Clarke moves, she moves fast, without thought or conscious effort. As hands descend upon her, she reaches for her knife, she rolls, kicks out at whoever attacks and she grimaces as a rock digs into her hip. Entani must have found her spear, must have been halfway prepared to strike the deer already, for Clarke is sure she hears it slice through the air, she is even certain she hears the distinct sound of it finding flesh.
Clarke barely has time to acknowledge that Ontari and Torvun struggle with their own attackers, she barely has time to identify friend from foe in the flickering of the fire light. And she doesn't for she feels rough hands grip her ankle, try to pull her back, turn her around and hold her down. But Clarke spits out a curse, she spits out her angers and she thrashes as violently as she can as she draws her knife.
She can't even see her attackers, not quite. Each one seems more shadow, more silhouette than warrior, but that is all she needs, and so Clarke kicks out, she smiles a victorious smirk as her heel connects with a chin and then she lunges forward. At the same time Clarke thinks she senses Ontari flash past her, the woman's sword drawn, snarl upon her lips, even Entani seems to have chased her spear, seems to have already retrieved it from whoever it had struck.
But Clarke hears a warning in the commotion, and she spares whoever is in front of her just a moment's attention, enough that she knows the attack has been paused for just enough time, and then she dives, she hits the ground in time to avoid a swing of a weapon that soars over her head, but Torvun must have been the one to warn for she sees him crash into the second attacker, she sees him pin his knife into the man's chest and knock away a struggling arm.
Clarke spins on her knees, she turns to face whoever it is before her and she darts forward, knife drawn and teeth barred. Recognition is plastered on what she finds to be a man's face, and she knows from the widening of his eyes, from the way they dart across her scars, that he must recognise who she is, but it doesn't deter her, not now, not when they had been attacked.
And so Clarke slashes out, she spins under a swing of his sword, and she finds herself close, her size enough to invade his space, her knife small enough for her to wield in their proximity, and so Clarke slams her head forward, she grimaces at the barest hints of pain as her brow hits his nose, and she stabs her knife into his chest without more than angry acceptance of the blood now spilling on to her white furs.
Clarke hears a yelp, something full of pain, of desperation and fear, and she turns to find Entani wrenching her spear from a man's chest, she finds Ontari kneeling over a twitching body, and she sees Torvun's foot pressed against a woman's throat, her nose broken, eye already beginning to swell, and her right arm stuck to the ground by Torvun's knife.
"Don't kill her," Clarke says as she comes to stand.
Clarke wipes her knife off on a dead man's body, and she sees the woman's gaze follow the motion with something that existed between fear and anger.
"Who are you?" Torvun says, and Clarke looks behind her for just a moment to confirm no others lurk in the darkness.
But the woman doesn't answer, doesn't say much more than glare and seem to accept whatever fate awaits her.
"We should kill her," Ontari says, her voice dripping with anger and contempt, her chest rising just a little at the exertion and the adrenaline that must be flowing through her veins.
"Not yet," and Clarke comes to stand over the woman, look down at her and try to find a trace of markings on her face. "I want to question her first," and Clarke can't help but to wince just a little as Ontari nudges Torvun's knife with her boot, enough that the woman whimpers in pain. "Let's get her," and Clarke gestures to the deer carcass. "And the deer back to Ton DC."
"And the bodies?" Entani asks.
"We'll send people back for them later."
It doesn't surprise Clarke to find that Ontari has found the darkest, coldest, most unpleasant dungeon in the depths of Ton DC to house the woman, and as Clarke continues to eye her through the slit in the door, she thinks her skin crawls, her mind spins and her thoughts turn to whatever must have been uncovered.
Entani leans against a pillar, her arms crossed over her chest as she glares at the prisoner, Ontari and Torvun stand close to Clarke and she can't help but to feel just a little apprehension at the way Ontari's fingers constantly twitch towards her knife as if her fingers anticipate and long for the prisoner to try to escape, to try to fight back in a foolish last ditch effort.
"She attacked you and your friends?" Anya asks into the silence.
"Yes," Clarke says, and she continues to watch as a healer finishes bandaging the woman's arm, if only so that she won't bleed out before information is extracted.
"Why?" Anya asks.
"I don't know," Clarke says. But she thinks it to do with the broken piece of plastic now tucked into her clothes, whose presence and that of who had attacked them was surely not a coincidence.
"Why were they in the reaper tunnels," Anya asks, but it seems more voiced thought than question.
