Nia holds her gaze as she dismisses the captains that are present in the throne room, and so Ontari casts her just one quick glance before she and Entani both take their leave amongst the sea of warm greys and sharp whites of the furs that the Azgeda warriors wear.
There's a moment's silence that hangs between them both, Nia back in her throne, her gaze holding Clarke's steadily. She leans forward then, her fingers steepled before her.
"The Mountain," she pauses, "tell me, Clarke, do you know of any weaknesses?"
"No, Kwin Nia," Clarke pauses for just a moment to ponder her next words, "I only had a map to where it was."
"I see," Nia leans back, her hands coming to rest against the arms of her throne, her fingers splaying out against the furs draped across it. "You will be going with those I send to fight the Mountain."
And Clarke thought as much.
"Torvun," Nia calls then, looking to her left, and as Clarke follows her gaze she finds a man stepping from the shadows, barrel chested and hulking, his forehead carrying two horizontal scars running from temple to temple, head shaved with a beard braided and wild covering his chest. Nia turns her gaze back to Clarke for a moment as she eyes her carefully. "Tell me, Clarke. What do you think of the Mountain?"
And so she thinks back to the times she had discussed the Mountain with Ontari and Entani, even with Nia.
"They take our people," she starts, "they turn some into reapers. They attack our borders. They kill us," she finishes.
"They use tech, Clarke," Nia pauses again, her head tilting for a moment, and perhaps it should have dawned on Clarke sooner, that to turn a people into a crazed, deranged monster would require something more. "I think they are more alike with your old people. In the stars."
"You wish for me to spy on them?" she asks then.
"Not quite," again Nia pauses, for just long enough that the moment treads into the uncomfortable, "you may perhaps understand them more than any other. Perhaps you are the most valuable person in all the twelve clans."
"I see."
Well, that's not a lot of pressure.
"You will understand them. You will fight them. You will kill them," Nia leans forward once more, "and Torvun," she looks back to the beast of a man, "he will guard you. He will follow your orders. And you will return to Azgeda."
And perhaps Clarke senses the mission she has been given, maybe she senses the careful wording and the quiet threat that lingers in Nia's words. But she has no love for a people that would turn man and women into beast, into unthinking creatures. And so she lifts her chin, her gaze steady as it holds Nia's.
"I have no love for the Mountain, Kwin Nia," Clarke says, "I will serve Azgeda proudly."
And perhaps can be forgiven for the shiver that runs down her spine as Nia dismisses her, as she is followed by Torvun and as the cold greets her once she exits into the bright glint of the morning sun.
But she is Azgeda now.
And her people are either long dead, or are trapped in the sky with no way for her to reach them.
Right?
"So…" she turns to Torvun who rides besides her, "you have to do what I say?" she asks, her eyes tracing the scars that line his forehead. And she smiles just a bit when she sees him smile, a shrug lifting his broad shoulders.
"To an extent," and maybe Clarke assumed too much when she first met him, if only because Torvun seems much friendlier than one would expect, "but in battle I would protect you over any orders you give," he pauses for just a moment as his eyes scan Clarke, "I would guess," he leans closer, his voice dropping in level, "that I am better at fighting than you," and he laughs at the mock offence that colours the gasp Clarke lets out. But, as she eyes the quiver strapped to his horse, the large sword strapped to his back, the scars that litter his hands and the careful way his eyes track the horizon, she thinks that Torvun perhaps speaks a truth.
"So…" she pauses once more, her eyes turning back to the horizon, squinting for just a moment as the sun catches her eyes, "you are one of Kwin Nia's guards?"
"Yes," he answers, his eyes turning back to her.
"You have to be the best right?"
"Yes. It is an honour to be selected to guard the Kwin."
Clarke hums a response then before turning her attention elsewhere, Torvun content to let the silence sit between them.
They had set out hours earlier from the capital, their numbers almost 300, each warrior atop a horse, supplies strapped to saddles, some warriors even guiding other pack horses, their backs laden with extra provisions. And as Clarke eyes the convoy that spreads out before and behind her she can't help but feel just a slight strumming in her chest, the gentle beating of her heart and the steady excited fraying of her nerves.
