Under the sheet of darkness, it was Ahren's screams and the scent of fresh blood that clasped around her bones, shook them up and sent her so quickly after him. He was tearing himself apart under the weight of his delusions, something vicious and predatory behind her. seen with such vividness that her pulse seemed to believe him. It pushed hastily through her veins and egged on her limbs as they scrambled over Ahren's ill form to take hold of the belt binding his wrists. A poorly chosen move, it was quite possible, what with Laurel's confrontation with him so nearly passed. But there was a tightly knit collection of thoughts, both rational and irrational, that wholeheartedly rejected the possibility of Ahren (whether it was the Ahren she knew, or a broken fun-house mirror distortion of him) ill and enclosed, fighting and bleeding in binds. So Poe moved surely against this imagined race against devils and time, bracing herself half overtop of his wrecked body, and took hold of the belt. A trickle of slick, warm blood greased the old leather, making her thumb slip as she pushed and pulled at belt through its clasp in a practiced fashion.
"There," she said through a sharp exhale as the belt was pulled through with a long slipping noise and tossed against the furthest wall. Her gaze, still wide against the unsettling situation and shadows, came to find Ahren's face again, trying to gather his state and find direction from there. Just riding out the stormy waves of the Atlantic, and hope they don't capsize before the next one came along.