"We found broken tech," Clarke says in answer. "They attacked us only when we noticed it."
"You think they would not have attacked if you did not find tech?" Anya questions.
"I don't know," but Clarke thinks it likely.
Clarke turns to the sounds of feet treading over wet stone, and she finds Indra and Costia coming down the dimly lit stone stairs, each step they take cautious and wary of falling.
"We searched the tunnels," Indra says in way of greeting. "There were no more warriors," and she gestures her chin to the prisoner.
"Are there other places around here that might be good to hide in?" Clarke asks.
"Perhaps," Indra says. "I will send for warriors to search them," and she eyes the prisoner, constant annoyance the only emotion seemingly plastered across her face.
"I'm going to question her," Clarke says after a moment, and she pauses once more to think over the things she knows, over Roan's suspicions, what has now happened, and what could continue to happen in days to come. "And she's coming with me to Arkadia. To Polis, too."
"She is a Trikru prisoner," Anya counters.
"Who attacked Azgeda warriors," and Clarke raises her chin in challenge, she even feels Torvun step a little closer out of habit. "Who attacked me. The Azgeda ambassador," and Clarke knows she will be victorious in this exchange. "We have ownership over her fate no matter where her crimes were committed," and Clarke can't help but to feel satisfaction at the way Anya's eyes darken for just a moment. "If you disagree with what I say, then you can take it up with the Commander."
"Very well," and Anya seems to think ahead, to something distant. "You may have the prisoner."
Clarke smiles then, if only to try to lessen the tension she feels building in her muscles. She looks around her, too, and she finds the Costia tucked away in a far corner, the woman a little uncomfortable in such confined spaces. Clarke doesn't blame her though, not after the things she knows Costia experienced.
Clarke takes a moment to steady her thoughts, to clear her mind, and then she steps around Anya, pushes open the door and gestures for the healer to leave before she comes to stand before the woman who remains seated on the stone floor, ankles shackled by a rusted chain. Torvun follows her in, comes to stand beside her, and Entani and Ontari both remain behind the woman, their presence heard and felt yet unseen.
Clarke knows too, that stories of Azgeda's brutality travel far, sometimes exaggerated, sometimes not, and so it doesn't surprise her to find the woman worrying her lip ever so slightly at what she must think is soon to happen.
"What's your name?" Clarke asks, and she sees a shiver run through the prisoner, her state of half dress, clothes torn and removed in order to ensure no other weapon's were hidden on her person. The woman doesn't answer though, she simply glares up at Clarke.
"How's your arm?" Clarke continues, and she eyes the pool of slowly drying blood by the woman's right arm, the wound not serious enough to maim, at least not soon, but serious enough to cause permanent damage if proper medical attention isn't received.
Yet again the woman glares up at Clarke, a strand of dark brown hair the only thing to twitch on her face with the shallow breaths she takes. But Clarke also sees the barest hints of fear in the woman's eyes, in the way her skin seems pale and clammy, and the way her lips tremble just barely.
"What clan are you from?" and Clarke eyes the woman's face, the lack of scars, of tattoos that would give away her clan. "You've got no scars," and Clarke smiles for a moment as she senses the woman eye the ones slashed down her own face. "No tattoos," and Clarke looks up just once to Indra who remains outside the room, who looks in with guarded curiosity and open annoyance. "Did you know," and Clarke comes to kneel before the woman, close enough that she could reach out, grasp the woman if she wished, but far enough away that she could defend, could react to attack if it came. "That Azgeda spies and assassins are chosen as children," and Clarke can't help but to wonder just for a moment who other clans choose their own spies and assassins. "Their families are compensated, of course," Clarke continues, and despite her feelings towards the subject, she knows many things unchangeable within her clan. "It is only fair that a family be looked after if they are to give their child to the clan," Clarke adds, but she pauses, she wonders how much to reveal, how much would cause the woman to think twice before continuing to remain silent. "Our spies and assassins are trained by the royal guard, they are trained to be the best our clan has to offer," and Clarke knows Anya and Indra listens with open curiosity, and that Costia must be uncertain of what Clarke's aims are. "But they are also taught from a young age that to be captured by the enemy, to be found, imprisoned, is a fate that often awaits them," and Clarke smiles a little less warmly as she lets her words wend their way through the woman's mind. "They are subjected to torture, to beatings. To things that would break them. That they are to expect if ever captured," Clarke lets the light play across her face, she lets the scars catch the woman's attention.