"Why didn't Kwin Nia send more warriors?" she asks then, her mind turning to the many hundreds she had seen throughout the capital.
Ontari turns at her question then, her own horse walking beside Clarke's, "we will meet perhaps a few hundred more during the journey," she answers, "but sending a larger force would leave Azgeda borders weakened, and large numbers do not move swiftly," she finishes.
"The clans will also send warriors," Entani answers from behind them, "so numbers will be greater."
"Makes sense," Clarke hums to herself then as she wipes a stray hair from her eyes.
A cool breeze buffets her then, and so she pulls her furs tighter around herself, her eyes gazing out to the horizon, the sun a lonely beacon that stretches the shadows out beneath her.
"How far away is the Mountain?"
"From here?" Ontari looks to her, and so Clarke nods once, "three days at this pace. But we travel to a village first. Ton DC. So four."
And so Clarke sighs just once, the days quickly counted in her mind, and so she settles back in the saddle, her fingers brushing against the horse's mane that blows in the breeze.
She slinks forward, her boots softening the crunch of the snow beneath her and she pauses as the breeze shifts, as her hair blows out around her and so she drops quietly into the snow. Ontari eyes her quickly, an eyebrow raised as Torvun scans the horizon.
They hear the gentle hoot then, a quick birdcall that sounds out from across the field.
"Entani is in position," Ontari whispers, "we target the largest one when they flee."
And so the three of them rise slowly, their bows readied, their arrows aiming at the target before them.
It takes only a moment for the wind to die down, and then they see the quick explosion of snow as Entani leaps out from across the field, her spear already flying through the air. Clarke tracks the largest target as it leaps from the spear before bolting away, and it's just a moment's pause for a clear shot, and then she releases, two other arrows joining hers as they whistle through the air. And she grimaces for only a moment as she hears the pained yelp and the thudding of the arrows as they pierce flesh and then Entani reaches the deer, her chest heaving, knife in hand, already in the motion of slicing its throat.
"Do we win something if we have the largest deer?" Clarke jokes, already bending down to tie the deer's feet, her hair a frizzled mess of braids and ice snow.
And Torvun snorts as Ontari replies all too seriously.
"Pride and glory for village Ronto."
The walk back to the camp isn't far, and as they make the final push across an empty field, the snow beneath their feet icy, Clarke eyes the horizon, her gaze falling to the orange pinks that bleed into the snow from the setting sun and as the last rays of light grace her face she smiles for a moment at the beauty of colours as they wash the ground in a gentle warmth.
"Trikru live in the trees, right?" she asks, turning briefly to Entani who helps carry the other half of the deer.
"Yes, they live amongst the trees."
"Ever been?" and Entani nods her head once.
"Yes, but I have not left Azgeda for many years," she pauses as she thinks back, "not since before the current Commander ascended and before the Coalition formed.
"You haven't wanted to travel more?" Clarke asks.
"No, and I am sure the Commander watches any Azgeda that move through the lands. She does not trust us, and so I do not wish to move through Trikru lands feeling like a hunted beast," and Clarke turns to Ontari as she hears a scoff.
"The Commander speaks of trust. Yet she gives us none," Torvun answers from where he walks in front of them, his bulk helping to clear the snow in their way.
"How long has she held Prince Roan prisoner?" Clarke asks, her thoughts drifting to previous conversations.
"Since she became Commander," Ontari answers as she readjusts her bow and quiver across her shoulders, "perhaps almost six years."
"We should demand that the Commander free him or we break from the Coalition," Entani says.
"It is not that simple," Torvun replies, turning briefly to check on the three women behind him, "we would lose the trade of some of the less useless clans."
And Clarke laughs briefly as she hears Ontari scoff once more, "we can survive."
She's glad that Azgeda mastered the art of sharing body warmth, if only because she is sure she would freeze as the chill of nightfall descends upon the many warriors that huddle together by the fires that dot the rocky outcrop of their temporary camp. She murmurs a words of thanks then as Ontari sits down besides her, handing a bowl full of cooked deer and broth to her and Torvun, Entani already bowl in hand.
