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A careless hand rips the blindfold off his face, and Clover blinks as humid air whisks beads of sweat off his overheated skin. They’d been traveling for at least an hour after he and Qrow had been caught off-guard by their captures, long enough that his mouth had long gone stale. His arms and wrists ache where the rope around them chafes into his skin.
Small pockets of light grow more clear as his vision adjusts. The darkness of the desert night isn’t much brighter than the blindfold had been, but the glow of a nearby cooking fire and numerous torches is enough to illuminate their immediate surroundings and drown out the light of the stars and moon overhead. They’re at the base of a crag, jagged rocks tearing through the ground around them and slashing through the open sky above.
Taking stock of his surroundings, Clover looks to his left and feels a sense of relief to see Qrow next to him doing the same. Other than being covered in a fresh coat of the sand that had been their constant companion since entering Vacuo, his partner doesn’t look any worse for wear. Qrow catches his eyes, and his features soften for a second before they harden again and he glares at the throng of people standing in front of them.
Reassured of Qrow’s relative safety, and grateful yet again that the kids hadn’t been with them, Clover returns to assessing their surroundings. The numerous tents covering the area indicate they’re in some type of nomadic encampment. A piece of information that’s not particularly surprising in Vacuo, where that's more the norm than the exception. The hastily mounted wooden planks and large sticks lashed together with wire, however, form a perimeter that suggests more of a semi-permanent residence here. That more than anything else makes a chill of worry run down Clover’s spine. Nobody in Vacuo keeps their assets in one place for very long unless they’re sure they can defend them.
He tries to roll his wrists and suppresses the hiss that almost escapes when the motion only digs the rope in further. The knot hasn’t loosened anymore this time than all the times he’d tried it before, he notes in frustration, although with all the people standing around he would’ve needed to wait for a better opportunity anyway. There are times when he really wishes he didn’t need the use of his hands to channel his semblance. He wonders if Qrow’s got anything better.
At that moment, the kidnappers surrounding them part, allowing a man and a woman through to the center of the circle they’ve made around him and Qrow. Their clothes and weapons are notably higher quality than the rest, and every person in the vicinity is angled toward them, awaiting orders. Clover doesn’t need more than a glance at them to know these two are the ones in charge.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Qrow Branwen,” the woman says. “It’s been a while. I hear your sister’s doing pretty well for herself over in Mistral.”
“Nettle Aster,” Qrow replies, flicking an unimpressed glance over her. “You can save the tribal reunion niceties. Raven and I don’t talk much these days.”
“Betraying your tribe, and now traveling with an Atlesian at that. I guess there really is no honor among thieves,” the man next to her jumps in, striding forward. He casts a disdainful look down at Clover before turning it back to Qrow.
“Is that what this is about? You're offended I broke the tribal honor code and now you're looking for retribution?” Qrow asks, sarcasm dripping from the words.
“Don’t give yourself so much credit, you’re not that important. I heard you flew the nest years ago,” Nettle brushes Qrow off in favor of leering at Clover. “He’s the one we’re interested in.”
Clover fixes his gaze to a spot on one of the mountains in the distance behind her, refusing to engage. Qrow has shared a few stories about his days in the tribe over the past months, and Clover knows there are layers of politics and customs here he doesn’t fully understand. He’d rather let Qrow do the talking and avoid any inadvertent worsening of the situation.
“And why’s that?” Qrow’s voice is tense now, an underlying warning in the words. Nettle doesn’t move, her eyes still fixed on Clover.
The man speaks again. “We’ve heard some interesting stories about him. Seems like he’s a pretty lucky guy to have around.”
Clover tenses involuntarily at the mention of his semblance and he knows Nettle’s keen eyes caught the tightening of his jaw. Her smirk widens.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Qrow challenges.
“Pathetic. I always took you for a better liar than that,” Nettle says, moving in closer. “We were skeptical at first, but our informant was very convincing. And finding out he was traveling with you, well, that pretty much sealed the deal.” She turns her full attention on Clover. He can tell she’s trying to catch his eyes but he keeps them focused in the distance. “Look at me,” she commands him.
He doesn’t move. She narrows her eyes. “I don’t appreciate having to repeat myself. Look. At. Me.” When he doesn’t move she shakes her head and steps back with a sigh, gesturing to the guard behind him.
With a grunt, the guard swings his weapon into the back of Clover’s knees. He maintains his silence even as his legs buckle to the ground under the blunt force of the blow. Clover remains in a kneeling position, even more unwilling to break now than he’d been before. Nettle drops to one knee in front of him, taking his chin in her hands. “You’re stubborn. That’s fine. You’ll learn soon enough that resisting isn’t worth the pain.”
“Don’t touch him,” Qrow snarls. Clover has to force himself not to startle. He’s only ever heard Qrow take that tone once before, and there’s too much shock and pain dominating the memory for him to recall the words.
Nettle nods in Qrow’s general direction too, and Clover’s body tenses on instinct as he hears the dull crack of a weapon connecting with flesh. Qrow grunts in pain as his knees hit the ground.
The edge of Nettle’s sharp smile hovers in the periphery of Clover’s vision. “Relax. I won’t do anything to endanger my good luck token,” she says, turning to catch his gaze. “As long as he cooperates.”
——
They march Clover to the largest tent in the encampment. The light of the torches flickers over the thick canvases in the dark, and the figures and patterns woven into the fabric spring to life in the dim glow.
