He seemed to have a taste for the suffering and misery of others. He had practically drunk in her despair on the battlefield, taken a deep, carnal satisfaction in humiliating her in front of her men. Even now, as he admired his handiwork, she saw his manhood shift and straighten between his legs. He was vile, and it suddenly made her aware of just how helpless she was at the moment, bruised and bound. Aryel had always loathed the idea of being in someone else's power, whether lying broken at their feet or indebted to their will. It could be seen as hypocritical, then, that she had been such a devoted knight to the king, but that was a far cry from being a slave-soldier to a marauder. She had respected the king. Rysalt had yet to earn anything more than her hatred.<br/><br/>Her glower only deepened as he recalled his victories against soldiers as well as civilians. Despite almost always being outnumbered, his bandits often had the advantages of both mobility and ambush, allowing them to contend with the royal armies with much more success than if they had rushed in head-on. Apparently, she was not his only personal conquest in this campaign, and she found herself wondering what had happened to the officer he had assaulted, if they were even still alive. Would she meet that same fate, then?<br/><br/>Death almost would have been too merciful, however, and she was almost certain Rysalt knew that. If she didn't have others to protect, she would have gladly fought to her last breath, joining the legions of dead this war had already created. She could be as vicious as a wild mare when she wanted to be, it was only that concern for her comrades that held her back, and urged caution for the time being. At his question, she scoffed. "I'm a knight, not a brigand like you." she muttered. After a moment of deliberation, she added, "Even before that, when I ran with a mercenary squadron, we had our<i>honor</i>." Their work had typically involved escorting caravans or clearing out bandit nests, not being marauders themselves.<br/><br/>Willingly? That was more leeway than she had expected, and she studied him for a moment, suspicious as to what devilry he might have up his sleeve. "I won't fight those who can't defend themselves," she said finally, at last beginning to move. She sat up, careful not to aggravate her stomach any more than necessary, so that she could look at him eye-to-eye rather than eye-to-cock. His crosslegged position was mimicked, though the slouch in her shoulders betrayed the pain in her gut. "If you're looking for an executioner to do what your men did today, you won't find it in me." Memories of the slaughtered family and the beheaded man rose up, and her hands clenched into fists where they rested on her lap. "But I'm no stranger to a warrior's life. I can fight. I have my flames." A smile as humorless and bitter as bile quirked her lips. "And I<i>could</i>fly. I was one of the best scouts the kingdom had." Like her gut, she hadn't yet assessed the damage to her wings, though she could still move and feel them--it was just that most of what she felt was searing pain. Feathers would grow back, but if she ever wanted to take to the air again, she'd have to be careful about how the muscles and tendons healed.<br/><br/>She looked down as he offered the piece of apple. Somehow, there seemed to be more meaning attached to it than just a chunk of fruit. If she accepted the handout, would she also be accepting his power over her? At the moment, escape seemed impossible, at least in her current condition. Escaping with her former followers, even moreso. Would it be better for them all if she bent the knee, at least for now?<br/><br/>A few heartbeats of deliberation passed before she sighed quietly, reaching to take the morsel from him and raise it to her lips.