"You know," Clarke begins as she moves closer to Ontari's side, pulling the furs around herself, "I think you're starting to like me, Ontari."
"Perhaps," and Ontari lets the warmth they share spread closer as she leans into the Clarke's body, bringing a spoon to her lips, "now be quiet and eat, Clarke."
The four of them sit in silence then, the gentle scraping of bowls and spoons mixing with the quiet murmurs of tired warriors that huddle by the fires the only sound that sits around them.
Clarke wakes to a gentle squeezing of her shoulder and the still dark of an early morning and so her eyes open to Torvun's face above hers.
"We have the watch," he says before stepping away, and so Clarke runs her fingers across her face briefly before she pulls herself from the tangle of limbs and bodies of Ontari and Entani.
Clarke finds herself perched atop a large rock that juts out from the ground, the emptiness of the Azgeda snow fields lying before her and in the distance the faint haze of trees that mark the border of Azgeda and Trikru lands. She turns her gaze back, deeper into Azgeda territory then when she hears the gentle sound of a horn that echoes across the snow and she squints for just a moment as she sees the soft orange of flames as they sway smoothly in the dark.
"More Azgeda forces," Torvun says, "we number over half a thousand now," he continues, a hand combing through his beard, his furs pulled up over his head to shield from the night's freeze.
"It seems more than half a thousand. Kwin Nia wishes to send a message to the other clans?" she asks, her gaze following the fires that move closer.
"Yes."
"Who will command all the clans?" Clarke asks, her thoughts turning to the armies that will soon converge.
"The captains will command those under them, but the Commander will give the orders," he answers, his eyes turning thoughtful for a moment.
"Rules of the Coalition?" Clarke says.
"Yes, the Commander controls everything," he says, a gruff note of contempt colouring his tone.
Clarke hums a gentle sound then, letting another revelation of the iron fist the Commander rules with sink into her mind before she turns her eyes back to the border, her gaze tracing the tree tops she can just glimpse through the gentle light of the moon.
"Do you think Trikru is watching us?" she voices after a passing of time, her eyes still tracing the trees through the haze as wisps of snow dance in the breeze that lives across the field.
"Yes," Torvun says, his own gaze turning to the border, "perhaps there are even Trikru scouts across the border now."
"They're allowed to do that?"
"Yes," he shrugs broadly, "the Coalition allows free passage across the clan borders without issue. Only large numbers of warriors are forbidden."
"Besides for when it pleases the Commander?" Clarke asks, her gaze turning back briefly to the flames she sees approaching slowly.
"Yes. Unless it pleases the Commander."
"Do you think that we should break from the Coalition?" she muses it out loud, an answer not really expected, yet she finds the question that lingers between them both a curious one, something that sets her mind into a thoughtful journey.
"It has been useful," there's a gentle pause as Torvun scratches his beard, the careful scraping a soft rhythm to the cold that beats around them. "But unfair for Azgeda and some other clans," he continues, "and I think if we break from the Coalition that Prince Roan would be executed," his eyes turn back to Clarke's then, a gentle fire burning in their depths.
The silence once again stretches out between them and so Clarke lets her gaze shift from the approaching Azgeda force and the border, and as she stares out past the trees she can't help but wonder, just for a moment, what life would have been like if the Mountain never turned evil, if what she thinks must be survivors never took control, never waged a grotesque war upon the clans. Her fingers find the edges of the watch then, the softened leather a comfort and a reminder of times past, but perhaps she finds that it doesn't quite sting as forcefully anymore, and perhaps it only bruises her heart, only tightens just a bit around her mind. Perhaps it doesn't break her anymore.
"Have you ever fought against the Mountain?" she pauses for a moment as she looks to Torvun, but she sees his eyes turning mournful, a bittersweet image living somewhere within the scars of his forehead, "—sorry, you don't— I didn't mean to intrude," she adds quietly.
"It is ok," he says, "my brother was taken by the Mountain many years ago. It will be a good day when we destroy it," he finishes, a timber just a bit stronger filling his voice.
And so Clarke nods her head, her eyes scanning the snow field briefly before she looks into the sky, the stars a quiet presence of familiarity that soothes her cold body.
