33(Krovine Slopes: Mid-Morning.)
-Sokka-
Pain gained prominence as adrenaline dissipated and Sokka's backside felt thoroughly tenderized after sliding on it at Bogar's pushy stone slab's insistence; luckily his pants were made of resilient material, otherwise he'd be mooning all Jin-Sing with a skinless tooshie so patterned with drag marks anyone would swear he'd sat on a hot cooking-grill to deposit yesterday's lunch; yet his rear pains paled when compared to his wounded warrior's pride.
Maybe a few minutes passed, maybe half hour, Sokka wasn't sure, he'd spent most of it sat resignedly on the ledge moping, and its universal fact that when one mopes, time grows hazy. Sokka didn't care, outfoxed by both Azula and Bogar then stranded here inescapably, he'd finally accepted that his was the glass ego, not Azula's. Was he really that insecure, recklessly striving to prove his metal to a narcissistic princess and enemy whose opinion meant nothing to him? Put simply, yes, he was, and more shocking still, he did care what she thought of him, though why and when her opinion started mattering Sokka couldn't fathom. In suffering her continual company the past weeks he supposed he'd learned that in many respects they were pretty similar, yet so –SO- different in others. Alas, he was wasting time analyzing irrelevancies, and realistically, escaping this ledge would prove a vastly easier puzzle to noodle out anyway.
Surviving the fall was great and all, but with a still nasty drop below, survival itself is a small, easily rescindable favor at best; still, it beat a ledgeless woodlands plunge, those dying trees looked real menacing from up here, all spiky and –RAH, I'll rip your heart out cause I'm an evil tree that doesn't have a heart but wants one- claw-like. He weighed daring the risky but not impossible climb back up, except his only solid insurance would be death's ever-eager embrace waiting to cushion his landing "Good-ol death, the one reliable thing in life; and that's just sad." He thought dourly then tried for a positive spin "Well, at least the view's good up here." Was the best he could muster because his mighty brain could contrive no alternative solutions un-hobbled by intolerable probabilities of splatty fatalities.
Sokka sat resignedly, slumped in another brooding exercise, his legs dangling off the ledge, glowering defiantly down that too deadly a plunge, and that's when, quite in running with his lousy luck, Azula's light, lilting voice, ever unwelcome, feathered down to him from the overhead ridge like a uninvited breeze befouled with amused condescension, mockery and a disquieting joviality that ill-suited her.
"Well that was quite the performance peasant, I haven't been so entertained in years;" She guffawed then twisted the knife "You must be feeling very silly right now."
Too sore for repartee, Sokka merely groaned "Oh great, you again, come to gloat?"
"Not really, I'm surprised you're still alive;" She chortled "What dumb luck you'd land on the only ledge up here."
Sokka scowled, if she'd been watching then she knew his survival was accidental, but he wouldn't allow Azula the satisfaction of reveling in his shame "Yeah, I can tell your real disappointed with the results." He deadpanned bitterly.
"Very; in fact I feel thoroughly cheated after nursing such high hopes of seeing your lifeless corpse comically pulverized on the rocks; but I guess….What is it you're always saying? The world just loves proving me wrong?...Yes that's it; very pithy peasant, very pithy."
"I'll show you pithy in a minute if you don't quit bugging me; and let's not forget this whole lousy disaster is all your fault anyway." He snarled.
"Now-now, let's not be petty," Azula admonished, smirking "I think we both know who's really to blame for your current predicament? And it's not I, nor the bandit; go on, I'll give you three guesses who."
Sokka glowered, guessed "You?"
"No." Azula chirped.
"You." Sokka insisted.
"Cold; try again." Azula hummed.
"Yeeee-ooou?!" He pointed, adopting a grave, accusing expression.
"And wrong thrice; terribly sorry peasant but the correct answer was –YOU-" Azula hollered and pointed down at him with the theatrical hand-gesture used by those annoying loud-mouth hosts you find heading those stupid onstage game-shows in carnivals and city-squares; Sokka really hated those guys, mainly because he'd gotten roped into just such a quiz tournament last week where he bombed in the first round, and assuredly not for any lack of intelligence on his own part, in fact Sokka was convinced the host purposely humiliated him by asking an unanswerable question. How was he supposed to know Broccoli's a plant? Stupid vegetables, might as well have asked what the meaning of life is; alas, despite his insistence the game was rigged, the other's didn't buy it, and worse, Azula witnessed the whole debacle; this was her way of picking the scab, damn her.
Hands on hips, Sokka shook his head emphatically "That's what I said; YOU." He pointed grumpily; Azula just rolled her eyes, amused at his stubborn thick-headedness; though in principle she was correct, his competitive arrogance landed him here, but he sure wouldn't admit it to her. Normally stressful situations where his brain's time to shine, but his better half sure wasn't shining too brightly at present "Yeah brain, what's up with you today? Wake up on the wrong side of the head or something?"
"Don't crack wise with me dummy, I've got a mallet in here and I'm not afraid to use it!"
"Ohhhhh, touchy today, aren't we." Sokka crowed.
"Little princess know-it-all up there's just throwing me off my game a bit, that's all."
"Ahh-excuses-excuses."
"Which I'll soon trade for painful excuses if you don't shut up and let me think of an escape from this mess you gotten us in; damn bonehead."
"Who are you calling bonehead? It's your mansion, err, I mean, head...so start showing some pride in your residence or I'll stuff you in a small smelly box for the rest of your days!"
"Residence?!" His better half howled "Residence! This, is my prison, and you, are my rarely cognizant idiot jailor who feeds me nothing even –REMOTELY- academic, intellectual or philosophical; pessimism, hubris and shoddy one-liners are –NOT- a healthy diet!"
"Ah-bitch-bitch-bitch; just had to go and make things -REEEAAL- weird in here, didn't ya!"
"Well whose fault is that, hmm?"
"That's it, I'm not talking to you anymore!"
"Fine by me!"
"Ass!"
"Bonehead!"
While pondering if he'd bumped his bonehead during his fall, Sokka was snapped from his internal weirdness by his other least favorite choice of company "Where did you just drift off to?" Azula enquired, puzzled at his momentarily glazed expression.
"Crazy Town." Was Sokka's laconic response, Azula shrugged as if it made perfect sense; who knows, maybe to her it did "So; what now?" Sokka queried, playing nonchalant.
"Now? Hmm," She hummed "Let's just say I'm weighing the pros and cons of lending you a helping hand; alas, all I'm able to contrive, are cons." This with her pouty mock-sad voice, damn but could she act.
Sokka guffawed "Pros? In accepting your mercy? Nope, only cons, bad-baaad cons;" Sokka sniffed "And chances are that your -helping hand- has a real loose grip, cause, you know, mercy's a muscle and muscles need exercise to be strong, so I'm sure you'll understand my reluctance if I'm a little, um, reluctant."
"And I'm sure you'll understand my indifference if I don't give a far flung monkey turd about your idiot metaphors, or subsequently, your wretched –irritates the hell out of me- existence; unless…" She let it hang, eyes sparkling deviously.
Wary, Sokka took the bait "Unless what?..." He asked, his voice deceptively even.
"Unless; you apologize." Azula lilted, tilting her head in that really annoying way girls do to look all cute and innocent, and from her of all people.
"A-a-a-apologize?" Sokka practically sneezed out "To You?...Seriously?
"Seriously." She smiled wickedly down at him.
"Gahh, you –diabolical- which!" Sokka sputtered, outraged "I mean really, would you apologize in my place?!"
"In your place? down there?" Azula asked, sniffed then shook her head, chortling "No, no peasant, I wouldn't be that stupid."
"Yeah, thought so; now please get lost;" Her amusement irritated him "I've had it up to here with your nasty attitude."
"Up to there, really? Well considering I'm all the way up here and your way down there, you can't have had it so much as not to sacrifice the pittance of a remorseful one word admission."
"Oh-yeah I have, my pride's been wounded enough for one day thanks, besides, apologies offered under duress aren't ever sincere, everybody knows that;" He stated, stone-stubborn and condescending "And why would you help me anyway? You don't even like me."
"True, I don't, but you were right in that I'd do myself no favors neglecting my –obligation- to your survival, as per the conditions by which my dear, loving brother permits my freedom; so all you need do is apologize for the awful things you said earlier, and then, well, we'll see won't we?".
"No way I'm apologizing to you; if anything you should apologize to me!" He shrieked, irked "All you've done is insult me since we started this venture, and called me names. What's so hard about using my real name?"
"Oh Bo-ho, your poor little ego. Are two little words really so daunting? Come now, I'll even start you off….I'm…" Elegantly Azula rolled her hand, prompting, but Sokka kept stubbornly silent "That's your cue to say the magic S word; again…I'm…"
"You're, Sorry?" Sokka grinned mockingly "I know you are but what am I?"