Clover had been tempted to fight, when the members of the tribe came up to whisk Qrow away. Even with their hands tied, Clover figured they could at least take most of the group, and if they managed to get hold of their weapons then they’d have half a chance to get out. With his aura still intact, half a chance was often all Clover needed.
One glance at the expression on Qrow’s face had put a stop to that. There was a warning in his gaze. Whoever this woman was, she was a big enough threat that Qrow would rather try and escape by stealth rather than in a full fight, so Clover backed down. He trusts Qrow to come up with a plan.
Nettle pushes aside the flap and enters the main tent a few steps ahead of Clover. Even on first glance, it's clear the tribe is doing well for itself— the interior is lined with dust lamps and all the furniture is high quality, the kind designed by artisans who have a clear passion for their work. The table in the center of the tent is sturdy wood with rich designs of plants and animals around the edges, although the bits of wear and tear on legs indicate that the piece isn't a new acquisition. An even older map spreads across it, detailed labels marking points of interest and notes on common trade routes. The set up is similar to the mission briefing rooms he used in Atlas, although without the high-tech features he’s starting to realize he took for granted back then. A small dust-conversion generator sits underneath the table, with wires enough to power a decent amount of computational equipment, but it’s powered down for the moment.
From the outside, the tent looked large, but inside, without the vast expanse of the desert sands and mountain ranges that make everything else look small in comparison, it appears even more massive. The full size of it must be even larger than the barracks he’d slept in as a new recruit. He peers around, trying to get a sense of the width of the place, but the corners between lamps are cloaked in shadow.
Besides the table, there’s a large sleeping pallet set up on one side, lined with embroidered pillows and thick blankets sitting folded up on the side. There’s enough room there for two people to stretch out comfortably— presumably the two leaders who entered the tent with him. The rest of the walls are lined with equipment: weapons, rolled-up maps, and stores of food seem to make up most of it. Other than the dust, whatever money or valuables they have aren’t in plain view, not that Clover would expect anything less.
Nettle snaps her fingers towards one of the large tent poles holding up the roof over to the left of the table and the men guarding him hustle him over, shoving him up against it. One of them holds their blade to his throat while the other exchanges his rope bindings for cuffs and chains that loop around the pole. Whatever attention Nettle and Litho were paying him before, they’re all but ignoring him now. Chances are Qrow’s already working on a way out, but it won’t help either of them for Clover to sit and wait.
He needs to get information, and for that he needs them to talk.
“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” Clover asks. He clenches and unclenches his hands behind the pole, trying to get rid of the numbness he can feel already setting in. “I’ll just stand here indefinitely, tied to this pole?”
“He does speak. I was beginning to wonder how short a leash Branwen had you on," Nettle mocks him.
Litho, on the other hand, barely glances in his direction. “You won’t be getting out of those chains anytime soon, but they’re not all that tight. I’m sure you could manage to slide down and sit. If you’d prefer to stand, though, suit yourself.”
Not giving him much to work with. He tries a different tactic. “You went through all the trouble to bring me here for my luck. What exactly do you want me to use it for?”
“That’s not for you to worry about. If I were you, I’d be thinking more about keeping yourself and that partner of yours out of trouble.” Litho says. He shakes his head in disbelief. “A former tribe member and an Atlesian, working together. You certainly have interesting taste in teammates.”
“Qrow and I have found we have more than a few things in common,” Clover argues, thinking quickly. “A mutual agreement that thieving from innocent people and leaving them for the Grimm to slaughter is bad being one of them, although I won’t be surprised if you don’t agree. You’re not the only ones who’ve heard stories.”
Nettle barks out a short, bitter laugh. “Please. Thieving is bad? That’s a bit rich, coming from an Atlesian.”
“Nettle,” Litho warns.
She ignores him to round on Clover, eyes flashing. “Atlas is the whole reason we’re in this mess. We were doing fine before. We’d sneak into the Atlas dust mines deep in the desert and bring out as much as we could carry. Our dust hauls provided us with the energy sources and money to keep the tribe strong. We would alternate locations for the raids, making sure that none of the places caught us or even missed a speck of the dust we’d taken.” Her voice built in tempo and volume until she reached the end. “And it was working, at least until the fall of Beacon. Then Atlas closed their borders, stopping shipments to Vacuo and every other kingdom on Remnant and doubling up their security at the mines.” She snorts. “Brothers forbid anyone else needs any of those supplies when the ‘greatest military in the world’ might make use of them. Now that Atlas has fallen, who knows what’ll happen. We need to stock up.”
“Nettle, enough! You’ve already given away too much,” Litho argues when his partner pauses, her mouth opening to keep going.
Nettle snorts and waves him off. Clover’s starting to get a sense of where the real power lies in this relationship. “He’s bound to a pole in a camp in the desert, surrounded by guards, and the only ally who knows how to find him is getting acquainted with his new cell right about now. Who would he tell?” She trails her fingertips over the map. ““We need more dust. That’s where you come in. We heard about how your luck saved that group near the Fertilis Mountains. You’re just what we need to make sure our next raid is a success.”
Clover shakes his head. Sometimes it seemed that everything in his life came down to his semblance. He’d long ago stopped trying to protest his colleagues and classmates from attributing his successes to his luck, but here he may as well give it a shot. “You’re giving me too much credit. That was a team effort.”