"What do you think changed?" she voices once again, her mind turning to the Mountain, to what she knows. And as she sorts the information she thinks the Mountain must have existed since the bombs fell, that it must have terrorised the clans nearby, must have created reapers for generations. "Why do you think the Commander is willing to face the Mountain now?"
Torvun runs a hand over his face briefly, "she must think she has an advantage," he pauses, turns to look out across the border once more, "she is no fool."
Daybreak comes too cold and too slow for Clarke, but she wakes to Ontari's arm wrapped around her waist, Entani sandwiched between her own body and Torvun, and a large fur spread over them, enough to keep the gentle, constant snow fall off their chilled bodies. And maybe she wishes for the tents that are packed, yet she knows the leathers would freeze in the cold of Azgeda, and so perhaps she can look forward to the warmer weather of Trikru lands, if only because she thinks a more comfortable place to sleep will be found.
She sits then, and as she glances around she sees the warriors who had watch walking through the camp, waking the many they pass, and she smiles at the waking faces and the drilled actions of those who already begin to pack, already begin to prepare for the last march out of the snow fields.
Ontari wakes quickly, and as she sits she pulls the furs off the four of them and Clarke smiles for a moment at the quiet curse Entani lets escape as the cool bite of the air washes over her face.
"We move," is all Ontari says before she is up, moving to pack what belongings they have.
The war party, now numbering over half a thousand wakes much more quickly than Clarke would have imagined, and as she finishes strapping on her quiver of arrows she finds Ontari leading their horses.
"War paint," Entani says then, holding out a jar of the thick white paste they wear, and so Clarke takes it, a quiet word of thanks in exchange.
She dips her fingers into it then and the cool of the paste clings to them in a thick blanket, and as she brings her finger tips up to her face she closes her eyes and she feels her breathing settle, her body steady and her mind focus. And she thinks she likes this moment as the white spreads across her cheeks, she thinks she enjoys the way it clings to her skin and she knows she embraces this moment as the paint washes her face a deathly white.
And so she opens her eyes.
She smiles when a sea of deathly white spreads out before her. She smiles as the sun shines brilliantly across faces, scarred and fierce. Clarke smiles when she reaches for her horse, and she smiles when she swings herself upright, mounting the saddle and she smiles as she feels other Azgeda warrior around her do the same. And she smiles as the warriors move out, a quiet beating to their footfalls and the snow a solid crunch beneath their weight.
And so she smiles.
Azgeda is coming.
The journey across the snow field takes half the morning, the sun still a shining beacon to guide the warriors. Clarke rides near the front of the war band, Ontari a horse length in front while Torvun and Entani ride besides her. And as Clarke traces the trees that begin to emerge from the haze, just a moment more defined as they reach up out of the ground, the snow slowly giving way to dirt, she turns to Entani, her eyes glancing around her briefly.
"Whose orders do we follow besides the Commanders?" Clarke whispers it quietly, the silence that surrounds the warriors just a moment too uncomfortable, the stillness to the wind just a bit too stifling.
"We will follow Ontari's orders," comes the whispered answer, Entani's own eyes falling to Ontari's carefully swaying back.
"Oh…" perhaps Clarke isn't entirely convinced, if only because Ontari doesn't seem to be the most experienced, and she isn't the oldest.
"Would you disobey her orders?" Entani adds, an eyebrow raising slowly.
Probably not.
"Good point," she finishes, her eyes once more turning forward.
The war band comes to a careful stop a small distance from the first number of trees, the ground beneath them more dirt than snow, careful pools of melting ice clinging listlessly to the stone that sticks up, jagged and sharp.
Ontari rides to the front, Clarke and Torvun still following closely, Entani taking up the rear. And as the group of four part those at the front Ontari raises her hand before turning her horse around to look back at the war band.
"We enter enemy lands now," she pauses, her voice echoing out as she eyes those before her, "do not let yourself be ambushed. And we watch for attacks," and again she pauses, her eyes glinting in the sun, "We watch for attacks from reapers or from others," and the message is understood, a gentle ripple of confirmation spreading through the Azgeda warriors.