"Suddenly very abandoned is what;" Azula sighed "I see you insist on being childish about this; well, have it your way then; soon it won't matter anyway, but no doubt you'll figure that out on your own in good time when you spy me carting off the bounty we might have shared if not for your stubborn resistance to reason."
"Your actually going to leave me stranded here aren't you," Sokka shook his head, hardly surprised "Figures, ever the shining example of human values are you royal types."
"Like I said, you've only yourself to blame; and while your plight isn't ineluctable, I doubt your resourceful enough to escape that ledge without contracting dead Savage syndrome; best start spinning yourself a silverlining, dying fools need their false comforts. Say, how's he view down there?"
"Why not take a swan dive and find out for yourself." He snapped, forgetting he'd already used that line on Bogar, and given Azula's disapproving frown, she must've been eavesdropping when he had.
"Hmph, glib, and repetitive," She snorted "Way to multi-task peasant. Are self-delusion and convoluted daydreaming your only talents? Or is masochism another of your twisted fetishes."
"I've got other assets too, come on down and see." Sokka was referring to the knife he threw at Bogar and wished he still had to throw at her; yet Azula mistook his retort for perverse vulgarity and scoffed.
"Oh please peasant, you couldn't handle me, and I doubt I'd be able to handle whatever archaic diseases I'd catch from contact with your non-existent manhood, so let's not go there, okay?"
Sokka was tempted to make it personal and say something he'd likely not survive, but for once he did the sensible thing and acknowledged his current disadvantage in the status quo and that antagonizing a certifiably crazy girl capable of erasing the life preserver beneath his feet in one elegant fiery hand gesture would make him even crazier than his wouldbe executioner. Indeed Sokka suddenly felt smarter for exercising this verbal forbearance; of course he still made a stupid reply, but nothing that'd get him killed "Azula, I swear when I get up there…."
"Promises, promises peasant, though I think –if- you get up would be more accurate; by now I'm sure our mutual acquaintance has caught echoes of your whiny, girlish voice on the wind and will be returning soon;"
"My voice is not girlish? Why do people keeps saying that?!" Sokka complained in a cracking girlish voice "I happen to think I sound very manly."
Azula just shook her head and exhaled "Last chance to apologize…" She offered airily, unanswered "No?" Ah-well, I tried, have a nice death, Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe." Azula punctuating his name with an avalanche of scorn, gave a little finger-wave farewell, then disappeared.
"Bitch," He muttered, deciding he'd find his own way off this ledge, without help from the likes, her; it's bad enough she'd beaten him up here, damn flying Firebenders, but she'd also watched Bogar kick his butt, likely from the concealed birds-eye vantage of the highest rampart. Once his temper cooled off though, the truth of his situation finally dawned. How -would- he get to safety? There were possible handholds up the cliff-face, but they didn't look reassuring. Crap, why'd he have to be so stubborn? Would've it killed him to apologize? It needn't even be sincere, though it probably ought to be, he had said some pretty rotten things, but so had she, and knowing her, apology or not, she'd have left him here anyway out of spite. "Oh the joys of companionship; maybe those cave hermits have the right idea, no people, no problems."
Sokka bet Azula was still nearby, it's certainly her style waiting for him to call begging her aid; yep, that'd just make her day wouldn't it. Stubbornly, futilely, Sokka stayed quiet, but when a short while later his ears detected soft scuffing footsteps above, his dignity collapsed like a lean-to in the gale that was his drive to survive.
"OK, FINE, I'M SORRY, ALRIGHT!?" The footsteps halted "You're right, I'm wrong. You hear? Well?" He shouted, voice bouncing of the cliff to no response "Hey; if your gonna make me embarrass myself begging, the least you can do is answer….AZULA!"
The footsteps neared, only it wasn't Azula but Bogar who peered amusedly down at him "Aye-enough of that unladylike whaling lad, weren't you listening when I said your almost a man grown, so act like, oh-oops, sorry Lassy, forgot you're a woman, that squeaking girly voice is a dead giveaway." Sokka growled and ground his teeth, face reddening "And what the fawk's an Azula?"
"A cute and cuddly fluffy bunny-bear with sharp claws and a bad attitude!" Ok, he might've stretched the truth there just a lot; cute and cuddly Azula most definitely is not; fluffy; well he certainly had no desire to see her in the nude, leave that mystery to the poor, suicidal, likely non-existent sod she ends up marrying; the claws and attitude though, were gross understatements; still, badly as Sokka wanted to sell Azula out and alert Bogar, who honestly seemed a nicer person than her, he wouldn't, yes, Sokka of the Southern Water Tribe is many things, but a tattletale, never.
"The stress and consequences of your bad choices getting to you already? Bad sign, talking to yourself and shouting at imaginary people, tsk-tsk; guess Lady Luck really does hate you. What, you have an affair with her sister or something?"
Sokka groaned tiredly "Aww-sheesh, everybody's a comedian today; and I'm their living punchline."
"Well, sucks to be you; catch ya later Lassy, I'm off to lunch." Bogar vanished from view
"Hay wait a sec, before you go I've got a question." Sokka called, remembering an important curio which, considering his current circumstances, really shouldn't be important, but the food fanatic in him was baying to know.
"Yeah?" Bogar's head reappeared "Shoot."
"Um, are Canyon-Crawlers, uh, you know, edible?"
"Oh you better believe they are, fine cut Crawler, cooked medium-rare till the sizzling fat tenders the meat, most would run screaming at the idea but add some sault, hot spices, garlic seasoning and a pinch of vinegar served with a side of nuts and cave mushrooms and you've got yourself a dish delectable enough to shame the divine spirits of gluttonous delights themselves."
It seemed farfetched but being the kind of culinary connoisseur who devolves to a drooling, foamy-mouthed invalid at the merest whiff of the magic that is meat over open flames, Sokka's curiosity was remorseless and brutally tyrannical, he simply had to know "Really? That delicious?" He asked, mouth already watering "You're not just pulling my leg right?"
"Nay lad, not at all, hundred percent serious, don't knock it till you try it, in fact tell ya what, I'll hunt one down for dinner, cook it and prove it to ya; I might even let ya have some too hehehe; uh, provided of course you come up with that insult; better make it hurtful, or else" Bogar grinned then disappeared again and Sokka almost hoped Azula would fail to capture the bandit, if only to slake his insatiable gastronomic intrigue.
Nevertheless, nice as taste-testing well-roasted Canyon Crawler sounded, he moved it onto his mental –do it later- list along with moping and cursing out Azula then got his mighty brain in gear and cerebrated non-fatal and preferably non-painful ways off this ledge. Bleak and few were the options he deduced, yet he formulated one feasible idea, perilous, but feasible.
Sokka riffled through his pack, finding little of great help; the coil of rope wouldn't serve with nothing up there to lasso, and it's too short to climb down on even with a reliable mooring, but basic camping stores don't usually sell rock-climbing gear and this was all he could afford anyway. The most useful items were, ironically, the mettle pegs for pitching his tent; he guffawed, recalling in embarrassment how his cheap, crappy tent kept collapsing the night before; stupid tree root. Chagrined, Sokka frowned sternly at the tent-pegs "Hope you two hold me up better than you did my tent, because if you don't, I'm taking ya-both down with me." Sokka clanged them together, administering a taste of impact; the steel pegs, thoroughly unintimidated, were thin but sturdy, sharp and pointy, the cracked rock-face would accommodate, though he slipped extra pegs in his pockets and Boomerang's untenanted sheathe as backups in case he dropped one.
The rock-face was hardly smooth or seamless, parts were but he judged half the climb doable barehanded, the pegs were for holds too thin for fingers and this ledge also made a decent safety net conditional on his climb not sidetracking beyond its width. Unlike earlier climbing those stairs that weren't stairs, Sokka left his pack behind, scaling a vertical rock-face with its pulling weight would be a risk undiminished by the relatively short three-four meter climb. Sokka had no intention of abandoning his gear though and so tied one end of the coiled rope to his backpack and the other to his belt, it's length exceeded the ascending height by over a meter, thus once up there he could pull the pack up after him; he also ensured the pack was closed so nothing fell out.
Deciding he'd wasted enough time brooding, time that'd benefit his rival bounty huntress, a grim faced Sokka got to it. Jaw set in stern concentration, fierce deep blue eyes ablaze with determination, his steady, purposeful vigor was a statement of defiance to the obstacle before him and the yet greater obstacles beyond it "Lookout Jerkbender's, cause Sokka's back in the game."
(Krovine Slopes : Mid-morning.)
