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.~{:--------------:}~.
Despite the chance of further shots, the winged being continues her charge. A few tables and chairs meet their maker in the form of frenetic collisions, hips and limbs knocking them aside with the ease that comes of adrenaline and fearful anger. That curtain? That's a royal pain, for sight dependency is present in both human and Shi'ar physiology.
Beneath the swath of fabric, possibly wetted by blessed water that does nothing more than chill, the Warbird is patently annoyed. It's not a heavy weight, the curtain, more a matter of total area that bogs down her wings and prevents further forwards movement. Talons attempt to bring forth light and fresh, non-constrictive air, and slice through it in flashes of fury. Muted screeches are only going to get louder by the second.
|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d20 for: 7
The breaking furniture threatens any kind of safe footing, though that goes both ways when the room is entirely dark, or just about that. Gentlemen probably failed to put lights on their guns, and even so, one stroke would reveal little. Haphazard kindling made from chairs, perhaps, and the debris flung across the restaurant dining room. Tables make a suitable shield when needed, such as now, and being shoved in her direction probably keep Rosemarie somewhat pinned down.
The shout from the other woman in the room suggests things are not going entirely well. Or, it could be she cries out as a distraction, the wounded bird tactic. For the most part the mayhem in that corner is probably unknown to the Warbird. More problematic, the crack of bullets sprayed around the curtain. Another velvet shade can be pulled down, flung at her.
"God's teeth, that thing is unholy," mutters one through the infernal racket. "Sad stakes went out of fashion…"
Curtain one, down and shredded like the aftermath of a kitten stampede. Another will hobble her about the same amount and take just about the same effort to work through as well. If they're delaying in order to accomplish something, it may work.
Breaking through the fabric with minimal sounds for the sharp edging of her talons, the Warbird then takes a few steps backwards rather than continuing the attempt to kill — for the moment. Whomever is nearest receives the first rattling hiss, grossly modulated by human vocal chords, and her golden eyes narrow as chances as weighed. If she's bleeding, she doesn't know it, not with the dulling of the stress hormones.
The new pretty red dress may not be what the warbird entered in with but it's what she wears now, at least for a moment, like a French vaudeville performer on the stage. Her boards are dark and the lick of flame where a candle hits some pile of menus giving the hazard known to all theatres. Deliberate? possibly, though the men in suits negotiate the trouble quite well indeed. The Italians and Irish move according to their cultural ties, pairing off in twos, blocking the ways in and out.
Harper doesn't make any sound other than the low moan of pain, expiring on a bubbling wheeze. The silence is almost odd, filled by heartbeats and anticipation. No prayers here, though they're thinking it, calling on the Virgin and the monstrous angel that haunted Lux.
Back. Back. The only choice out aside from the covered front door is through the kitchen, apparently. Hissing woman, facing them all. Faceless and no doubt limited in sight, they can spot her by the feral glow and not much else.
Forget a red dress, the curtaining is shredded all to hell because the damning and netting weight of it must be gone. Low lighting makes the atavistic nature of her being more tense; how to see clearly? Someone's still got a gun and she's not a creature of the night by any means. Broad pupils reflect back the glow of the candle and like as not don't help her case against actually being one of the demi-angelic creatures that they hunt.
Harper, on the other hand — that sound is something to track…or, at least, the soft-hearted human thinks so, muffled down beneath the Shi'ar influence. Birds of a feather must flock together — the final push to make the Otherness consider another option other than rend and rage.
Back. Back. Back towards the other woman, possibly behind her table. A blown voice means a whispery sound of query in her direction, though never doubt that her eyes take leave of flickering between each pairing of gentlemen, darkened silhouettes that they are.
The glow of the candle biting up the papers soon enough starts a smolder, flames building but not dissipating the supernatural darkness caused when the light manipulator pulled down a veil of shadows. Shivering darkness maintains a crawling presence in the Italian restaurant. Maybe that's a good thing? Something that could cut against instinct, but if she wants to run, her main avenue is out.
If in, in, in, then it's through a shield of broken furniture and bodies that flow out of the way, tossing what they can to impede things. A chair leg swiped at a being as strong as that, nephilim or not, would be heedless but the Italian is used to dealing with matters with his fists. Maybe it's a terrible idea. Probably, trying to conk her on the head or shoulders to knock her down and stop being a threat to a perfectly nice woman — or not, she could be the bait — is part of the cohesive strategy he should've thought better about. No sound answers Rosemarie, though, which might imply Harper's down for the count. If. If. If.