And so she turns forward once more her hand dropping by her side, and then a horn is sounded, the deep baritone of it echoing against the trees and sending a cool chill through Clarke's bones, and she runs her hand over her horse's neck quickly as its head jerks to the sound before settling.
They proceed carefully through the trees, the white of their faces blending horribly with the dark browns of the trees they find themselves between, yet Clarke is sure that the scene must be fearsome and intimidating, the whites of their faces a clear sign that Azgeda forces move. And so she continues forward, her eyes scanning as far forward as she can see, her fingers resting just close enough to the blade strapped to her thigh, the quiver and bow strapped to her back a soft weight that steadies her thoughts.
They ride through leafless trees for a long while, the crunch beneath the horse's hooves and the occasional neighing all that is heard above the careful sounds of the war band as they move forward. Warriors begin spreading out too, archers and scouts moving further away from the main group as they move further and further into Trikru lands.
She hears a quiet shriek of an eagle from behind her then, and the war band comes to a stop.
"Movement to the left," a warrior whispers, and in turn arrows are drawn quickly, warriors readying weapons, some dismounting before slinking behind trees.
And Clarke is sure her heart is beating faster, she is sure her fingers twitch, yet her arm holds steady as she breathes in gently, her arm holding her bow out before her, her eyes focusing into the distance. And she sees the figures that begin to emerge from the few trees present, she sees the swaying of riders atop horses and she hears the quiet sounds of hooves hitting the ground. And so an Azgeda warrior further left turns from where she perches halfway up a tree, her hand moving before her, an index finger hooking, her thumb pointing up.
Trikru.
And so the warriors relax, just a bit, if only because an attack from Trikru is unlikely. They wait as the small Trikru force nears, and as they come within talking distance Ontari moves her horse forward to meet with those that have come to greet them. And Clarke finds that she recognises the Trikru that come before her. She recognises the dark skinned man, his head shaved, his eyes ever careful as he appraises the Azgeda that spread out before him, she recognises the leader, the ends of her bronzed hair a dirty blonde, her cheeks a sharp contrast to the dark smudges of war paint that surround her eyes. And she recognises the younger warrior too, the woman Ontari had insulted, and perhaps Clarke smirks at the memory. And she is sure she hears the few Azgeda from Ronto who accompany them chuckle quietly too as they recognise those before them.
And so Ontari raises a hand in greeting, her body a careful slouch in her saddle, her head tilted to the side just a bit in thought.
"I see the reapers did not kill you," she says, her hand coming to rest against the hilt of her sword and Clarke sees the Trikru eye the movement carefully.
The leader nudges her horse forward slowly then, her chin lifting for a moment.
"We are to escort you to Ton DC," she says then, "on the Commander's orders, of course."
"Of course," Ontari answers, and Clarke is sure she hears the rolling of her eyes through tone alone. And so Ontari raises a hand, signalling for Azgeda to follow, and as Ontari moves further from the Trikru leader she calls over her shoulder.
"Kwin Nia sends her regards," and Clarke is sure she sees the Trikru leader's fingers tighten on her sword, she is sure a fire burns just a bit brighter in her eyes.
The Azgeda war band continues moving further into Trikru lands, and as they pass, the Trikru merely keep their horses steady, and so the Azgeda flow around them, a sea of white that morphs around the dark of the Trikru paint, and as Clarke passes the younger warrior their eyes meet for a moment, the fierce brown that stares at her a piercing gaze that holds her own for just a moment.
The trees begin to turn more brown, the richness to them a bit more warm as they move further from the border. And as dirt is replaced by the careful greens of plant and vegetation Clarke can't help but to let her eyes gaze in wonder as she takes in the way the leaves dance and sway in the wind that breathes though the trees and the way the sun filters through the branches that hang overhead.
And as she looks out around her she sees that the Azgeda forces have spread out into smaller parties, perhaps twenty to thirty strong, each one moving in the general direction, yet far enough apart to move quickly if ambushed. And her eyes find the Trikru that ride off to the left, just ten that follow close, their eyes warily eyeing the few Azgeda that ride by them. And Clarke is sure that now, with the trees more dense, taller and more giant than at the border, that Trikru watch the Azgeda, scouts who remain hidden, ever watchful. And so she turns to Torvun and Entani who ride besides her.