-Bogar-
Sound up here travels easily, even a slipping pebble creates resonances; Bogar thought he'd heard a female voice, but dismissed it as the lad's unmanly squalling; the tribesman struck him as the lone wolf anyway, if he'd had a partner, they'd have sprung an ambush mid-confrontation. Quite the goofball that lad, one second he's raving at invisible people and the next he's making threats that somehow segway into earnest enquiries about wild cuisine, Bogar hadn't chuckled so heartily in years. He hadn't lied about cooked Crawler being delicious either; maybe he'd go hunting later, whip up some spicy crawler stew to slake the lad's curiosity before sending him on his way with some friendly advice to pick a more sensible career; he'd also toss the boy's weapons down into the woods for him to retrieve on his walk back to Jin-Sing, thereby reducing the risk of round two since Bogar –really- didn't want to kill him. The lad obviously has a good heart, he even reminded Bogar a little of his eldest daughter, Tier, girly voice included while just as spirited, headstrong and fearless yet quick enough of mind and whit to balance the precarious scales of exuberant youth.
Old familiar grief swelled in his chest; burning, painstaking loss, childhood friends, wife, kids, the few broken boons in his now wretched existence; so much loved and lost; yet despite the pain, he refused to let their memory die while he lived to honor it; if he fell, they'd forever go forgotten. Bogar paused, head bowed, eyes closed, breathing deeply, then with years of practiced emotional repression, Bogar strode on, his fleeting good cheer quashed beneath melancholia revived anew deep within the cold empty place where once glowed warmly everything dear to him torn asunder, his bitter, mournful reminiscence swelled into the vulgar, soul-flaying visage of pride, honor, life, love and his fall from each, symbolizing the purest, cruelest self-mockery tormenting him even here, today, masquerading as this personified falsity all Jin-Sing dubbed Bogar the Bandit. Yes, Bogar, a villain's title, he'd not chosen it yet he clutches at it like the lone life-raft keeping him afloat in this churning black sea of despair whose waves strive relentlessly to drag him under….anything to survive, to keep their memories alive.
An outlaw's life isn't glorious, rebellious or liberating; there is a nihilistic freedom, of sorts, but its cold comfort here where loneliness presides, desperation and necessity ruling reason while the divide between man and beast grows steadily fainter with the passing of years, beasts society's walls defy; yet would any hiding behind those walls fare any better? Irrelevant; Bogar wouldn't wish his lot on anyone. Still, life up here has it's silverlinings; good view, air ever-fresh, the breeze cool and pine scented, a grand mountain empire all his own with no polluting societal, judgmental, political or social pressures, no needs or expectations bar his own; and best of all, nobody left he could let down. An exile's only responsibility is to himself; it is, his freedom, his cold…cold…freedom, this hollow, shallow life, the past his omnipresent familiar, its mocking whispers warping perception, tainting spirit and belief red obsessed with bloody vendetta, that ironic hue both favored by those he loathes and that which spills from their lacerated flesh in the bitter bliss of vendettas excised, ceding death-cries tiding over the insatiable for a short time more; until again rises red vendetta.
The Jin-Sing Militia haven't deciphered his culturally specific treatment of victims, it isn't their fault, villagers playing peacekeeper without appropriate training gravely limits them and he'd taken no relish dispatching the militiamen who'd pursued him here. On bleaker days Bogar contemplated answering for his crimes, not those of the man he'd been, those he'd never regret, but Bogar's crimes, though surrender would assuredly spell his death, public execution in Jin-Sing square. Alas he'd never do it, he knew; through will and effort, survivors survive until circumstance beggars those virtues "Pity the lad mistimed his attack; for death, I'd likely have thanked him." Bogar didn't prize his bloodstained reputation in Jin-Sing, certainly he'd murdered, yet he took pains to avoid senseless slaughter in his banditry. Those he robbed however spurned that token respect and often retaliated violently rather than surrender their valuables. Bogar understood people defending their livelihoods; but self-sacrificially? Death was needless yet they resisted, Bogar hated it, and corpse disposal alone is a dismally distressing necessity, though he always gave his casualties a decent burial with basic funeral rights when he could, because twisted as having your life lamented by its ender may be, he still felt obligated….but not in every case; the vermin befouling his –Garbage Pit- whom he'd drag off alive to die the long, noisy way.
All Fire Nationers are sport to him, soldier or civilian, the difference is moot; all evil, all murdering, raping, ravaging sadists signified by eyes of burning amber…never trust…never trust eyes colored fire. They'd taken all from him, so he took all from them; their wealth, their livelihood, their loves, their screams, their plaintive supplications, and –eventually- their lives as well. Yet It was never enough; starved, insatiable, his appetite to hear their pleas for clemency, pleas echoing those of his kith, kin and love, unsatisfied. Hatred was all he had left, the last good thing besides the decaying fossils of happier memories
"War breeds monsters twice born; first birth whelps the impeccant child, twice births the salivating beast; I was born twice, the child is dead, his name forgotten, yet the beast, renamed Bogar, lives on, and I'm all too eager to share in the festivities, of that second birthday, with those, who sired me; with every celebration I age one year; even in my present seniority, what parent wouldn't be proud of this monster they created? I hear that pride in their every tortured scream, each a lament to the man they broke, their anguish a tribute to their success, their suffering a perfect credence to what a good little beastling they've raised, into monsterdom; faithfully following their example, as any devoted child would, their begetter!" He raved aloud, tone a slimy serpent slithering over burning flint.
And so again closes the morbid circle of his psychopathy and Bogar succumbed, immersing himself in reminiscence of vengeance requited, the braying of Fire Nation butchers as he broke bone, flayed flesh and sometimes even burned them, their fear of fire's touch a priceless irony. He swaggered in a hazy, euphoric cloud the remaining way to his den's vine camouflaged entrance where lunch would be eaten, a spyglass retrieved and hopefully used to peg another Fire Nation plaything to dismantle, and, of course, intimately acquaint with The Black Alchemist Stone.
Technically bending the entrance closed would be ideal concealment, superior to vines, but Bogar refused to leave the cave's structural integrity potentially compromised while he slept, Earthbenders excel at manipulating stone, sleeping Earthbenders, not so much; plus being a light sleeper, the circulation of fresh air was worth chancing attackers. Between his bending talent and EK-SF training, Bogar was better off than most independent bandits, thus his hideout defied expectations; it's interior is circular and sparse, Earthbent to his needs and wasn't the cold, damp, dark hole it appeared from outside. Furnishings Bogar built himself with woodland materials lined the den's back walls in a crescent layout of hide or fur partitions segregating different sized cubical-like, purpose oriented sections for loot caching, supplies, workspace, kitchen with ventilated hearth and sleeping space cozied up with pilfered rugs and tapestries.
A big round table where he planned and ate, currently uncluttered by the usual maps and parchments centered the cave hosting one cushion-boasting chair, one because, obviously, no social life, and cushion -boasting because he'd robbed a traveling Ba-Sing-Se noblewoman's carriage months back. Having already snatched her jewelry he'd made a hasty grab for her coin-purse as she slapped at him, shrieking hysterically; Bogar could only laugh when he made his getaway clutching not her wealth but her ass-warmer. He still liked to imagine her cushionless homeward journey, arms crossed, huffing in her pouty, lisping voice "Argh, that dastardly villain, forcing my most esteemed, finely-shaped fanny to perpetually brave this cold, hard, ah-ooww-and bumping bench; oh what-a-world!...Aww that's right, I killed all her stupid-stubborn bodyguards didn't I. Oops….nice lady though, hope she got home okay"
Bogar froze when he saw the backpack sitting on the table's edge "Odd;" He thought, why had he left that there, in fact he never stole backpacks, only their contents. He racked his memory for where he might've acquitted the pack and cursed his old, feeling mind "First poverty, now senility." He grumbled, walking for closer examination, figuring it recent plunder he'd left out for later inspection and content archiving. Just as he was reaching for it, a warning bell dinged behind his eyes. The pack looked brand new, everything he stole was generally travel worn. Ding-ding-ding, that bell again; that lad's pack, while lower quality, had also appeared new...Wait, what'd the boy babbled upon their encounter? Some nonsense about The Great Fire Nation huntress; a competitor perhaps? He hoped so, he loved meeting Fire Nationers. Wait, something else; what was that word the lad was yelling...Bogar's eyes widened; that wasn't a word, but a name…..and Azula is...
Terrible wrongness triggered his old, dolled instincts; in a blur of action, Bogar lurched up and leaped backward, Earthbending a lethal spike spearing upwards from the floor where he'd stood milliseconds before right as the concealed shadow descended from above; again his reflexes had saved him and taken his attacker unprepared too. Bogar heard a surprised gasp, but the falling figure, lithe, young and undoubtedly female twisted like a contortionist in midair, summersaulted and kicked both feet down, a deluge of Azure fire fell, destroying both his spike and the table in a storm of smoldering debris, already gesturing a two-fingered hand thrust before she landed nimbly beside the wreckage, directing a very precise, very deadly tongue of blue death streaking straight for his heart.
