From what I found out, deathstroke, in all his pics is kind of old, and has white hair. So I had to find a pic with white hair and similar looks. This is the best one I could find. The other one is a more older deathstroke.
PIC
Italics mean grounder language.
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The main command tent in the heart of Trikru was thick with the smell of pine resin.
It was a permanent structure made out of cured hides, thick wooden supports, and woven furs. A large, crude map of the territories, drawn on a stretched deer hide, was pinned to a low table, weighted down by polished river stones.
Anya, Heda of the Trikru, stood over it, her scarred hands braced on the table. Her eyes, sharp and weary, traced the line of the Green River, the border.
Beside her, a shadow in the flickering lamplight, stood Lexa.Her Second.
"Nia grows bold," Anya said, her voice a low growl that was part frustration, part exhaustion. "Her scouts cross the river, deep into our lands. They test our patrols. They are not just hunting. They are probing." She tapped a spot on the map marked with a charcoal 'X'. "They test me. We lost three warriors this past moon. The trik (tree) is strong, but even the strongest tree can be cut down if you chip away at it long enough."
Lexa said nothing. Her posture was perfect, her green eyes fixed on the map, but her mind was a thousand miles away, lost in a frozen, bloody memory. Her fingers were still, but Anya could feel the restless, unfocused energy rolling off her.
Anya noticed. She had been noticing for weeks. The crispness of Lexa's commands was still there, the lethal speed in the practice ring was undiminished, but the light behind her eyes was gone, replaced by a hollow, haunted look.
Anya straightened and yelled.
"LEXA!!"
Anya's voice shattered the younger woman's daze.
Lexa flinched, her armor of command instantly re-settling. "I was just considering the southern patrols... how we might set a trap at the river's bend."
"No, you were not," Anya cut her off, her tone unforgiving. She walked around the table, forcing Lexa to meet her gaze. "You were staring. You have been a ghost for weeks, a shell walking in my shadow. Your body is here, but your mind is with her."
Lexa's jaw tightened. The name did not need to be said.
Anya sighed, the sound heavy with the frustration of a mentor whose finest student refused to learn. "What is wrong?"
Lexa remained quiet, her gaze dropping to the hilt of her blade.
"It is Costia, isn't it?" Anya pressed, her voice softer now, but no less demanding.
The name hung in the air like a death sentence. Lexa gave a single, curt nod, her throat working. The wound was still raw, still bleeding, years after the Ice Queen's torturers had sent Costia's head back in a box. It was a message to Anya, but it was Lexa they had truly wounded.
"Lexa," Anya said, stepping closer. "Listen to me. My fight is over. But yours is not. She is gone. Taken by Azgeda. That is a pain I do understand. But you cannot let that pain rule you. You cannot let Nia keep killing her, every day, inside your mind."
Anya gripped Lexa's shoulder, her fingers digging into the leather. "You are a Nightblood. You are my Second. You will one day be the Heda, and a Commander cannot afford this... this lingering. Grief is a luxury, Lexa, and we are not wealthy people. You must burn it out of you. Find a new warrior. Find a new purpose. Go out. Blood must have blood. But do not let this stand. Are you clear?"
Lexa's head snapped up, her green eyes flashing, not with gratitude, but with a cold, sharp anger that surprised Anya.
"It is not clear," Lexa said, her voice low and dangerous. She stepped back, breaking Anya's grip. "You speak of things you do not, and cannot, know."
Anya frowned. "I know loss. I know war. I have buried more warriors than you have seen winters."
"You know battle," Lexa corrected her. "You know duty. You speak of finding a new lover as if one replaces another, like a dull blade for a sharp one. You seek... I do not. You have never sought a partner. You have never... loved, not in that way. Your heart belongs to Trikru. It has no room for one person."
She met Anya's hard gaze without flinching. "You have never had what I had. So you have no right, Commander, to tell me how to mend a part of me you do not possess."
The tent was deathly silent. Anya was stunned, not by the disrespect, Lexa had earned the right to speak plainly, but by the profound, unassailable truth of the words. Anya's heart was a fortress, and its only loyalty was to her people. She had never let anyone in. Lexa had, and the Ice Queen had torn that part of her to pieces.
