Even when beaten almost senseless, Aryel was still a feisty creature. The hard edge of his palm smashed into her chin repeatedly, throwing her head back with each strike until her curved horns drug ruts into the carpet. Still she tried to hold on, maintaining her death-grip on his throat with a tenacity reminiscent of a hunting dog latched onto its thrashing prey. Her vision was swimming, Rysalt's smirking face above her edged by a corona of darkness, but it was that smirk that kept her enraged enough to fight on, at least until he ground his palm into her gut.<br/><br/>She convulsed sharply under him with a cry of pain loud enough to be heard outside the tent (as if the sounds of their scuffle hadn't already made it known to the camp), her grip at his neck momentarily slacking. Reflexively, she tried to push him off again, but with her lower body pinned and her flames spent, there was little she could do beyond strain against his hand as it threatened to crush her diaphragm. Even when he had to nerve to spit in her face, the fury it instilled was barely enough to conjure a few licks of flame at her hands before they died away again. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, and though she may have wanted to tear him to pieces, her body simply didn't have the strength to make good on that wish.<i>"Fuck you," </i>she snarled, eyes wide and wild as he taunted her. His weight was pressed into her stomach as he used his other hand to stroke himself, making her every minute movement painful, but he wouldn't get the satisfaction of hearing her beg for mercy. If he wanted to claim victory over her, he'd have to wring it out of her.<br/><br/>That resolve, however admirable, could still be tested, however. He swatted her hands away and scooped an arm under her legs, bringing them up across her body. Aryel was flexible, but that sharp a bend, especially with the way it put tension on her bruised abdominal muscles, was still thoroughly uncomfortable. Unfortunately, it was also a rather helpless position to find herself in, and though she tried desperately to pull her legs back down, no matter how she thrashed and strained against his arm she was unable to right herself. Her struggles and cursing took on an entirely new degree of panic when she felt him pressing at her now-exposed cunt. Despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the only moisture he would find was the sheen of sweat gleaming on her skin, a product of their sudden, violent exertions. She could have screamed in frustration as he taunted her again, but knew there would be nobody around to hear--and those who<i>were</i>around weren't about to come to her rescue. She saved her breath instead, his bludgeoning having already forced most of it out.<br/><br/>Though anger still governed her, indeed, it seemed her knee-jerk reaction to any threat was to meet it with hostility, fear had still managed to sink its icy talons into her psyche. Part of her mind tried to cling to the false hope that this wasn't really happening, that something so awful<i>couldn't</i>happen. She raged and writhed under him like a trapped beast, her breaths coming hard and ragged. Though she strained for her fire like a drowning man would strain to kick his way to the surface, there was simply nothing<i>left </i>to call up. Like a wildfire, she had burnt herself out, leaving nothing but cinders and spite.