Beggars can't be choosers, perhaps, but in this case Narvin would have preferred nothing over having a bunch of dirt kicked in his face, which was about as much help as he'd been. Narvin hasn't mastered facial expressions to communicate such a message over a distance, and so hopes that frustrated glare (of which he is quite skilled) back will suffice as he helps them in what limited way he can, unwilling to step out into the open again, but shooting anything he sees that falls in the categories black, with wings, and flying straight at him, the girl, or whoever the other person was.

Finally -finally- the last of them disappear, and Narvin resists the urge to sit down hard with a sigh and put his head to his knees, take a moment to gather his senses and all the rest of it, but ever the unreasonable professional, he remains on his feet and examines his stazer as running low on energy. His mind already begins to run the possibilities and methods of recharging it, and the rest...

"Look, as grateful as I am, if those birds come back, I would like to be able to stand here and at the very least know what I could do to stop them from trying to pick the marrow out of my bones while they're still inside me."