“And you’re underselling yourself. Modesty isn’t going to save you.”
She’s wrong about the mission, but he lets it go. It's clear that arguing the point won't do him any good here. “If that’s what you have in mind for me, then what are you planning to do with Qrow?”
“Not kill him, if that’s what you’re asking,” Nettle answers. The curve of her smile is as sharp as the blade of the halberd bound to her back. “Although I would give a whole crateful of dust to see the look on Raven’s face when we told her.”
Litho laughs, and the reaction sends a jolt of rage down Clover’s spine. He feels ill at the thought of them joking about harming Qrow so lightly. He swallows down the anger, forcing himself to pay attention to the words that were still being directed at him. “...Signal, as long as we don’t go around killing huntsmen. We’ll keep him here for now, as insurance, to make sure you hold up your end of this.”
“And if I don’t?” Clover asks with measured calm.
“An excellent question.” Litho twists to gesture at his partner. “Nettle?”
Nettle grins and strides over. She extends one finger to touch his forehead and Clover barely has time to recoil away from the contact before every muscle in his body seizes at once. His vision tunnels to black while his nerves scream , and panic claws up his throat as he struggles for air and nothing comes.
He remembers pain and fear, as sharp and cold as ice. Delighted laughter slicing through the fog while Qrow screams in rage. The realization that he’s going to die because the pain is consuming him and he can’t breathe —
The pain recedes and as his senses return, reality crashes back in. He’s on his knees, his forehead pressed into plush rugs covering firm sand, not ice. Oppressive heat whisks away the cold sweat gathered on his forehead and along his spine, and the uncomfortable damp of it is nothing like the biting cold of the Solitas tundra. He sucks in a shallow breath, and then another, and another.
He’s in Vacuo, not Atlas, in the main tent of a desert tribe. Qrow is being kept somewhere else in the camp. Tyrian is alive, but there’s no reason to believe he’s anywhere near their current location. He’s not dying, as far as he can tell.
With his bearings shakily back in place, he pushes himself up off the ground, slowly and painfully rising back to a standing position. Nettle watches him with impatience, arms folded across her chest. She taps a finger along the crook of her elbow and her smile widens as his gaze darts down to it before he can catch himself.
“It’ll be so much easier for both of us if you just do as I say, agreed?” she asks. “Make any moves I don’t like, I won’t be as nice as I was this time. And you won’t be the only one who suffers.”
——
A few hours later, Clover still stands in the same position, starting to shiver now as the desert air turns biting with cold as the last heat of the day dissipates without the sun. His aura flickers around him, glowing green in the muted light of the dust lamps, close to depleted but able to provide him some warmth anyway. He shifts back and forth, trying to keep his legs from falling asleep and prevent his feet from becoming sore from the stillness. He could’ve taken Litho up on his suggestion from before and sat down, but something inside of him recoiled instinctively from taking any position of vulnerability inside this tent if he can avoid it.
The tribe leaders are circling the central table, a few other tribesmen and women joining them to plan their next mission. They speak in whispers and at the distance Clover’s at he only manages to catch small snippets of conversation, whenever someone gets frustrated or emphatic enough to raise their voice to an audible volume.
Nothing interesting or enlightening has happened since he’d been tied up, to Clover’s frustration. He wishes that something would happen, even if only to keep him from thinking about the way his shoulders ache from being yanked behind him.
Mercifully, he doesn’t have to wait much longer before his wish is granted. A large crack and a boom sound from outside the tent, followed by the distinct popping noise of unstable dust activating, and everyone inside jumps to alertness. Nettle strides to the entrance and throws aside the flap right as a member of the tribe dashes up to the tent, panting hard as she spits out a report to her leaders. “There was an explosion in the dust storage! Someone must have set it off. There are fires everywhere and we’re already running low on water.”
“Don’t let anyone touch the dust that kicked this off. I want to know exactly how this happened,” Nettle snaps. “Why are you just standing there? Take me to where it started.” She storms out of the tent after the flustered woman.
Litho points at a few of the other tribe members in the tent, sending them out to chase after her. He instructs the other two left with them to take up guard positions covering Clover, one near a collection of metal cookware on Clover right and the other next to one of the largest pillars in the tent on his left. Litho remains at the table between them, a good vantage point to keep an eye on all entrances to the tent.
The positions are well-suited for their purpose, good sight lines with a bonus of being easily defensible in the event of an attack. They’re exactly the spots Clover would have chosen in Litho’s place. Clover revises his knowledge of the man. He waits, forming a plan and biding his time.
Minutes later, the sharp clicks of a crow’s rattle call sound from behind him, and that’s his cue.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Clover starts casually. “It must have been a big adjustment for you, roughing it out here with the tribe.”
Litho scoffs. “What’s this now?”
“Just that it’s a bit of a step down from the accommodations at Signal,” he says. Litho stares at him, anger creeping across his expression. “You did train there, didn’t you? That whip you’re carrying looks like huntsmen-grade craftsmanship, and I can tell you were taught their techniques. I wonder how someone who went through all that trouble to become a huntsmen ended up as the leader of a group of bandits in the middle of the desert.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Because, trust me, I get it. I was at the top of Atlas’s military for years, and it’s not exactly easy. Not that I would join a bandit tribe, of course, but it’s understandable that not everyone is cut out for the life of a real huntsmen—”
“Gag him,” Litho snaps to the guard on Clover’s right. Bingo. The man moves to obey, grabbing a bandana off a nearby table and rolling it up as he walks toward Clover, prepping to shove it into his mouth.
