València had witnessed that for herself already. As nasty a piece of amputation as she’d ever heard of, ripping his eye out like that. Not that she hadn't seen worse in the Grand Hall, but injuries from training didn't last long. Marcos had still been moaning in pain when they dragged him in, and those initial jail-keepers had taken unusual care to lower him slowly down into the pit, instead of just punting him off the edge on a slack chain, as was tradition. Nopony wanted to be the one responsible for telling Carmen that the Great Mother must have willed his death, if his neck had somehow snapped -- as often happened -- or if his head had cracked open from swinging against the walls -- as also often happened. Nor did anypony have any illusions about how long Marcos would stay down there, given his lineage. But from where València sat, that lineage was not looking like much of an asset.