Only one Firebender wielded such flames; The Fire Princess herself had come to visit. Most would've run, or begged, but Bogar's smile was wantonly twisted, eyes dilating like a drug addict who's supplier offered him all the vice he wanted, whenever he wanted, free of charge, no strings attached. If he captured this one, oh the possibilities, after all the grief her ilk have caused the world, caused him; yes, true revenge, at last; his catharsis, his absolution. Still, Bogar was calm, serious, he'd not take her lightly, her prowess was rumored legendary, a true prodigy, but then many had once also considered him, a prodigy; sadly he was past his prime now, grown doll, fat, and old, yet she'd spent a year bundled up in an asylum if he'd heard correct, that'd atrophy anyone's ability. Oh her form was excellent he'd admit, just, not excellent enough; and, unlike her, he had nothing left to lose.
Casually, almost lazily, Bogar spun dancer-like, the ground spiraled up around him like a cone of armor, its drill-like motion nullifying her attack whereupon Bogar reversed his spin, causing his armor to uncoil and flick out at her in a snaking streamer, its head artistically, he thought, resembling a fanged, striking serpent. This was one of Bogar's talents, making earth more pliable, not flexible as rope or elastic, more like the joints in the human body, or door-hinges; it opens myriad possibilities solid stone denies. Clearly she'd never faced such a technique, the Fire Whore bobbed, weaved, and took aerial evasion as the stone serpent wriggled and whipped about, trying to tangle and bind her, Bogar had given it thorny scales that occasionally nicked her and whatever stone serpent body-parts she flamed to rubble were quickly replaced. Yet she was nimble and the whipping sections she dodged broke upon the opposite wall, or nearby furnishings as stone joints don't have great turning speed, thus he simply couldn't tangle her and his summoned supply was quickly depleting;
Knowing the Princess saw it too, Bogar braced watchfully for her crafty counterattack, she obliged, pirouetting in the same fashion he had, counterclockwise, arms gesturing, conjuring an azure whirlwind that swept away his stone serpent, then she refocused and redirected it all at him in the a very similar serpentine stream. Goading mockery perhaps? Bogar was unfazed, his temper icy, patient and vindictive "There's time aplenty to savor her –delicious- screams" Bogar bent his remaining cone-armor into thick gauntlets then thrust his stone-covered hands forward, the flames broke on them like a wave-break, his implacable will holding the stone together. The vile girl's bending was strong; but so, was his. Bogar used her dispersing flames to conceal when his clawed stone gauntlets propelled off his fists, targeting her throat as he side-rolled to avoid her fiery talon counterattack only for her to evasively roll clear of his own counterattack -exactly- as he'd planned.
The Royal Bitch had barely renewed her stance when Bogar, still crouching, punched the floor and a barrage of thin pointy stone javelins shot diagonally from the ground before him straight at her. Masterfully the girl slapped aside the vicious projectiles with blurring, burning hands, only realizing in the nick of time the javelins were yet another ruse to distract her from the rock-spear slithering sneakily from the floor at her flank. She leaped, not clear but atop the spike, twin firewhips materializing in her hands which she cracked at him. Bogar snorted, lazily raising his hands and a shielding stonewall both as he stood erect. The whips flayed his barrier but his power held it steadfast. He waited, sensing her tactical shift of refocusing the whips into an intensely hot sphere, then just as she cut loose, Bogar immediately bent a jacket of spikes into his barriers face, divided it down the middle and propelled both halves arching forward to her left and right like pincers while rolling beneath that nasty sphere that he sensed boring deep into the cave-wall behind him even as he Earthbent five tall, long skewering stone fingers up infront of now unguarded girl, imperiling her only direction to evade the pincers with the cave-wall at her back.
Still overextended from her attack with but half a heartbeat to act, The Royal Whore's impeccable instincts and reflexes salvaged her yet again. Without hesitation she summersaulted, simultaneously escaping the pincer trap and cleverly countering his five-finger skewer with twin heat jets directed downward from her legs, sweeping her landing area clean only to land exactly, where he wanted her. Bogar stomping, dislodging three big pointy stalactites in the cave roof, stalactites he'd preparedly Earthbent there himself months ago for surprise use in a situation just like this. The girl was good, bloody good, but even she couldn't predict everything; the spikes descended, yet that same instinct alerted her, she heard the stalactites break free and dove clear by the skin of her teeth while retaining enough sense to palm forth two powerful fireballs to keep him at bay and by herself recovery time. Bogar's trigger stomp however was a multitask motion that also replaced his stone gauntlets; smirking, he clapped his hands, catching and snuffing both fireballs with a comical -puff- sound that smoked up the cave even worse.
Bogar resumed his potently aggressive stance, but instead of attacking, he waited, watched, listened, hungry dilated eyes patiently –assessing- every inch of his welcome enemy. Like the ultimate predator she crouched where his kitchen had once been in a near impeccable bending stance, patiently waiting and observing just as he was. Her form, though a tad forced and jerky at times was still incredible, and judging by her raised eyebrow and eager smirk, she didn't think his was too shabby either, confirmed when she spoke "So the hairy savage has skill and intuition," The sharp cold voice of the girl in green and black mocked, he'd have to watch for those sheathed knives she had too "A phenomenon indeed? Good to know I haven't wasted my time after all; you'll make for a challenging practice dummy."
Bogar couldn't agree more, at last a challenge worthy of his prodigal, if rusty, talents. He would enjoy this fight and enjoy even more her prolonged torment to come once he subdues her. Arrogance didn't rule him though, she'd get his A game, nothing less would suffice. That same sadistic, bloodthirsty spark Bogar remembered so vividly in the eyes of those who'd ambushed and slaughtered half his team, and again in those who'd raped his wife and daughters and butchered everything he ever loved now blazed tenfold in her putrid golden gaze; he'd just become the soul object of her attention, and she his, each exhilarated by the prospect of respectively roasting or mutilating the other. Her taunts couldn't bait him, in anger Bogar never loses his cool, but finds it, just like during his purging of regional intelligence. The jovial, forbearing old man who fought the tribesman had vanished and The Beast, the true Bogar, lurched full awake for the first time in years and came roaring exultantly up from the darkness to greet the dawn of another, VERY, special, birthday..
"Fire Nation cunt;" It growled slowly, hungrily, teeth bared in a truly evil death's head grin that mirrored it's prey's, the manic demented intensity of its stagnant grief-writhen madness surfacing fully, bloodshot gray eyes bulging in ecstasy as it practically sung the breathy razor-like words "I'm a year older today; so wish your son a happy birthday, and reap, WHAT YOU HAVE ROUGHT!"
"BRING IT ON, PSYCHO!" The fire whore crowed right back, sounding every bit as unhinged as the beast she battled when they lunged at eachother, flinging the full might of their prodigious, prodigy level bending powers into full-on, merciless, head to head brutality. Inexplicably, Azula understood the bandit's crazed meaning about birthdays because it was mirrored in herself, her wants, feelings and actions. She'd thoroughly analyzed this dirty savage's psychology, ability and resolve and was now certain -he- was the challenge she'd been hoping for since her release; and astonishingly, she was his as well. "Everybody's happy!" She mentally reveled in nauseous glee as they unleashed everything they had on eachother in a literal screaming, cackling fury, each reveling in this opportunity to at long last open the floodgates on all those years of wrath, hatred and pent up emotional agony.
The opening round had merely been a warm up for both combatants; now the very slopes themselves seemed to tremble as the two psychotic, seditious benders clashed in an explosive storm of fire and rocky shrapnel, both literally foaming at the mouth as they contrived, tried and countered the myriad new and interesting ways to deface the very symbol of what they hated, a symbol manifested in the other's very heart and soul, their insane, raucous laughter resounding like the maddened, eternally tormented ghosts of murder victims centuries unrevenged and justice deprived to echo out of the cave on soundwaves of hissing fire and rumbling rock to be carried away on the wind of a rainstorm that'd crept from seemingly nowhere to blanket the moment in its oppressive gloom and sodden misery.
