That demure angle of her neck, the formality of the bow... It's all super uncomfortable, but nothing Clarke hasn't stood tall and weathered before. She'd earned a reputation back home, and with it came a bloodied sort of respect. And no matter how much she'd hated it, she'd used it for the benefit of her people.

"I'm just a human." Augmented maybe, but rebuilt to withstand high levels of radiation, not head voids and resurrection magic. "I can't do anything nearly as complex as you do. I can't do magic, I barely even understand it. I could use your help with that, if you're offering."

Someone in her corner, you know? Except more accurately, someone at her elbow the next time she charges towards oblivion without a trace of abandon. She means to resist, but there's absolutely a glance down to Darcy's sword, then back up to her eyes. I need weapons, I need to win, the wartime narrative echoes over and over again in Clarke's head, her own personal Scream.