Clover's not about to let him get that far.
He kicks a leg out as soon as the man is within reach. The heel of his foot catches the guard right in the knee with a sickening crunch and the man groans, dropping like a stone to the mats. Clover flares his aura and headbutts the guard as he falls; the contact knocks him out cold. At the same moment, Qrow swoops in from his hiding place, transforming back to human form to deliver a swift chop to the back of the other guard’s neck that has him following his fellow tribesman to the ground with a muffled thud.
Litho whips around at the noise. His mouth is already open, ready to call for back-up as he glares at Clover, but he blanches and falters at the sight of Qrow. The momentary hesitation is all Qrow needs. He snatches loops of rope off the belt of the downed guard and closes in on Litho in an instant. A swift kick at Litho’s legs and the impact of his resulting fall drives the air out of Litho’s lungs before he can make a sound. Qrow doesn’t waste time, stuffing a piece of rope into the tribe leader’s mouth to knot it tightly behind his head and using another loop to do the same with his hands. He bends over to double-check his handiwork and takes Litho’s weapon, some type of whip, off him to muffled protest.
Qrow hurries over to Clover as soon as he’s done, giving him a swift once over as he does so. Clover leans into the attention, letting himself relax in the absence of any immediate threat and tilting to the side as he waits for Qrow to finish his inspection. “So, what do you think? Am I pretty enough to be rescued by the great Qrow Branwen?”
“It’d be a little late to turn back now.” Qrow shrugs carelessly, but Clover can see the relief hidden behind it.
“How chivalrous of you,” Clover says, wry. “The heroes in the fairy tales I’ve read were never this rude.”
“And the rescuees were never this opinionated. That was quite the performance you put on earlier.”
Clover shakes his head and smiles, dropping the bit. “Well, I learned from the best. I assume the dust incident was you?”
Qrow smirks as he drops to his knees, holding two small, metal rods in his between his lips as his hands reach for the cuffs to find the lock. “An unfortunate run of bad luck. You should never leave any source of fire so close to dust.”
“How terrible for them,” Clover replies, amused. “How much time do we have before they figure us out?”
“Probably not much longer,” Qrow mutters. “I made sure they saw me in the cell after I set off the explosion, but there’ll be a guard coming to check on me in just a few minutes when they swap out. We don’t have much time before the whole camp will be after us.”
“You couldn’t find a longer time between shifts? That’s tighter security than I would’ve expected.”
“I could’ve found one. Didn’t want to wait that long.” Qrow makes a satisfied noise as the cuffs click open. He rounds the pillar again, relatching the newly opened handcuffs around Litho’s wrists instead. “How’s your back doing?”
“It’ll be fine, now that I can move around,” Clover answers. He takes stock of the ache in his muscles, using his new freedom of movement to get the feeling back into his legs.
The ever-present soreness along the length of his spine makes itself known with a wave of discomfort as he stretches, but it’s not much worse than usual. Not enough to impact his capabilities. His aura is the bigger problem, drained as it is from a day of fighting and numbing down the pain of being tied in one position for hours. Clover takes a breath, feeling the familiar flicker of power along his skin. It’ll hold enough for a short fight, as long as he avoids taking any heavy hits.
He thinks through the layout of the encampment, the path they’ll need to escape. In any other place, the time of night might’ve given them the advantage, with less guards on duty and the rest liable to be tired from their shifted sleep cycles. Here, in the desert when the sands are far too hot to travel during the day, the opposite is more likely to be true.
Qrow’s next words prove that he’s not the only one thinking along those lines. “We’re in for a fight on our way out of here. There’s no way we’ll be able to get our weapons and leave without the guards figuring us out.”
“Works for me. We can take them.”
“That’s what you always say,” Qrow says with a snort.
“Have I ever been wrong?” Clover takes a step forward, pressing a kiss to Qrow’s lips. He lingers there longer than he means to, savoring the way Qrow leans into it before they break apart again. “Been wanting to do that all night. Let’s get our weapons and get out of here.”
A hand on his chest and the grave expression on Qrow’s face stop him in his tracks. “Before we go, I need to warn you, Nettle’s semblance—”
“I know,” Clover cuts in. Qrow’s face twists in fury and pain Clover immediately wishes he could rescind the statement. He brings a hand up to give a reassuring squeeze to the one fisted in the fabric of his shirt, brushing his thumb across the taut knuckles to relax them. Clover speaks again before Qrow can voice the apology that’s written across his face. “She was only threatening me, and it barely lasted a second. I’m fine.”
“I should’ve gotten to you sooner. I should’ve never let us get taken.”
Qrow pulls away but Clover keeps his hand closely around his wrist in a gentle grip. “Hey. Neither of us let them do anything. They took us by surprise. We just need to get our weapons and get out of here, then we can put all of this behind us.”
Qrow watches him intently for another moment before he sighs, tension falling away from the line of his shoulders. His hand tightens over Clover’s fingers one last time before he lets go, putting both hands in his pockets and resuming the usual slouched posture that still makes Clover’s military instincts itch. “Well, if that’s all it takes.”