Before Anya could reply, the heavy hide flap of the tent was thrust open, and a scout, Fio, stumbled in, his chest heaving. He froze, sensing the electric tension in the air.
"Commander. My apologies..." he stammered, his eyes darting between the two leaders.
In an instant, the personal conflict vanished. Anya and Lexa were once again Commander and Second, their faces twin masks of cold command.
"What is it, Fio?" Anya demanded.
"A report, Commander," the scout panted, bowing his head. "From the southern village. Rona's people. It is... strange."
Anya's eyes narrowed. "Speak."
"Some children," Fio explained, catching his breath. "They were playing in the woods, near the edge of the old dead zone. One of the children... a girl... she fell into a hole. But it was not a hole. It was a... a metal cave."
Lexa's interest was piqued. "Mountain Men?"
"No, Commander," Fio said, shaking his head. "Rona says no. It is not their markings. The Mountain Men build into the rock. This is... in the dirt. Sealed. The children found a way in through a break. There is a symbol on the door. One we do not know."
"What symbol?" Lexa asked, her voice low and focused.
"Rona's message... she said it was two blades, crossed. Like our own. But behind them, a gun?" Fio struggled to find the word. "Like the Mountain Men use. But different. Sleeker."
A new energy filled the tent. The ghosts of Costia and the Azgeda border dispute faded, replaced by the cold, thrilling calculus of strategy. A new player. A new threat. Or... a new weapon.
"This is from before," Anya murmured, her mind racing. "From people of old. Before the fire. An armory"
She looked at Lexa, her eyes bright with a new, fierce purpose. "If this is an armory... if it holds the technology of the ancestors... it could change everything. Azgeda. The Mountain Men. This could be the weapon that finally gives us the strength to fight them on equal footing. This could be... huge."
She turned back to Fio. "Tell the warriors to be ready. Twenty of my best. We ride now. Hurry!"
The scout bowed and vanished.
Anya grabbed her war cloak. "Lexa. With me."
Lexa nodded and followed after.
The ride south took three hours at a hard gallop. The air was cool and damp. The thud of twenty horses' hooves was a rhythmic drum against the soft earth.
They reached the small, stockaded village and were met by the village head, Rona, an older woman with sharp and intelligent eyes.
"Commander. Your presence honors us," Rona said, bowing low.
"Yes, Rona," Anya returned, dismounting in one smooth motion. "Show me."
Rona led them past the village and into the deep woods. After a ten-minute walk, they came to a depression in the ground, hidden by ferns.
The Trikru guards had already widened the initial hole, revealing a dark, square opening lined with flaking, rusted metal. A crude ladder led down.
"My warriors have not entered," Rona said. "We waited for you, Commander."
"Light torches," Anya commanded.
The warriors ignited resin-soaked cloths, and the party descended. A short, rusted ladder led down to a narrow corridor. It was cold, sterile, and the smell of rust filled the air. Their footsteps echoed on the metal floor.
The corridor ended abruptly at a massive, circular door of dull gray steel.
It looked like the entrance to a tomb. And in its center was the symbol.
Two sleek katanas, crossed. Behind them, the angular, unmistakable silhouette of a rifle.
"It is not Mountain Men," Lexa whispered, her hand resting on the hilt of her own sword. "This is... something else."
"Has anyone tried to open it?" Anya asked.
"It will not move, Commander," Rona replied.
"Then make it move," Anya ordered.
The warriors put their shoulders to it. It didn't budge. They tried to find a latch, a handle. There was nothing.
"It is sealed," one warrior grunted, shoving fruitlessly.
"Then unseal it," Anya said. "Brute force."
They found a length of fallen support beam and, taking it as a makeshift battering ram, slammed it against the door's seam. The BANG was deafening, the echo rattling their bones.
BANG. Again. BANG. A third time.
On the fourth slam, there was a screech of metal. Not the door, but the lock. A mechanism, dead for a century, finally shattered under the assault.
The massive door finally slid open.
The warriors wedged it open and slipped inside, torches held high.
They were in a dark chamber filled with dead electronics. Walls of black screens, tables covered in strange, flat boxes. It was cleaner than any Mountain Men bunker, less medical, more... personal.