"We're being watched," she says, her eyes quickly moving to the trees once more.
"Yes," Torvun answers.
"Trikru will be in the trees above," Entani continues, "that is why Ontari has split us up. If we are attacked the Trikru will not be able engage all of us at once."
They continue to ride in a careful quiet for the remainder of the day, the occasional conversation flowing between the Azgeda forces, the Trikru an ever constant quiet presence that watches them and that moves between the Azgeda forces and Clarke is sure that the Trikru count their numbers, assess their strengths and their weaknesses.
And so she holds the gaze of the younger warrior when she approaches the party Clarke is with, and she feels those around her stiffen just a bit at the new presence that joins them.
"You aren't subtle, you know?" Clarke says, her voice breaking the tense silence that hangs around them. And she sees the woman eye her carefully, her gaze moving from the knife strapped to her thigh and then to the quiver and bow across her back.
"I know," comes the answer.
And so she rolls her eyes briefly, "Octavia, right?"
"Yeah," and she meets Clarke's gaze, her own holding a guarded shadow.
"Clarke," she says.
"I don't care," Octavia replies, already moving away.
What a bitch.
"Float yourself," Clarke whispers out to the retreating figure, her eyes already falling to the trees that surround her.
"What?" Octavia turns her head quickly, her eyes staring at Clarke.
"Nothing."
Night comes just a bit less cold the further south they travel, and as they continue to pass amongst trees Clarke can't help but to feel awed as they continue to grow taller, continue to grow more giant as she rides past. They come to a clearing then, trees lining the edges, some huddled together where their seeds fell and so the Azgeda forces spread out quietly, tents already being erected, horses being cared for.
Clarke brings her horse to a rest near the edge of the clearing, Ontari already setting up the tent as Entani unpacks supplies.
"I'm joining the hunting party," Clarke calls out quietly, already unslinging her bow and so she begins moving towards the few others that prepare for a hunt, Torvun close by her side.
She's surprised to find Octavia, whose eyes follow her carefully, already moving with her, a bow in her own hand. And so their eyes meet for a moment before they begin moving forward with the other Azgeda hunters, the occasional disgruntled gaze being thrown towards the young Trikru warrior.
The moon hangs lowly in the night's sky, a quiet breeze and the gentle rustling of trees the only sounds that reach Clarke's ears. And she waits. She waits until the wind breathes once more before she moves forward, her footfalls dampened by the furs on her feet, her eyes trained on the deer not far from her. Torvun follows close behind, his eyes turning from the deer to Octavia and the surrounding forest with every move they make.
Clarke stops then, her bow slowly being drawn and she rises, just a bit, enough for the arrow to clear the bush that spreads out between her and the target, and her eyes catch the motion of Octavia as she also draws her own bow.
The wind picks up, a stronger whistling that blows an errant strand from her braids and so Clarke waits, she lets the wind whip her face and fill her nose with the scents of the forest. And she feels the shift. She feels the dying of the wind for just a moment, and so she holds her breath, waits until her heart beats. Until it pauses. And then she releases. Her arrow whistles forward, Octavia's quickly following, and as they both spin through the air, as they impact the deer and as they silence its cry of pain she stands, her bow slung over her shoulder once more.
She reaches the deer quickly, already bending down to tie its legs, all the while ignoring Octavia, their previous conversation still moving through her mind. But as she looks up briefly she finds the woman watching her carefully, the dark paint that smears her face a cradle for the light that dances within her eyes from the moon light.
It takes them just a short while to secure the deer before starting their walk back to the camp and so Clarke lets her mind wander to what will soon become her life. Her thoughts turn to the Mountain that must lie in wait and that must cast its gaze over the clans and she thinks and she wonders just for a moment whether the people inside are like those of the Ark. If only because they use technology. If only because they don't live amongst the clans. But she thinks they must be a cruel, evil people to turn a person into a reaper. To be willing to even consider such a thing. And so she casts the thought from her mind, her eyes focusing on the foliage that moves around her. And Clarke looks behind her quickly only to see that Octavia stays quiet behind her, half the deer held over her shoulder as she follows Clarke's lead, her eyes gazing intently at her.