“Nothing to it,” Clover tries to put all the brisk confidence he has into the words, throwing in a wink for good measure. Judging by Qrow’s unimpressed expression, he’s not buying it. “Speaking of, got any ideas where our weapons are located?”
“I already broke us out! Why do I have to do all the work around here?” Qrow complains, but he’s already walking toward the exit that leads to the east side of the camp.
“You are the spy,” Clover answers cheerfully.
Qrow snorts. “Like you’ve never taken a covert mission.”
“I have, but you’re the expert. Efficient distribution and application of skill sets, as they’d say in the Academy.”
“You’re such an Atlesian,” Qrow says with a roll of his eyes, but Clover’s long since figured out how to see the fondness in the gesture. “Come on. The guards will be changing right about now, so we have a window. The farther we get before they come after us, the easier this is gonna be.”
——
The east side of camp was fortunately not very large, seeing as the camp as a whole was not very large. Unfortunately, with most of the dust stock and the inhabited tents being kept on the west side to avoid the first rays of the sun in the morning, the east side had far less places to hide. Qrow’s best guess for the location of their weapons was almost at the far corner of the camp near the main gate, in a stall where he’d seen various guardsmen carrying other discovered or stolen cargo.
Qrow hands him Litho’s weapon while they plan their route, crouched behind the back corner of the main tent in between the ropes and ties that keep the whole structure from collapsing. “Here, you should take this. It’s closer to Kingfisher than Harbinger, you’ll make better use of it than I will.”
“What’re you going to use?” Clover asks, accepting the corded whip. The edges are barbed, small blades embedded into the weapon that would prevent anyone bound by it from trying to escape, or risk the sharp edges digging in further. It’s strong, with tensile strength that it’s reminiscent of Kingfisher and should let him manipulate the direction it’s going in mid-air. He adjusts his grip around the handle, getting a feel for how it moves.
Qrow brushes his cape aside and gestures to a short dagger tucked in the space where Harbinger usually sits. “I grabbed this earlier. It’ll do for now, until we can get our weapons back.”
Clover nods. They don’t have much other choice in the matter. “Anything else I should know?”
“There’s this,” Qrow says, holding his hand up. A shiny key dangles from his finger, glinting in the low torchlight. “It should let us drive one of the sandspeeders they brought us in on. That’ll be our ticket out of here. If we can lose them behind the mountains, they’ll have a hard time finding us again.”
“Saved again by your predilection for shiny things,” Clover teases. Qrow snorts, aiming a half-hearted swat at his shoulder.
“Don’t get too excited. We’ll have to see if one of us can figure out how to drive it first.”
Clover chuckles. “I’m sure we can figure that out.”
“Right, because up until now everything’s gone so well for us today,” Qrow drawls.
"So little faith," Clover says. He takes Qrow's hand and squeezes it, because he can. "Let's go, we've waited too long already."
——
The next part of the plan goes about as well as Clover could’ve asked for. They crouch low to the ground, keeping away from the light of the torches and dashing between gaps in cover as the tribe members pass by. Qrow transitions between his human and bird forms, spying on the movements of groups around the various campfires dotting the grounds and the others still running around doing damage-control for the flammable dust spilling out of the crates and into the open, surveying the singed tents and fencing damaged in the fires.
They make it about two thirds of the way before the escape is discovered.
The guard runs into the center of camp, yelling to anyone who will listen. His voice strains to be heard above the din of a camp already in chaos. In the immediate aftermath of the news, the camp scrambles to respond and the disarray lets them slip further along their path without being spotted. For the first time in a while, Clover feels gratitude for the structure and organization he’d had in the military.
Nettle’s furious voice wrangles control of the situation shortly after, the exact words not quite carrying across the wide space. Clover is pretty sure he has a good guess of what she’s saying anyway, and the thought spurs him and Qrow to move faster, taking more risks as they weave around thick swathes of fabric.
They’re yards away from the stall Qrow identified when a halberd’s blade stabs at them through the fabric of the tent they’re hiding behind. Clover drops on instinct when he feels the gust of air brush by his face. Qrow does the same, and the point passes harmlessly between them, lodging into the wooden post forming the camp's outer perimeter behind them.
Nettle steps through the largest drape of the nearby tent, grabbing the edge of the fabric to rip it off and toss it into the sand. Through the gap, Clover can see Litho and at least twenty other fighters gathered behind her.
“Nettle,” Qrow greets her with a smirk. “Took you a while to show up.”
“Branwen,” she bites out the name, rage clear on her face. “You two are gonna pay for tying up my partner. Your little escape ends here and believe me, there’ll be a world of pain in it for both of you.”
“Looks like someone’s feeling a little touchy today.”
“Be careful you wish for,” she shouts, snatching her weapon out of the post and spinning it in her grip to lunge forward. Qrow parries the halberd’s tip with the dagger, knocking it aside and dancing out of the way as she makes a grab for him with her empty hand.
Clover pulls out the whip tied to his waist and snaps it in Nettle’s direction, driving her away from Qrow. Litho rushes him next, glaring. The next few minutes are a whirlwind of dodging and weaving as the entire group of tribe members converge on the two of them.
The sheer number of fighters in the enclosed space turns every movement into a risk. Litho’s whip feels unnatural in his hand and Litho himself is better at defending against his own weapon than Clover is at attacking with it. It takes every bit of skill he possesses to keep the whip out of its owner's hands. Clover would give anything to be holding Kingfisher instead.