(Krovine Slopes : Late-Morning)
-Sokka-
Unfortunately the sole recipient of that soon to come sodden misery, was the tribesman clinging vulture-like to the cliff-side cursing the spirits because, much to his chagrin, the climb had taken him marginally askance of the ledge's safety seeking reliable handholds, but thankfully not so askance that he couldn't make a falling lunge to catch its edge, maybe. Sokka trusted his hands more than the tent-pegs which, despite their small pinion-like teeth, ill-suited this arduous work. Overall though, the task wasn't so dire as he'd feared, dangerous, but doable; indeed, two tense, sweaty minutes on, he was over halfway up and proud of it. Alas, he should've learned by now exactly how the world feels about a proud, successful Sokka; but Sokka had learned, thus his total lack of surprise when the heavy gray rainclouds that'd crept out of nowhere chose that moment to get a load off. As if his plight wasn't precarious enough without rain-slick rock and a soggy grip "Aww, what'd I ever do to the Nature Spirits to deserve this relentless heckling; if youse don't quit it with all this Sokka bashing, I'llll…." One handhold firmly gripped, Sokka shook a fist at the sky, instantly answered by am angry thunderclap "Eeeek, just kidding." He squeaked, hugging the cliff "Spirits+fistshaking=bad idea!"
This wasn't fair, all he wanted was to escape his friends shadows and make a name for himself as a competent yet honorable Bounty Hunter. Benders get all the glory while he, the brains behind the Boomer-Aang squad, is publically denoted as some worthless tag-along, poop shoveling halfwit stable-boy all hindrance and no help; typical public, feckless, ungrateful sods, the war would've been lost and the Earth Kingdom roasted without him, yet even the legendary Air Ship Slice was officially attributed to Toph despite her denials. Right then Sokka resented them all; Azula, Bogar, his friends, the world, everything, especially nature as fear muddied self-doubt flooded his mind. How'd he gotten here? Some Bounty Hunter he made, getting whooped by a simple brigand. Katara was right, he was a screw up, a boomerang boasting boneheaded buffoon, and now he was pointing the finger of blame everywhere but himself; he'd landed himself here, not Azula, not Bogar, but him, Sokka the Southern Mopey-Dope, with his dumb decisions, rusty skills, candid levity, incompetence and worse; his inattentive trust of Azula from day one.
Oh yes, so subtle, so sneaky her little scheme, staging their earlier bandit battling argument to attack his warrior pride, knowing he'd recklessly charge up here unprepared and die a victim of his own stupidity confronting the notorious Bogar who, once Azula later captures, will confess to his murder with the Innocent princess lamenting her poor prideful partner who, spurning her Firebending support, went glory chasing alone; oh Azula rushed to catch up, but arrived, too late, and BAM, Team Avatar's best and brainiest nullified. Sneaky bitch played him good, even Katara might've bought such a feasible fiction eventually, especially with Bogar's legitimate confession. Interestingly this revelation calmed Sokka, focused him, recognizing his instant of doubt might've cost him everything, thus he'd kept scaling upward while mulling Azula's deceit. She'd pay dearly for this, Spiritbending dearly.
"A pox on those sneaky rainclouds, as if capturing Bogar weaponless isn't problem enough, dragging an immobilized prisoner off these slopes and through muddied woodlands will be murder." The rain, while not heavy, soaked his head and shoulders and streamed down his face, but with the cliff getting damper and safety a scant meter above, Sokka wasn't pausing for anything, not even after becoming sure he felt subtle vibrations through the cliff, nothing that'd dislodge him yet enough to set his teeth grinding, mostly from anger, believing them the reverberations of battle. Azula and Bogar had crossed paths it seemed, and Sokka honestly wasn't sure which ass-face to root for; the one who put him here or the one who abandoned him here. Maybe they'd kill eachother and he could claim Bogar's bounty himself. Nevertheless, Sokka persevered, stubbornly, painstakingly pulling himself up with every stable, rain-slick peg or handhold, breath heavy, muscles protesting, teeth grinding, adversity as ever drawing out the best and worst in him wherein the midst of stress he found that inner-equanimity which'd inspired all his finest plans and improvisations.
Except creativity wasn't his crisis mind's only boon, mental clarity also shared the seat upon that chaotic Throne Of Psyche. This clarity had a sense of irony it seemed, recalling the day a sleep deprived Aang dreamt Fire Nation soldiers pursued Sokka and he died cause he couldn't climb cliffs and so ordered him to practice cliff-climbing barehanded. Sokka felt offended back then, but as he heaved himself panting back onto the safe, solid rampart and, still belly prone, hoisted his backpack up after him, Sokka swore to thank Aang's crazy dreaming brain profusely.
In no time a grim faced Sokka reached Bogar's presumed hideout, careful to stand beyond view of its entrance. He immediately unslung his backpack, gently leaned it against the cliff, Bogar was right, it'd slowed him earlier and he'd need to be quick, nimble and sneaky here if by some miracle the bandit defeated Azula. Blah, of course she'd won, she's Azula after all. Yet caution always pays, a lesson neglected when he'd heroically charged up here. Sokka peeked around the corner, past the draping vines, his eyes adjusted, spying an opposite wall curving a corner around which faint firelight and fainter muffled voices seeped. No clanger or further vibrations of the bending battle though; apparently concluded, but in whose favor? A faint sound; like screaming, or laughter? glee, or pain? Male, or Female? Drifted out the tall opening; but deep in the cave, muffled by distance, distorted by echoes and rainfall, Sokka couldn't distinguish;
Since seeing beats hearing at this juncture, Sokka slid past the vines on silent feet, every step, every motion cautious and patient, the rain outside would provide some sound cover, but he didn't want to announce himself until assessing the situation. The cloying stench of smoke and burning wood predominated, almost choking him at first. Crouching lower for cleaner breathing and to present less of a human silhouette, Sokka crept stealthily toward the corner roughly six meters ahead, expecting that when he peeked around he'd find the obvious outcome, Bogar trussed up and a triumphant Azula, who'd pointedly mentioned –stress relief- probably torturing him. Well if so, Sokka, loathing torture's practice no matter the justification, would intervene; although if it's just a good old fashion kicking Bogar's getting, Sokka wouldn't object, mayhap he'd even make a contribution to recompense the ledge stranding.
Ice water dribbled down Sokka's spine when a chilling squeal dissected the silence, shrill, sharp, anguish-fueled but with a stifled, despairing quality, hoarse, yet uncannily feministic. Bogar had criticized Sokka's voice for sounding girly, except Sokka knew a womanly pitch behooves most guys in excessive pain. So, Azula was torturing the oaf; sadly Sokka wasn't surprised, just sickened and angry. When Azula mentioned stress relief, he'd pictured a criminal beat-down, but torture? Whatever Bogar's crimes, torture, just, no.
Maintaining stealth, Sokka crept onward, the chuckling mutters of that other voice growing more distinct, its echoes more malignant, its baritone like a fist squeezing his heart, its seditious edge now irrefutably masculine and accented; that wasn't right, Azula had no accent. Another soul-shredding scream, worse with the increasingly prominent echoes of proximity, and this time the sex, and even the owner of that tormented voice, despite its muffled, ragged timbre, was disambiguated then all too vividly confirmed when Sokka reached, crouched at and peered around that ominous corner of dancing firelight and emotionally gut-wrenching resonations to see….his breathing embrace inertia.
The aftermath of a calamitous bending clash, this hideout, which must've once resembled an uncanny meshwork residence of semi-civilized living, wild brigandage livelihood and adventurers repose that Sokka would've envied ownership of, was sundered unto a shambles of charred, pulverized furniture and living comforts strewn all over, hosting dozens of small fires that eagerly contributed to the thin smoky smog and the violent war between light and shadow animating the walls, floor and high ceiling of Bogar's cavern with savage, chaotic imagery doubtless mimicking the ferocious conflict of battling benders. A conflict now conclusively degenerated into the terrible scene transpiring at the heart of all this destruction.
Azula was pinned flat on her back to the ground by solid stone bonds arching over her body, their ends rooted deep into the floor, immobilizing her at feet, ankles, knees, hands, wrists and elbows with thicker bands crushing her stomach, chest, neck and forehead with such pressure that she struggled for every breath, doubly so with a thinner stone band drawn brutishly between her teeth as a makeshift gag against fire-breath by cruelly, painfully forcing her jaws wide apart, any wider would mean breakage. Sokka knew how essential the breath is to Firebenders and how restricting it renders them almost impotent, thus he could tell Azula was utterly helpless. Worse still, Bogar had, with methodically calculated viciousness, Earthbent thorns along her restraints edges that'd scratch her if she struggled, though with virtually no wriggle room, they'd never bleed her to death. Most disturbing however, was the way Azula's legs were pinned wide apart; self-exclamatory reasoning, imagination inessential. Furious at Azula as Sokka was, she didn't deserve that; thank the spirits her pants were still up, Bogar hadn't done it…yet.