As they walked further in, they saw it. An alcove, lit by a single, flickering emergency light that had somehow endured. Behind a wall of thick, clear glass was an arsenal.
Two short, black pistols. Two magnificent swords, their blades long and curved. A strange, jointed metal staff. Racks of small, round metal balls.
"The blades..." Lexa breathed, stepping closer. "The steel is flawless."
The warriors moved to shatter the glass, but their axes and blades bounced off with a dull thud, not leaving so much as a scratch.
"It will not break!" one said, frustrated.
Anya examined it. Beside the case was a small, dark screen, showing the black-and-white image of a hand. A handprint screen.
"This is not an armory," Anya mused, looking around at the sparse, efficient layout. "It is a private hideout. A warrior's den. This glass was made to keep people out."
"Then where," Lexa said, her voice dropping, "is the warrior?"
They continued, past a small, dead living area, past a kitchen frozen in time. They finally reached the end of the bunker. A single, large, circular room.
And what they saw there shocked them into silence.
It stood vertically in the center of the room, like a coffin of the Old World. It was not wood, but dark, scarred metal, intricately designed. A thick, curved panel of glass, opaque with frost, formed the front. Blue, sterile lights glowed faintly from panels on its side, casting an eerie glow on the frost patterns. Wires and thick cables snaked from its base, disappearing into the floor. It was humming, a low, deep vibration they felt in their teeth.
It was alive.
"By the Commanders..." Rona whispered, making a sign against evil.
Lexa stepped forward, her torch held high, peering through the frost. And she saw him.
Inside... a man.
He was huge, his shoulders filling the width of the pod. His hair was stark white, short, and brushed back. His face... it was a map of old battles. A network of thin, white scars crossed his features, one particularly jagged one running down his left cheek, bisecting his eye and lip. Even in sleep, his jaw was set, his features sharp and angular. He was powerful, a predator encased in ice, wearing only simple black pants and an apron-like piece of armor over his chest.
PIC
"What... is this?" Lexa asked, her voice a bare whisper. "A... a prison? A tomb?"
"I have no clue," Anya said, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. "It is... a man. From before."
One of the warriors was looking around, his torch scanning the walls, which were covered in strange, dead consoles. He was backing up, his eyes wide, and he didn't see the low, raised edge of a floor panel.
He stumbled.
His arm flew out to catch his balance. His hand, covered in a leather bracer, slammed down onto a large, red button on a console.
The button clicked.
A new sound filled the room. A loud, mechanical whirring. A soft and low mechanism began to beep.
"What did you do!" Anya snarled, spinning on the warrior.
But her eyes were drawn back to the pod. A loud HSSSSSS erupted from the top and bottom. Vents opened, pouring thick, white gas into the room, obscuring their view.
"Get back!" Lexa yelled, pulling Anya away from the gas.
The frost on the glass began to melt, streaming down in rivulets. The blue lights on the pod turned green.
With a heavy thunk that echoed in their chests, the seals on the pod unlocked. The heavy glass door hissed open, swinging wide.
The cold, chemical gas billowed out.
And then, a sound. A low, deep groan.
A scarred hand gripped the edge of the pod.
The man stepped out.
He stumbled, his bare feet hitting the cold metal floor. He was taller than any of them, built like a battering ram. He took one deep, shuddering breath, then another. He rolled his neck, the sound of it cracking filling the sudden, terrified silence.
He slowly looked up.
His eyes... they weren't blue, or brown. They were gold. Like a wolf's. Predatory.
He looked at the ring of shocked, torch-lit warriors. He looked at Lexa, his gaze lingering on her for a moment. He looked at Anya, noting her stance, the authority, the hand on her sword. His eyes flicked to the drawn blades of the warriors poised to strike.
Anya and Lexa stared at him, their hands tight on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw and kill in a single, fluid motion.
The man didn't move. He just... observed.
Then, a slow, utterly confident smile spread across his scarred face.
He stretched his arms wide, his massive chest expanding, his back muscles popping. He let out an enormous, room-filling yawn.
"Holy shit!" he said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. "How long was I out for?"
The question hung in the air, a relic from a dead world, and no one had an answer.