Clover can feel himself starting to lag as the fight wages on. They need to move this along, get away from the area and push forward. He brushes a hand over Qrow’s shoulder blade as he skirts around another blow, signalling him to follow.
As one, they fight their way deeper into the camp until they reach the nearest tent flap. Qrow slices the bottom half of it with one swift motion and gathers up the heavy fabric, spinning to throw it in the face of the woman coming up behind him. They run through the opening into the tent. Qrow swears vehemently as his foot catches the edge of a table, sending the whole thing to the floor with a crash. The obstacle works in their favor, managing to delay their pursuers for precious seconds while they reach the tent’s other side and get back to the central area of camp.
“We need to get to the next one over!” Qrow says, placing a hand on Clover’s back to guide him in the right direction. The place in question is a large stall, open in the front and propped up with two poles to provide easy viewing of the items stored inside. Thick drapings covering the other three sides and the ceiling in the same style as the rest of the encampment. The interior is lined with racks upon racks of weapons, and even more are displayed on shelves that hang from the cross beams overhead.
They run closer and after a quick scan of the content, Clover rejoices as his gaze catches on Kingfisher’s distinctive hook where the rod sits on a large crate at waist height. Harbinger is takes longer to spot, tucked away into a shelf higher up on the walls and out of the light of the dangling lamps, but the deep red of the handle is a shade Clover would recognize anywhere.
He pushes himself to move faster, outstripping Qrow as they reach the entrance to the structure. Kingfisher is within his reach when Nettle bursts through the adjoining wall. She aims a sharp jab at his chest with her weapon, and his aura takes the brunt of the hit as he’s forced to retreat away from her blade and away from Kingfisher. She doesn’t let up on the attacks, using the point of her halberd to drive him back farther and farther from Kingfisher, and from Qrow. A spare glance tells him partner is already engaged in a fight with Litho and the rest of the tribe’s fighters, brandishing his dagger to fend them off as he shoots a concerned look back at Clover.
Litho’s whip helps him to parry Nettle’s blade and avoid any more injury to his aura, but in the corner he’s in, there isn’t time or room to make any use of its offensive capabilities. Clover grits his teeth in frustration. If he lets this go on much longer, she’ll have him completely cornered, and if her weapon has any short-range forms, he won’t have a way to easily defend against her.
Clover blocks a few more attacks before making his move. Nettle is a ferocious fighter, but the technique of her weapon has a pattern. She keeps the majority of her strikes tight to her chest, but she has a tendency to overextend to push him back at the end of a set, and that’s all he needs. The next time she drives the point of her weapon at his neck, he drops to a squat, letting her own momentum carry her forward off balance. A quick elbow to her side as he springs back up forces her to go into a spin away from him to reposition, and he pushes off on his back foot, hand already reaching out to finally take his own weapon.
Pain crashes into him, as blinding as before, but this time Clover’s braced for it. He chokes back a cry as he resists the urge to curl in on himself and give in to the shock currents running through his body. Kingfisher is inches away, and he summons every scrap of energy he has left to throw his hand out the rest of the distance to push the button on its handle.
The rod of his weapon whips out into full extension, the tip catching Nettle in the shoulder. She lets out a surprised yell at the impact and her instinctive recoil breaks their contact. His other senses rush back in and Clover can hear Qrow’s desperate voice yelling his name over the sounds of metal clashing, his partner struggling to reach him.
Nettle snaps back into position, already recovered, but Clover is out from the effects of her semblance and he’s faster. As the pain fades, he snatches up his weapons and moves backward, creating distance between them and holding Kingfisher out in front to enforce it.
Nettle presses back on him in an instant with a fury of strikes that puts him back on the defensive. He tries to catch sight of Qrow through the onslaught, and sees his partner still holding off Litho and the tribe leader’s back-up.
Qrow is a dervish of stabs and parries, his footwork as precise and deadly as ever. His skill is sufficient to fend off the group around him. For now, he’s keeping them from joining Nettle and overwhelming Clover, but the short reach of his blade prevents him from taking any of them down for good. If he continues like this much longer he’ll tire, and Clover can already feel his own energy waning dangerously after experiencing Nettle’s semblance for a second time. He knows a third would incapacitate him entirely. They need to get Harbinger and put an end to this.
He leaps over a low strike Nettle aims at his legs, using the momentum as he lands to spin into a kick at her head. The movement forces her to retract her arms and fling them up to block the blow with the shaft of her halberd, and it leaves the exact opening Clover was looking for. He grabs the second weapon at his waist in his open hand, flicking his wrist down to send the curve of the whip sailing to wrap tightly around her ankle and throw her off balance.
One more sharp jerk on the line pushes the blades deeper into her leg and Nettle cries out in pain as she takes an involuntary knee on the ground. The whip’s blades have bitten too deep into her skin to remove so Clover flings the handle of it aside and shoots past her, eyes on the gleam of Harbinger’s blade where it’s displayed up on the wall, tied to one of the stall’s crossbeams.
He’s barely in range of reaching it when he crashes to the floor, his back foot stuck in place as if bound to the spot. Pushing himself up, he twists around and with horror sees his skin and clothes have turned gray and hardened, as if encased in stone. The rugs around him are similarly affected, and he glances up to see Litho at the other end of the effect, his hand pressed to the floor and a smug smile on his face.