Indeed it seemed Bogar only just finished immobilizing the Princess and had barely started hurting her. Currently, the bandit was crouched at Azula's side, hunched forward with his unarmored back, which bore a big mean blistering burn, fortuitously facing the entrance -and- Sokka. Realizing he'd stopped breathing, Sokka oxygenated himself with deep, silent openmouthed breaths. He'd seen war crimes in Team Avatar's travels, but this was plain disgusting, and the calculated setup of it proved Bogar's done this before, many times; the mass grave of rotting, mutilated bodies Azula found, all Fire Nationers; yes, and this scene, coupled with Bogar sparing Sokka's own life, explained much "Fire Nation friend-making at its finest." Sokka thought sarcastically and his mighty brain, shedding its shocked inertia, did its fast-thinking thing. Bogar was definitely torturing her, but Sokka couldn't identify the cruel implement being used with the bandit's back facing him, it must be effective though to extract such sounds from someone like Azula,
Another raspy, bloodcurdling wail, this one longer, deeper, worse; clearly what little air Azula could draw went to screaming and writhing, the thorns pricking her skin and the stone gag stressing her jaw, distorting her outcries into ghoulish, abrading animalistic howls. The bandit paused, Azula's screams dissolving to apoplectic nose-panting "I like alchemy, and biology," Bogar stated in a pitiless baritone that reverberated disquietingly through the hideout "it's the reason why direct skin contacts with this beautiful black stone, is so…" Pause, a muffled, croaking shriek of mortal agony that wrenched unexpectedly at Sokka's heart "Intolerable; our bodies are big bags of chemicals you know, some substances agree with our makeup, and others…" More excruciated screams "Less so."
Sokka's fists clenched, strangling the pegs, his teeth grinding with such outrage he feared Bogar might hear. Azula whimpered then cut loose with a slew of unintelligible abuse, trying to look defiant. Bogar loved that, and hearing that glee, a cold-cold hatred for this man bloomed inside Sokka, he mightn't like Azula, but he respected her as he respected all strong women; truly that Black Alchemist Stone's touch must be diabolical to reduce her to this so quickly, even her defiant garbling sounded hollow, her fiery, indomitable spirit was cracking already. Bogar sensed it too and loosed a deranged cackle, the upbeat bandit Sokka met earlier had become an upbeat monster dementedly lapping up Azula's suffering like a thirsty desert-dog rewarded a full waterdish.
"Ah-yes, that delicious disbelief in your eyes, your cries; they question; how did this happen to me…ME?" Bogar mocked in blubbering falsetto "And you were so confident earlier, so self-assured mehehehe; what happened to that cocky attitude? That promise of pain, and suffering? Aren't royal whores meant to keep their promises? Shouldn't I be in your place now, screaming for mercy under your putrid blue death?"
Another muffled shriek, more whimpering, no incoherent abuse this time, Sokka shivered again; Azula tried not to thrash against the thorns but failed. That stone, Sokka wanted to wretch; yet being in his warrior/hunter mindset, he hardened his heart and tore his eyes from Azula's plight, remembering situational awareness he assessed the environment. Loose rubble and wreckage littered the floor between him and Bogar like a minefield, no large obstacles, the biggest a smashed table, but enough loose shattered stone and clutter that if kicked or crunched underfoot would surely alert Bogar. Against the far right wall Azula's many knives and belt tools lay haphazardly discarded, either she'd thrown them at Bogar or Bogar took them after subduing her and tossed them aside. Though superior to tent-pegs, Sokka ignored the knives as retrieving one would place him in Bogar's peripheral vision and Sokka felt too exhausted for round two, so it'd either be a stealthy flank-n-stab, or nothing, as in abandoning Azula; yeah, not an option, Zuko would geld him. Slowly, very slowly, Sokka stalked closer, glad Bogar was too busy being a sicko to sense impending peril the way Toph might, and luckier still, the firelight cast his shadow backwards.
"Yes, I know who you are, princess; pieced it together from what that nice Water Tribe lad let slip; rival Bounty Hunter, betrayer, HA!" Bogar crowed "Predictable, no surprise, making him beg for salvation like that, antagonizing him knowing I'd hear you from afar, that I'd come back here into your ambush;" Bogar literally spat in her face "You sicken me; it's a mystery why such a smart kid would trust a filthy little -cunt- like you."
A valid point, yet Sokka wasn't distracted, he kept his mouth open slightly to reduce breathing and swallowing noises, his steps tentative to avoid disturbing the floor litter, it was hard going as the mess left few silent options for foot placement, forcing him to weigh the risks of every movement. passing a fist sized rock, Sokka pondered trading the lethal option of tent-pegs for its non-lethal noggin-bopping knockout; but no, to have defeated Azula Bogar must be resilient, plus Sokka hadn't the arm strength left after his climb, and ironic as clocking an Earthbender with earth sounded, they were both done for if he failed. Sokka hated killing but it was the only way to save Azula; yes, Azula of all people, even in his head it sounded ridiculous.
"Especially considering what your family ordered done to his people. From the south ain't he? Maybe I'll invite him up here to join the fun; what ya think bitch, reckon he'd want a pound of your pasty, rotten flesh the way I do?" Oh no Sokka certainly didn't, bizarrely he wanted to save her skin, doubly so when Azula's next outcry made his knees go wobbly, almost compromising him; "Feel it?" Bogar waved the stone, snickering "Just a half second touch gets you honking like the royal whore-slag you are, ergo why I'm wearing gloves; clever me eh?" Sokka could imagine Bogar's terrible death's head grin, all teeth and malice to match his tone "But prolonged contact, welllll, try to imagine your flesh, and muscle tissue, eating itself to escape the touch, like natural suicide, you won't even bleed out. Today though, I'll only be taking your skin, among other things…." He tapped her inner thigh, Azula went nuts, gobbling and thrashing despite the pricking thorns, Bogar guffawed "Just like your fucking soldiers did to my…" Bogar trailed off, made some indecipherable, emotionally choked noises, then Azula shrieked again as Sokka crept nearer, getting lucky with a meter of clear ground, poising his tent pegs into a diagonal ready-plunge position. Just five more steps.
More screams, Closer Sokka crept, Bogar resumed talking, more emotional now, bad sign "And after you learn those, indignities, I'll take a nap, a day's retribution is hard work after all; then tomorrow, I'll cut off all your digits, a quarter digit at a time, cauterize, and repeat." He giggled and sniffled in pitchy sing-song "Third day, I'll pulverize to powder every non-vital bone in your body –after- I cut out your eyes, ears, nose, and –other- inessential parts." Bogar leered at her chest and the way Azula's breath caught evidenced Bogar wasn't lying, the rotted corpses in that pit were missing such assets, her reaction made both Sokka and Bogar shiver for reasons worlds apart "Then it's back to the Black Alchemist Stone till you die of pain overload, which'll take a while; I know how to keep em alive for a –loooong- time, force-feeding, force-excreting, etcetera. Saw my Garbage pit didn't you? Probably done some torture yourself too, eh? Fun, isn't it?" He chortled manically, evoking Azula's most agonized howl yet.
While Bogar hadn't detected him; Azula however, still mewling, did. Sokka stopped dead, stunned by the sudden relief in her wide, watering eyes and the almost pleading expressiveness that replaced it at his freezing; those eyes, once the symbol of purest evil in his life, unbelievably, leaked a single tear. Could a product of Black Alchemy really bring one so strong so low, so fast? Her wide wild gaze locked onto Sokka's and his heart seized up; that look, she thought he would abandon her here; in her place he'd fear the same. But she'd underestimated him, again, misjudged him, again, he'd never leave anyone to die like this, not even her. In that time frozen instant, it struck Sokka just how fragile Azula looked, how human; conflicting feelings raged in him, altering his perception of her significantly. The longevity of their profound soul gazing was milliseconds, but the unspoken messages Sokka's deep blue eyes conveyed to Azula's pain maddened golden ones sincerely declared she would not be abandoned again. Message received, Azula, now playacting resigned despair, looked away to avoid compromising Sokka's ambush. Countenance icy as his homeland, Sokka became the Southern Huntsman; careful, careful steps, so close now, and Azula was, well, Azula, she'd keep it together, and with Sokka but once small step from reaching Bogar, she'd not be waiting long.
And so it was that sometime in the following moment, Bogar died; Sokka swiftly, silently closed the gap, a hateful, disgusted expression contorting his features as he slammed both tent-pegs horizontally, point first, into each of the bandit's ears, punching deep into his brain with a wet, squishing, slithering noise that eerily mimicked Bogar's final boggled gasp before his body went rigid, head flopping back, eyes finding Sokka's in that traumatic instant, somehow recognizing him, they asked "Why; why save her?" Unanswered to the last; numbly Sokka let Bogar topple over and was standing at Azula's side before the failed human being hit the ground, stone dead.