"Did you know," and Clarke gestures to her face, to Torvun's, to Entani and Ontari who both remain quiet behind the woman. "That we scar ourselves without pain relief. It is a sign that we have earned the right to be called Azgeda," Clarke pauses once more, enough that she can organise her own thoughts, can find a way in which to threaten, to coax answer and information free. "Our warriors know pain from the time they are old enough to hold a weapon," and though Clarke knows every clan's warriors do the same, she also knows that Azgeda is often regarded as the most violent. And so, "we know how much to hurt a person. We know how much pain someone can endure before they break. Before they are maimed, become useless, become a waste of years of training. But we push our warriors right to the very edge," Clarke sees the woman swallow, the motion enough for Clarke to know discomfort and uncertain begin to run more freely within the woman's mind. "But, because we know how far we can push our warriors, we also know how to break them," Clarke finds the next thing she is to say distasteful, but she knows threats must be made, she knows anticipation and fear to be a driving factor. "Answer my questions and you won't have to hurt. We'll even care for you as much as we would any normal prisoner," and Clarke shrugs, if only because she doesn't quite yet know what she will do if the woman doesn't submit. "But if you don't, then we'll hurt you. We'll hurt you and try to get what we want from you. But if you don't break? If we don't get our answers? We'll just continuing hurting you until we run out of ways to hurt you. And it will be slow, it will be painful. It will hurt. And when it's over?" Clarke says, and she can't help but to feel guilt, if only because she feel's Costia's gaze drilling into her from through the open door, from where she hides in a far corner. "When it's over, it will be too late for us to make any of the damage we've done go away. You'll just have to learn how to live with what you're left with," Clarke sees the woman blink quickly, she sees the realisation that her death wasn't threatened begin to sink in, and Clarke sees the woman understand the threat of continued existence. "Think about it."
It's dark by the time Clarke walks out of the dungeons. Stars and the moon have replaced sun and cloud and Clarke watches as a few Azgeda warriors walk past, some in conversation, some laughing, others preoccupied with thoughts.
"What will we do now, Clarke?" Entani asks as Ontari stands by idly.
"It's too late to travel to Arkadia now," she answers with a yawn. "We'll rest then leave first thing tomorrow."
"And the prisoner?" Entani continues as she leans on her spear.
"She'll come with us," Clarke says. "Come on, let's get something to eat," she finishes as she pats Torvun's arm as she begins walking to Azgeda camp.
Lexa wakes to a knock against her door. It takes her only a fraction of a second before she sits up, eyes quick to adjust to the dimmed flickering light of the candles that burn throughout her quarters. From the sliver of sky she can see through her window she knows it to still be deep into the night, that the moon will remain in the sky for many hours.
Lexa pulls the furs from her body, she embraces the cool of the night's air and she reaches for her lighter clothes as she slips from her bed, one hand quick to snatch the knife she sleeps with and tuck it into place against her thigh.
"Heda," Jass' voice comes out carefully through her door, the handmaiden careful as not to disturb the peace of the night. "Forgive the intrusion, but Echo Kom Azgeda wishes to speak with you."
Lexa feels the sting in the back of her mind, and she does for she never quite forgives Echo for the things she had done, she never will or can. But perhaps Costia's return is enough to temper her angers, perhaps Clarke's insistence that Echo is no longer a threat, is enough to diminish her want to remove the assassin's head from her shoulders. But only just barely.
"Enter," Lexa calls out as she comes to stand in the centre of her room, a small table between herself the door.
Jass opens the door carefully, the handmaiden half bowed as she steps inside. Echo stands at her room's entrance, her shoulders squared, jaw set, and eyes guarded as she looks around.
"Heda," Echo says as she bows. "Forgive the intrusion," and Lexa wonders for just a moment what Clarke would do if she heard that Echo had fallen from the height of Polis tower.
"It is late, Echo," Lexa says, and she lets her voice even, she lets the tired slip away and she prepares her mind for whatever news she is about to receive.
"King Roan sent me with a message," and Echo looks to Jass for a moment.
"Jass will not leave us," Lexa says for she knows Echo wishes to talk alone.
And at that Jass simply remains quiet, one of the woman's hands behind her back, the motion a sign she has already half drawn at least one of her knives in preparation to attack given the word, or to defend given provocation.
Echo must take a moment to consider her orders, and in that time, Lexa is sure she sees Jass step subtly closer to her, angle her body just enough that she could dive between them if need be without much effort.
