incapacitation of his gang mate making his spines stand on end. At the question, his response is twofold. One: He just yells "Hey, fuck you!" quite eloquently. Two: The sharp quills on his arms lance towards Daimon, firing out at him, a rapid burst of hollow bone-like needles. It's a short burst, they're not the longest spines, but he's got a pretty dense pattern of them on his arms.

    The big guy? He lets go of Ariah's shoulder and starts pounding on her. Every impact of meaty fist to her skull comes off with a disturbing crunch, and he only howls more. Every wound he inflicts makes her drink deeper, every bit of damage done to her reversed as she repairs herself with his own blood. Until at last, instead of fist to bone there's a sound like a fist trying to punch through a windshield. There's a glow. It's bright and white-blue, runes etched underneath the girl's skin burning hot and shining. A shell of that same-colored energy is enveloping her now, and those slamming impacts only serve to break his hand even as the shield itself spiderwebs and cracks like glass.

Daimon Hellstrom has posed:
Chameleon downed, the biggun' focused on Ariah - that leaves the spikey lad for Daimon. The initial launch of the quills are mostly seared to ash by the hellfire shield - a few make it through, however. The Hell lord hisses in aggravation, yanking the spines out in irritation. He's bleeding, though it was likely a lot less lethal than it would be to a mortal.

"You'll live. Scarred, body and soul." He growls out at the mutant who dared strike him. Fingers curl and twist, incantations of infernal origins.

Flame, black with red highlights, lashes out from his hand to sear over the torso of Quills. Soulfire burns at his flesh - almost eating away like some sickly chemical. The burden on his body is bad enough - however this flame begins tearing away at the mutant's soul.

"Run. Run and understand that you are marked as mine in the afterlife."

Ariah Olivie has posed:
    Quill makes a triumphant sort of sound, readying himself to fire more quills. He doubles over, arms held out, the spines on his head straightening to send a barrage with the ones on his arms. They'll grow back. He unloads a short burst before the fire burns over him, and instead his doubling over is in pain rather than assault. His howls join Bulk's screams, and he jerks upright, back arched, hands trying to claw at his body.

    He rips his vest off, but the fire doesn't go away, because it's not his attire that's aflame. His quills start melting, his flesh blistering, and he does run. Or tries. He stumbles, rushing down the alley, knocking over the barrel and sending burning trash to scatter on the pavement. The others who had been observing scatter, too, fleeing the brutal scene as the likely strongest members of their gang are being reduced to writhing, howling messes. Some of the homeless not associated with the gang start to curse, rushing out to sweep the fire back into the barrel and stand it up, shaking fists and bottles and other things at the fleeing gangsters.

    Bulk's punches weaken, his blood being drained, his fist bleeding from shards of pure energy breaking and splitting off from the glass-like shield. As his brute strength leaves him, the yells of anger and pain give way to whimpers and sobs, the girl half his size finally unclamping herself from his arm and letting go. He falls to the floor, scrambling back, kicking on weak legs and pressing his back against the wall where Chameleon lay lifeless. He clutches his arm, bloodied, the crimson still flowing from not a twin-pointed vampire fang wound, but from a full on feral bite. No gentleness in the girl.

    The girl who still stands near the punch through the wall, the glow in her arms, those runes fading as she arches her back and groans almost orgasmically. Her mouth hangs open, quivering, eyes open wide with a deep purple glow, and what little light in the alley can still be seen shows the red glistening on her lips. She gathers it up in a slow circle of her tongue, swallowing the last drops. There's a mess on her chin, streaks dripping down the front of her and staining her clothes a little.

    She turns, slowly, staring down at Bulk. "..you will harm no more.. or I will add your strength to mine.." she exhales, eyes closing. She composes herself, and then cants her head towards Daimon. Her eyes open, the glow gone. "...what, then, are you?" she asks, blinking owlishly, as if this entire scene hadn't even quite happened. The show of infernal and arcane, blood consumed. Another late night in New York City.

Daimon Hellstrom has posed:
The last volley of spines is ducked under, not wanting to test his shield against the thicker and longer quills. The fire takes hold of Quills, snuffing as he runs off - the damage has been done, however.

All the threats sent running, or slowly fading from the world, Daimon is focused on the damage done more to his apparel than his body. "Damnit. I won't be able to stop this from staining." Not to mention the puncture holes forom the spines. The last of them are yanked free, tossed to the ground with a frown. Of course, his vanity is aggravated - not only did they have the audacity to attack him, but they ruined his outfit tonight.

His gaze then returns to Ariah. "That, is a conversation best held somewhere not as public." A nod. "I'm Daimon Hellstrom." His name is rather known in the arcane circles - an exorcist of some renown. "We should likely leave, let these idiots crawl off to lick their wounds. If you're lost, I have a car." He motions back down towards the main streets. "I can drop you off where you like..." He suggests, turning to walk in that direction. If she follows, fantastic - if not, it's clear that's where he's going regardless.