Clover yanks at his foot to try and loosen it but abandons the idea when it refuses to budge even an inch, Litho’s semblance overpowering him. The semblance’s effects spread like gray sludge, bubbling over skin and sand and fabric and leaving cracked, lifeless stone in its wake. Clover’s heart pounds in his chest as it creeps up his leg, the limb growing heavier and heavier as more of it transforms.
“Clover!” Qrow cries for him, bursting out from the group of tribesmen to rush at Litho and flinging aside the few remaining people in his path.
The sight is enough to rally Clover. “Get ready!” he calls back. He flicks his pin and casts Kingfisher in a wide arc, the hook slicing through the air until it slots into the hole in Harbinger’s blade. With a swift tug, the weapon comes loose from its ties and flies through the air to land directly into Qrow’s awaiting hand.
Dark hair wafts at the edge of his vision and he twists just in time to bring Kingfisher up between him and the weapon aimed at his back, Nettle’s halberd changed into an axe for close combat. She flares her aura and pushes hard, and Clover throws his other arm up to keep her at bay. He repositions on his functioning leg, trying to ground himself further into the sand that slides under his feet even as her blade presses closer to his throat. With one quick pivot of her weapon, she throws off his center of balance again. She flings out her other hand to grab him, and Clover has a fraction of an instant to mentally brace himself for the pain he knows will follow when three sharp cracks of a gun ring out.
The first shot misses Nettle’s hand by inches and the next forces her to duck to avoid it. The third forces her even farther backward and she flips out of the way, bringing her weapon back to its full length.
Harbinger unveils into full scythe form in an instant, and the presence of Qrow’s weapon makes all the difference. Qrow whirls the blade expertly, driving back the tribesmen who fail to keep up with the speed of his movements. He drives the point of it into the sand where Litho’s head was only a moment before, the tribe leader forced to let go of his semblance in order to dodge. To Clover’s relief, the effects of the stone semblance fade with the loss of contact and the stone cast of his leg cracks away as it returns to normal, with only a bit of numbness remaining.
Qrow rushes to his side, solid and familiar next to him and finally, finally they’re back-to-back and fighting together the way they should be. Clover grins despite the fighters surrounding them, his precipitously low aura, and how the aches and bruises covering his body are starting to make themselves known with a vengeance. He cocks his head toward Qrow and wonders when exactly it became so natural to find bright red eyes there, meeting his own. “So, how about we get out of here?”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Qrow laughs and the two of them dive back into the fight.
——
Together and with their weapons, the flow of the battle tilts back in their favor. Most of the tribe members are either out cold, hanging back, or have fled, unwilling to get within range of Qrow’s flashing blade.
Litho and Nettle are the only remaining foes left. They’re talented fighters, but even so, Clover knows they’d be clearly outmatched in any kind of fair fight. The large gap between their aura levels and the perilous nature of hand-to-hand combat against either of the tribe leaders is the only thing preventing them from overpowering the other two and high-tailing it out of the camp.
Not to mention their opponents were pissed and fighting like it. Nettle was especially enfuriated, disheveled and bleeding from the fight, her mouth twisted into a permanent snarl. Even while favoring the deep puncture wounds around her ankle, her every blow fell as heavy as a particularly emphatic strike of Elm's hammer, jarring his arms all the way down to the shoulder when he couldn't dodge them. Qrow taunts Nettle to draw her attention off him, luring her into middle range where his scythe has the advantage over her weapon’s long and short forms. She sneers at him, swiping her weapon down in a vicious move that Qrow neatly side-steps, forcing her to dodge back or be caught by Harbinger’s edge.
Clover casts his gaze around the area during every free second he has, searching in vain for a way to break the deadlock of the fight. Qrow blocks a slice at Clover's stomach while Clover spins Kingfisher around to reel Litho in closer and get out of the range of his whip. It’s too easy to focus on Nettle’s aggressive style and awful touch and forget that Litho’s semblance is every bit as dangerous, but Clover doesn’t intend to get caught by either of them again. Panting with exertion, Qrow turns to Clover as he shoves Nettle off. "Got enough left for one more stroke of good luck?"
Clover nods. “I think I can swing that,” he answers.
Qrow bumps their shoulders and whispers in his ear. “Good. Stay close to me.”
“Always.”
Qrow lunges back to engage with their opponents once more, swinging with renewed fervor. Clover ducks and slides around the quicksilver blade, using Kingfisher to drive the two off balance and prevent them from taking advantage of any small opportunities to retaliate. From the start, he and Qrow had fallen into battle together as if they’d always been there, but even back at the beginning he wouldn’t have been able to read Qrow so well as to stay perfectly in step with him, a hairsbreadth from Harbinger’s edge but having faith that it would never hit him. After Tyrian, Clover marvels at the fact that he and Qrow have learned to trust themselves enough to fight this way.
Within minutes, Qrow gets the opening he was waiting for. Litho steps back to recover his grip on his weapon, and in that instant Kingfisher’s hook snags his arm and Clover pulls the line taut, throwing the leader’s stance wide open. Qrow flips his grip on Harbinger even as he retracts the blade to a tonfa, using the base as a bludgeon. The hit connects directly to Litho's abdomen and he soars through the air, aura shattering on impact with one of the stall's front pillars.