They near the camp, the smell of already roasting meats reaching her and so she smiles at the warmth she can just feel across her body from the fires that rage quietly. Torvun walks ahead, his eyes ever careful as he scans the trees. And it only takes them a short while, but just as they reach the edge of the clearing he stops. His hand raising quietly before he drops to a knee. And Clarke hears it too. She thinks she hears the rustling of leaves and the bending of branches not from the wind. And she thinks she hears the camp react to what must be coming too, if only because noise cuts out suddenly, if only because eyes turn towards the trees and weapons are reached for.
And she hears it. She hears the deep growling and the heavy footfalls. And she knows. A horn is sounded then, cries of warning and of direction rising above the cacophony of motion. And then there's an explosion of activity, of frantic movement and moving bodies.
Clarke drops the deer, already reaching for her bow, already running to the Azgeda forces at the clearing, Torvun quickly by her side, his broad sword drawn. And as she burst from the trees she comes face to face with an Azgeda warrior, bow already drawn.
"Get down!" the warrior yells, and so Clarke and Torvun drop as the warrior releases his arrow, and so it whistles overhead and she hears the thumping and the gurgle of blood.
And she turns to see a reaper clutching at his throat and so Clarke only spares him one quick glance before she is rising to her feet, her eyes searching for a target. She finds reapers bursting from the undergrowth charging for the Azgeda and she sees Octavia running to where the few Trikru group together, sword already bloodied.
Clarke fires an arrow then at a reaper that charges the Trikru warrior and she smirks as Octavia rounds on it, only to find her arrow embedded in its chest. And then Clarke's running, she fires another arrow off into the trees, and she's vaulting over a tent before drawing her knife. A reaper lunges at her only to be intercepted by Torvun who snares it with a large hand, his fingers around its throat before he throws the reaper to the ground, his sword slicing its throat in a smooth arc.
She bounds over the falling body of a reaper, two arrows piercing its chest and then she charges another, this one looming over an Azgeda, a gash running across her cheek and so Clarke snarls as she drives her knife through it's back before pushing it behind her, already feeling Torvun moving to finish it. She reaches down quickly, her chest heaving and she grasps the warriors arm, pulling the warrior to her feet, and a quick smile is all that is exchanged before both women are running to join other fights that rage on around them.
She finds Ontari smiling wickedly in the pale moon light, the white of her face dripping with the blood of those she has killed. Ontari ducks then before throwing the reaper over her shoulder as Entani rams her spear through its chest. And both women turn quickly to see Clarke and so they nod once before they again turn back to the reapers that attack.
The ambush is dealt with swiftly and brutally, the reapers far out numbered by the Azgeda. And as Clarke removes her knife from the still twitching body of a reaper she casts her gaze around her to find Azgeda already finishing off the last of the reapers. And so she smiles briefly, a relief flooding her when she finds a lack of white faces and grey furs amongst the dead on the ground.
She holds a needle to a fire then, more torches and camp fires giving light to the few wounded Azgeda that sit as healers see to them.
"You are lucky," she says as she begins pulling needle and thread through the wound, "you could have lost an arm," and she smiles when the warrior merely shrugs his free shoulder.
"We lost none," Ontari says then, sitting down besides Clarke, "just a handful wounded."
"Good," she hums in response, her eyes still tracking the needle, "I'm surprised more Trikru didn't come."
"I think they let the reapers through," Ontari sneers, her eyes falling to the Trikru that sit apart from the Azgeda forces, "to test us," and the warrior before Clarke grunts his agreement with what Ontari says.
"Yeah," Clarke answers, her thoughts turning to Octavia and how she had been following her closely, "I don't trust them."
"I do not trust them either," Ontari finishes.
And so Clarke turns her gaze from the wounded warrior towards where the Trikru sit. And as Clarke lets her gaze settle she finds Octavia sitting on a tree stump running a whetstone over her sword and Octavia's eyes gazing intently upon her.