He'd, just killed, again; something about Sokka's blank staring eyes stopped Azula's heart, this wasn't the goofball she knew, this man was different, much-much darker, his face unrecognizable, eyes lifeless, staring into nothing; laying there, helpless, vulnerable, him standing over her, never until now had she true cause to fear the Tribesman. Suddenly his empty, nebulose gaze found hers, held it, held her; darkness that beggared the bandit's and even her own in the eyes of this fool comedian, Azula saw, but couldn't believe, yet relieved was she at its ebb and passing and the zany peasant returning, reverting to himself, his features dazed and forlorn….for he'd just killed, again….
Compartmentalizing his melancholia, Sokka looked down on Azula, froze, suddenly realizing his unique advantage over the infamous Princess who, doubtless recalling the similar role-reversal from earlier, her boot on his throat, instantly understood his hesitation. Voice rasping but placatingly gentle, she tried to speak, her gag objected, fueling her distress, his calculating gaze further fuel. She struggled feebly against pitiless bonds, glaring and hissing illegible threats, revealing the fear behind them, fear that he'd exploit her impotence and sate vendettas long denied.
Azula however, had again misjudged him. Last year her terror would've been sweet nectar to him, yet he'd never –ever- do what Bogar did. Use her as a bargaining chip? Sure. Kill her? Ehhh-Maybe; but never torture….Still, why waste a rare opportunity. Sokka grinned his typically mischievous grin, much to Azula's irritation and secret relief, reimagining those eyes without their impish, life-affirming sparkle. Seeing her annoyance, Sokka had a sudden insane impulse to tickle the immobilized princess into tears of hysterics, but it died upon reassessing that now frantically squirming princess's battered condition, that and she'd brained him last time he accidentally tickle-attacked her.
"Aw-settle down, I won't do anything; though you know I could, right?" She paused, regarding him, golden eyes distrustful, then nodded, or tried to anyway "Good, so next time you think about manipulating me into getting myself killed, yeah I figured out your game;" Azula froze, eyes widening slightly, confirming his suspicion "I want you to remember this moment when I could've taken advantage, but didn't;" She squinted at him, he detected disapproval, so clarified "This isn't mercy, or pity, so don't go thinking I'm weak, my reasons for helping you are –entirely- selfish I assure you. So, are we agreed?" Her eyes scrutinized him, seeking untruth; then, with another minute nod that looked almost approving, she conceded.
Sokka turned to retrieve his War-club, Boomerang and knife from Bogar's belt and shuddered at the pooling blood and how the tent-pegs protruding from the bandits head resembled a grotesque mimicry of handlebars. Had he really done that? Face paling, he snatched his possessions and spun away, sickened; Azula observed him from the corner of her eye, his queasiness apparently amused her.
Kneeling at her side, Sokka said "I'm going to free your neck first so you can breathe better, probably best I bust the stone here;" He tapped where the bonds rooted into the floor with his club, surprised at Bogar's skill, having originally believed only Toph and King Bumi could make stone this resilient, "Less chance of those thorns cutting you up; so hold still, okay." Azula gurgled at him, clearly agitated "Hey, take it easy and let me work" He snapped more harshly than intended, positioning his war-club, yet she kept squirming and mewling, then he saw she was trying to shake her head and, after piecing together her garbled syllables, face-palmed, realizing her jaw must be absolute agony "Alright, alright, I'll get that load off your tongue first." Azula looked satisfied with that and lay still, letting him commence the delicate job of breaking the stone without injuring her jaw by using his club and knife like a hammer and nail "You totally owe me for this." He muttered and she gave him the evil eye.
Despite being her thinnest restraint, it was a delicate operation, the vibrations clearly hurt her, but having experience breaking ice it only took a minute to crack one end before repeating the process on Azula's other side, and soon enough she could speak again. Azula worked her jaw, winced, coughed shallowly, taking painful gasping breaths to croak "Free, my diaphragm, and, one, of, my arms, peas-ant; I'll, handle….th-the rest."
"What, no swooning –oh Sokka, your my hero- speech?" He jabbed, feeling cheated.
Despite being close to passing out, Azula mustered a look so withering Sokka instantly got started freeing her neck, knowing the rest would be less risky than freeing her jaw. Two minutes later her neck was free, another minute on and he was almost halfway done with her chest restraint when Azula wheezingly hissed "Hurry up, peasant,"
Sokka scowled, grumbling "Stone busting fast as I can here, Royal Highness."
"Well bust, faster; I, hate, this." Her voice cracked into a squeak, Sokka supposed he should be sympathetic, people like Azula take to vulnerability like fish take to dry land; still, her bossiness rankled.
"I'd work faster –without- interruptions, hint-hint; so quit harping at me, or I'll gag you again."
Oh such a look she gave him, which then twisted into a devious smirk "So charming;" She croaked, voice dripping sarcasm "Sure know how, to play the, gentleman; i-is-this, how you treat your, precious Kioshi Trophy Girl, whenever she, backchats you?"
"Only in the bedroom." Sokka distractedly lied without thinking then felt like slapping himself? Man, if Suki ever learns he told such a lie, in jest, to anger the girl who imprisoned her…aww bad days.
He'd aimed his thoughtless repartee to offend Azula's stuffy social etiquette, and indeed she affected a revolted expression, but failing to hold it she exhaled an uncharacteristic snort of clipped, smoky laughter "You Barbarian." Uncannily, her voice carried no scorn, probably too exhausted, even her haughty smirk looked strained
Sokka snorted "Only kidding, just trying to shock you."
"Well that backfired, didn't it?" Azula drawled condescendingly between labored breaths "Oh and, a little free advice, peasant; domineering, ill-suits you."
She'd turned it around on him damn her; making Sokka the squeamish one; he shrugged to hide it "Yep, that's your racket, besides I'd never treat Suki like that."
"Pff, obviously; she'd beat you bloody first."
"That too."
Azula's eyes sparkled wickedly, her smirk growing teeth "Of course, at first chance, I'm totally telling her, what you said."
"And I'm totally leaving you here like this… unless you swear on your Firebending not to." Sokka bluffed.
Azula glowered, eyes challenging "You wouldn't, dare."
"Oh wouldn't I; you sure?" He smirked, locking stares, then they both snickered, knowing he wouldn't, not after risking his life to preserve hers "Nothing worse than a tattletale, Princess." He admonished feebly.
"Fair enough, peasant;" Azula conceded breathily "ZuZu was a master tattletale, when we were children, ergo I can respect, your logic, and shall endeavor to keep, that fickle slip, of your dirty, silver tongue, to myself."
"Eww, that sounded –SO- wrong; please rephrase that before I puke." Sokka groaned, Azula guffawed, it was contagious, he snickered, silently hoping the red in cheeks were just pressure marks.
This was messed up, first he kills her torturer and now this bizarre exchange; clearly the trauma of their ordeal was making them loopy; but apparently laughter was medicine neither wanted yet both subconsciously needed despite the inappropriate time, situation and subject. Their past banters had been guardedly competitive with slight mutual respect; but here, now, sharing a laugh under such absurd circumstances, it was, nice; but also fleeting, for suddenly they remembered who they were, who the other was and all the reasons not to lower their guard. Thus an unhappy silence ensued, only the crackle of burning wreckage and the clubbing of stone crediting the existence of sound until, some minutes later, Sokka finally broke off the stone restraints crushing Azula's chest and pinning her right arm at wrist and elbow whereupon Azula handled the rest, though her fire was noticeably weaker. It took her a while to stand upright without swaying, but Sokka, not dumb enough to impeach her tough girl independence, didn't help steady her and instead waited patiently while she composed herself.
"Did I just save one of my least favorite people from a villain less villainous than she?" Sokka feared his brain might hemorrhage from disbelief. His whole body shook with emotional turmoil and ebbing adrenaline; Azula wasn't faring much better, standing there, staring into nothing. As a royal princess raised in pomp and privilege, Sokka bet she'd never factored being subjected to torture a possibility; to her kind, torture is only sowed and never reaped. Sokka hadn't forgiven all Azula did in the war, the hunting, hounding and attempted killing, or forgiven her near fatal manipulating today, perhaps he'd never forgive her. Yet…yet he'd slain Bogar for her, which in itself would tax him several restless nights. Killing, it never gets easier, and if Azula gives him grief about it, he'd strangle her. As to why he saved her drastically overvalued hide; simple, he'd done it, not for Azula's sake, but to preserve his basic human decency, something he'd forfeit had he abandoned her to Bogar's depravity, resulting in a guilt racked conscience that'd deny him years of peaceful sleep; so, prizing quality shuteye as highly as a full belly, it was a nobrainer.