A harsh crack drowns out every other noise in the camp as the wood gives way. Clover grabs Qrow by the arm and flicks his badge while Nettle is distracted by her partner's plight. In seconds, the pillar collapses to the ground and the rest of the structure groans, caving in under the strain of holding up without its support. The rest tips over like an avalanche, the beams bending slowly at first before the weight of the fabrics draped over it proves too much and the entire thing comes crashing to the ground all at once.
Clover takes Qrows hand and pulls him toward the nearest opening as heavy curtains and wooden beams tumble down. Weapons and metal armor fall to either side of them but Clover’s semblance holds and nothing hits them or blocks their path. They duck through the drapes covering the last remaining wall, emerging into the open camp right before it collapses behind them. Even when they clear of the destruction they don’t stop running, pushing onward to the main gates of the encampment.
The whole camp is in disarray. Half of the buildings are destabilized or looted between the dust explosion and the tribe members who fled during the fight. The undermining of their leader’s power had motivated more than one opportunistic thief to leave with enough riches to fund the start of a much easier life. There are very few people left in sight, and no one makes a move to stop them, although Clover’s not about the bet on the kindness of their former kidnappers. Any remaining fighters are all buried under the trail of wreckage they just left behind.
Qrow shakes his head at the devastation even as they run. “Some family,” he mutters. At Clover’s questioning look, he ducks his chin. “Nothing. Just something Raven said once.”
The sandspeeders are kept near the main gate, where they presumably would've usually been guarded by a number of tribe members. As it is, one lone woman hovers nearby and she backs off the moment Qrow sends her a sharp look, putting her hands up in surrender.
Qrow puts the key into the first speeder they reach, cursing when it doesn't turn in the ignition. Clover surveys the collection of vehicles around them in resigned dismay. "You don't know which one it goes to?"
"It's not like it comes with a label!" Qrow huffs.
Clover clicks his tongue. "Here, let me see it." Qrow hands him the key and Clover flicks his pin one last time, dragging out the last vestiges of his aura and praying that it's enough. He lets instinct guide him to one of the speeders and grins in victory when the engine starts up with a smooth purr.
The pride lasts barely a second before a wave of exhaustion crashes over him, the last of his aura shining a sparkling green over his skin that fizzles away as soon as it appears. He grasps vaguely at the handle of the speeder as his knees threaten to give way under him. Qrow catches him with one arm around his waist and another under his shoulder to keep him upright.
He leans into Qrow and gestures weakly at the seat in front of them. "Your ride, as promised."
Qrow sighs and presses a quick kiss to his temple, settling him onto the front of the seat before swinging his leg over to take the spot behind him. "Come on, let's get you out of here."
After a few starts and stops at the beginning as Qrow works out the controls, they fly out of the gate and across the sands of the desert outside the encampment. The speeders are designed perfectly for their purpose and Qrow pushes theirs to its limit, letting them cover ground in minutes that might’ve taken them hours to cross on foot over the shifting sands.
Clover forces himself to stay awake, at least until they can reach the other side of the mountains and find a safe place to camp. Both of them are fully aware that being out of the camp doesn’t mean they’re safe, either from the tribe they left in devastation behind them or the Grimm that infest Vacuo’s sands.
They’re just closing in on the base of the closest mountain when the sand underneath them rumbles ominously, rising in a mound that grows higher and higher until it could stand level with all but the tallest buildings in Atlas. Sand pours off the sides of the massive form and Qrow curses, weaving the speeder around the waterfalls of sand falling down on them and the pit forming below that pulls the sand into it as the rest is displaced. Shadow descends over them again as whatever the being is blocks the first few rays of dawn glowing above the horizon.
“What the fuck is it now?” Qrow hisses, skidding their speeder to a halt once they're a decent distance away and unfurling Harbinger back into scythe form. Clover summons all the energy he can to sit up straighter, placing a hand on Kingfisher in readiness.
Eventually the thing seems to fully emerge, and the world stops shuddering as its movements quiet. The deep black characteristic of the Grimm isn't present anywhere on its body, and Clover lets out a breath of relief that this gigantic being isn’t something they’ll have to fight. The beast is nearly the same color as the sands, although the first glint of sun over the horizon gives it a reddish hue where it shines on its body.The patterns swirling across the curved hump of it’s back are reminiscent of an animal’s shell, if the animal in question was large enough to fit an entire fleet of aircrafts on it comfortably. Clover’s never heard of any animal or Grimm in existence that’s so large. The sight is striking against the backdrop of the night sky with the stars still shining up above. They're dimmer now that the light of day is approaching but not yet fully gone.
Qrow sucks in a sharp breath of recognition that has Clover twisting in his seat to look up at him. “Any idea of what we’re looking at here?”
“I think it's a flatback slider,” Qrow answers, eyes wide with wonder as he stares up at the sight. “They’re a species of giant turtle that are said to live in Vacuo’s deserts— I always thought they were a legend. I’ve never met a person who’s actually seen one." His voice wavers with awe. "They’re said to bring good luck to anyone who sees them.”
“Well, it doesn't have anything to do with me. I'm out,” Clover mumbles, leaning back to watch the giant creature slowly shift back into motion to swim across the sands, its movements oddly graceful despite its size. The rocking of the sandspeeder over the dunes and the warm rays of the sun on his face makes him drowsy in the absence of adrenaline. “I guess sometimes good things just happen.”
Qrow’s arms shift to take his weight, closing a little more tightly around him. “I guess sometimes they do.”