"King Roan has suspicions that someone is attempting to sabotage Azgeda's ability to use tech," Echo says bluntly.
It's a testament to the training Jass has undergone that Lexa doesn't see the woman react in the slightest to the news, and Lexa knows that her face shows no outward signs of surprise, but she lets her mind begin to sift through what Echo says, what it could mean, and why someone would try to do such a thing.
"Why?" Lexa asks.
"Our radio," Echo answers. "It was changed in a way that I would not do accidentally."
Lexa takes this information in, and she lets her mind sift through the things she knows of tech, of its advantages, of those who may dislike it, of those who find its uses beneficial, and she finds that it doesn't surprise her to realise that she had expected someone, eventually, to try to disrupt one clan from talking with their capital, from being delayed even just a day with new information, all in the name of gaining an upper hand in whatever trade negotiations may be taking place.
But, as Lexa eyes Echo's seriousness, she sees a certainty, a preparedness to do what must be done to ensure her clan's security, her worry, and suspicions. Lexa doesn't voice these thoughts though, doesn't even let Echo read into her mind deep enough to discover how much she contemplates, and she knows the time that she has remained silent now begins to stretch into awkward, but that, too, is a tool to be used at times of uncertainty.
"That is why Wanheda is late," Echo continues with barely a break in demeanour, and that, Lexa can find impressive, if only because she knows just how awkward it can be to wait for a response that is never to come. "She is investigating in Ton DC, perhaps Arkadia and the Mountain."
"I see," and Lexa lets her head tilt to the side for a fraction, lets her gaze drill into Echo, lets the uncomfortable awkward settle even further upon them both.
Echo's gaze narrows just a fraction, so slightly that Lexa knows others would think the motion imagined. But she sees it, she senses the unease beginning to settle upon the assassin even further.
Jass must sense it, too, for this time the handmaiden shifts slightly where she stands, she seems to glance between both women, and seems to recognise the distain in Lexa's demeanour, and the calm unease in Echo's.
But, as Lexa thinks her game has gone on long enough, as she thinks of ending whatever childish actions she partakes in, Echo looks away for just barely a second, but it's enough for Lexa to know that she has won what it is they play, that Echo has submitted to the awkwardness of her stare, to the contempt that she lets be seen in her gaze alone.
"Ask of me what you wish to ask, Echo," Lexa breaks the silence, a victorious smirk the only thing she lets play across her lips. "I am no reader of minds."
"I wish to conduct investigations, Heda," Echo says.
"And what would that entail?"
"I will see if other clan's tech has been sabotaged," Echo says. "It will help illuminate the motives of whoever has sabotaged our tech."
Lexa knows that Echo talks of stealing if only for a short while, enough to ascertain whether other clans have been targeted, and she thinks the assassin's request reasonable, if only because she can see how it would help to lessen some of Echo's concern.
"You have my permission," Lexa says. "But if you are caught, then I will deny any knowledge of what you do, and if the victims of your crimes demand punishment. You will be punished no more and no less than anyone else who is caught stealing."
And so Echo nods her understanding, bows her head and turns to leave. Lexa watches watches the assassin walking away, until she turns down a corridor and passes two guards stationed at the other end of the long hallway. Jass walks forward then, closes the door and turns to face her, question upon her lips and curiosity in her eyes.
"Do you believe her, Heda?" Jass asks.
"Yes," Lexa says, and she can't quite help but to feel an annoyance beginning to build ever so slowly in the corners of her mind at the prospect of a plot growing somewhere in the heart of Polis.
"What do you wish for us to do?" Jass continues, and Lexa knows her handmaidens will do anything she asks of them with no concern for their own safety.
"Ask questions," Lexa says. "Do not reveal what you search for. Befriend those in the ambassador retinues. "Echo will discover whether tech is being sabotaged, and I do not wish for any of you to be in harms way," Lexa pauses for a moment to think some more. "You will learn if it is simply an over curios second who is enamoured with tech, or you will discover nothing."
Jass pauses as she lets Lexa's words sink in, and then she smiles, "and if we discover nothing, then it would suggest that people are being guarded with what they reveal?"
"Yes," Lexa says.
"I will inform the other handmaidens, Heda," Jass says as she bows and turns to leave. "I apologise for the interruption. Good night, Heda."
"Good night, Jass."
As the door to her quarters closes, Lexa lets out a sigh, she finds a place on the edge of her bed, and she can't help but to think it just a little too empty, a little too cold. And not for the first time, she finds herself anticipating Clarke's long overdue return.