Sokka discreetly eyed Azula for injures, she looked like hell on shaky legs, beat up, her new outfit torn in places, the skin beneath scraped and bruised, she was sweaty, dirt-caked and her hair had fallen from its half-knot to hang like a damp tangled curtain clinging to her back and face which was relatively unharmed bar a scraped cheek, but overall, nothing major. Numbly, Sokka's eyes roved the cave, suddenly fixing on Bogar's Black Alchemist Stone lying not far from its former owner's pooling blood; fist sized, smooth edged like a flawlessly cut gem, gleaming with a dark beauty so malignant that no respectable person would covet it. Mesmerized and too dazed to catch his mistake, Sokka bent to pick it up, a move that snapped Azula wide-eyed to her senses "Don't touch that!" She barked huskily; too late, the slightest brush of his bare fingertips was enough.
Letting out a bloodcurdling shriek, Sokka collapsed in a fit of violent convulsions, reality twisting and warping into dimensions and colors he wasn't sure existed. Luckily the sensation was brief and he didn't faint, but oh spirits his head; he was no stranger to pain, but not in all his life, in all imagination "Eeeeeh, what-de-fuke, wus-dat!" He gasped, whimpering, dribbling, too shrill and hysterical to speak coherently. He sympathizing with Azula now, totally; and to think, Bogar spent days torturing the Fire Nationers in that mass grave using this evil thing. Sokka trembled from anger and muscle spasms both, any remorse he'd harbored for killing Bogar deader than the bandit himself.
Once his brain readjusted itself, Sokka sat up "Warned you." Azula lilted, some of her moxie returning; then she surprised him by extending a hand to help him up which he tentatively accepted, though she left him to steady himself. No pain lingered and his fingers bore no evident wounds, yet deep inside he felt horribly violated somehow.
"Who'd, make something like that?" Sokka fumed.
Azula didn't reply, her eyes were set on the Black Alchemist Stone for several long seconds, then suddenly she let out an enraged cry of raw emotion and cut loose two jets of fire so hot they burned white as they engulfed Bogar's corpse, incinerating it to a charred blackened husk and poisoning the air with the foul odor of burning hair and flesh. Sokka goggled, horrified to see his hard won bounty rendered utterly unidentifiable? Three days of working, arguing and ball-busting, wasted. Furious, Sokka opened his mouth to let Azula have it, but one look at her and he instantly shut it again; this wasn't like last night, this time Azula really was unstable. But who wouldn't be after getting tortured? Azula's chest heaved, her face an unreadable mask as she calmed down, her posture straightened, projecting a strong façade for both their benefit. Stubborn woman, just like Toph, refusing to show weakness; but hell, was he, Sokka the manly man, any different?
Sokka's attention returned to the Black Alchemist Stone and he was fretting over what to do with the vile thing when the scuff of tottering uneven footfalls made him looke up just in time to see Azula take three short staggering steps toward the cave exit, sway dizzily, then her eyes rolled back, her legs folded and, with a resigned, frustrated sigh, she fainted. Sokka however was already moving and caught her before she cracked her head open; he marveled at his reaction, both its speed because he felt like fainting too, and the fact that he cared enough to catch her. He lowered Azula gently to the ground, her last conscious mumbling something like "Filthy hands off, me, princess filthy hands…."
Grimacing, he examined one of her gloved dirt-caked hands "Princess filthy hands, yep, that's you." Lacking the energy to laugh, Sokka just sat for a while to recover, charitably resting Azula's head on his lap, sighing as he leaned back on his hands, eyes scrunched shut against a swelling stress headache, focusing on every aching muscle to avoid thinking about everything wrong with this picture while the dozen small furniture fires around them petered out. How had they gotten here? "Just love messing with me, don't ya world."
Deciding he'd rested enough and that Azula wouldn't wake any time soon, Sokka gently lay the princess down, stood and retrieved his damp pack from outside where it still rained, only lighter now. Re-entering the cave, Sokka withdrew his waterskin and drank greedily after trying and failing to coax the unconscious Azula to drink a little. Repacking the canteen, he then sheathed his three confiscated weapons, Boomerang and Clubby getting big welcome home hugs beforehand, his favorite knife would've too but for obvious risks. Next, Sokka decided to take the Black Alchemist Stone with him; wouldn't do for it to fall into bad hands again. So, taking a thick rag from his pack, he used it to pick up, securely wrap and promptly deposit it in his pack's empty side-pouch, his guts twisted in fearful anticipation the whole time despite the rag successfully insulating skin-contact.
Sokka didn't bother rummaging Bogar's other worldly possession, Azula had incinerated everything; must've been one crazy battle, even the cave roof wasn't looking too safe judging by the tall, spiky, fallen stalactites skewering the floor. Eager to leave, Sokka quickly sought and spotted Azula's discarded backpack; tattered and singed but still intact, it'd been hurled nearby her various knives and hunting tools which Sokka tossed in his own bag before riffling through her pack, transferring only what she'd want to keep, mainly her princessly attire, night gown, several other things and, most notably, her golden hairpiece, she'd roast him for leaving that behind; odd though, that Zuko would return it. Sokka shrugged, not his concern. He also ditched his crappy tent and other inessentials to make carrying Azula and their supplies easier.
Yeah; carrying Azula. Sokka guffawed, shook his head "What a day." He thought, shouldering the pack before scooping up the princess who was heavier than she looked, all strong, lean muscles he guessed, a small but powerful package. Again acutely aware of the weird situation, Sokka pondered dragging the militia captain up here to prove Bogar's fate to distract himself but dismissed the idea, no way would the captain pay out the two thirds for deceased delivery; charred corpses are inadmissible since they could be anyone "Lousiest bounty hunting team ever." Sokka grumbled as he exited the reeking cave into far fresher air baring the combined weight of Azula and an overfull pack, not once contemplating giving Bogar the undeserved courtesy of a decent burial "Let the sick bastard rot."
(From the Krovine Slopes to Jin-Sing, estimated around midday to early noon.)
-Sokka-
The return walk in the pouring rain was dreary, laborious, exhaustive and slow going while the breeze, once pleasant, was bitingly chill on sodden exposed skin. Sokka increased his pace, not wanting to catch cold, or catch his death at Azula's hands if she awoke with one. Mercifully the ramparts descended gently, he didn't stumble once, and though gentle ramps meant longer ramps, it beat breaking his neck. Trekking back through the woods however was more trying; he had to go slow in places to avoid slipping in muddy patches or tripping on rocks or roots. That said Sokka was glad Azula insisted on memorizing their initial approach, he'd labeled it a time wasting exercise then, but now it quickened their return to Jin-Sing.
Good thing too because by the time he made it through the town gate Appa had landed by when they'd first come here, Sokka was positively pooped, taking one step at a time, his damp heavy clothes clinging leechlike to his skin, rubbing unpleasantly, rainwater having mixed with dirt and dust coagulating into a gritty, muddy mess; Azula looked no better. In all he felt like a tired old soldier forced to march all day and all night carrying an injured comrade; in fact that's exactly how miserable he felt, though trading comrade for, well, uh. What the hell was Azula to him now anyway? Screw it, he'd contemplate that one later; right now all that concerned Sokka was finding a damned healer.
A/N
My shoddy rock-climbing logic here is that if Azula could save herself from a fatal plunge with a hairpin, Sokka should be able to scale a cliff with tent-pegs, stupid I know, but I couldn't be crapped researching it for the sake of a few paragraphs.
What Azula sees in Sokka after Bogar's death is simply conscience shock, Sokka hasn't killed since the war and it hits him pretty hard, but Azula misinterprets it as darkness because her understanding of the conscience is very limited. Sokka himself isn't aware of his little fadeout, thus his automatic return to goofy Sokka afterwards, sort of the brains defense mechanism against trauma. Of team Avatar, Sokka seemed the most likely to take life, but never lightly.
the insinuation Bogar would've raped Azula was just Sokka misreading things; Bogar said it only to scare Azula; he tortures Fire Nationers but hasn't sunk that low, plus he'd never touch women from a culture he deems a diseased cancer on the world. Bogar's basically a traumatized psychopath clutching at some twisted moral code to preserve his little remaining humanity, like intending to let Sokka go free; the ledge stranding was Bogar's way of teaching Sokka how fragilely precious life is. Yet Bogar himself was relieved Sokka killed him legitimately because suicide's a big no-no to a survivor, but stuck in a vicious cycle of self-torment so many years, his only escape was death, else his hunger for revenge would continue growing; deep down Bogar knew this and hoped someone like Sokka would someday do what he couldn't and end his purgatory. What hurt Bogar most though was Sokka murdering him to rescue the Fire Princess herself.
And yes, if Azula had won, she'd have tortured Bogar a little before turning him over –mostly- alive. She's got a lot of pent up anger and shame inside her.