She braced her feet against the ground as he languidly drew closer. Her wings were flared out in a feeble show of threat and defiance, much like a bitten and dying bird might flare as the serpent coiled itself about in preparation for the final strike. She tried to call her magic again, but the most she could muster was a few pitiful licks of flame across her fists and wings. Every minute shift of her body was met with a wave of pain from her brutalized torso, leaving her unable to do more than wait for him to come to her. Even breathing hurt. It was the sort of deep, inescapable pain that left one simply wishing to curl up in the fetal position and wait for the mercy of death, but she held firm, the look in her eyes as indomitable as ever.<br/><br/>He paused and stooped to pick up her scimitar from the dust. It wasn't a weapon commonly used in her homeland, rather, it was a gift from her mentor, who had taken her in when she was a young vagrant, taught her how to fight, given her a purpose she could dedicate herself to. Her blood boiled to see that cherished weapon in Rysalt's hand. She attempted to throw another punch when he came close, but her injuries had all but crippled her ability to fight now, and he merely sidestepped her clumsy blow, stolen blade flashing out. Pain, this time sharp and stinging, lanced from her wing as he cut into it, slipping through feathers to pierce the flesh and muscle underneath. Desperate, she spun about to try and counterattack, but he continued to dance around her, each strike slashing the limbs open with surgical precision or chopping feathers loose, until bright rivulets of crimson ran between her midnight-blue plumage and long feathers wafted across the ground. She realized almost immediately what he was doing, and a cold mass of fear wedged itself in her guts. Aryel was a creature of the air as much as land, and Rysalt now sought to steal that from her. Feathers would always regrow, but severed tendons and muscles were not so easily replaced.<br/><br/>Droplets of blood spattered the ground as she tried and failed to fight him off, until he stepped away and flung the stolen scimitar into the dust. She was barely standing, breathing as hard as she dared with the beating her stomach had received. Her eyes were almost manic with fear and pain, but she would not beg for her life. This was the end, then. She was only sorry she hadn't been able to buy them more time.<br/><br/>Aryel shut her eyes as he stepped in to deliver the killing blow, his own sword striking out for her side. She felt the impact of it digging into the leather armor she wore, but where she had expected a sudden searing pain as her insides were turned into her outsides, there was nothing. Puzzlement briefly overwhelmed her, followed by indignancy as she realized he would not even grant her a warrior's death. With a deft flick of the wrist, his now-shortened blade cut one of the straps holding her chestplate on. She felt him tug the armor lose with a flare of alarm, but when she tried to swing for his face, he only caught her fist in his hand and pulled her to the side to unbalance her while he tore her armor off. The dented chestplate and pauldrons were sent clattering into the dust, the leather cuirass underneath soon slashed open and discarded as well. Gauntlets and undershirt followed, leaving her chest exposed for the world to see, and finally her leggings and boots, until she had been stripped bare. Though some might have preferred their women softer, more feminine, Aryel's figure was that of a professional fighter, athletic and toned, while still having an appealing curve to her hips and breasts. Her abdominal muscles were just as well-sculpted as his, though a mosaic of grisly bruising now mottled her stomach, the product of the violent beating she had received at Rysalt's hands.<br/><br/>The next strike to her battered torso was enough to make her collapse again, though she was kept from sprawling out in the dust by his grip on her horn. He yanked her head up roughly, forcing her to look at the pass she had been protecting, and her heart sank.<br/><br/><i>"No..."</i><br/><br/>Both her own warriors, and the civilians they had been trying to protect, stood corralled by a squadron of royal guards. But rather than protecting them, they were instead here as captors--<i>traitors.<br/>
</i><br/>Even in her exhaustion and despair, embers of rage were brought to life at the sight of those turncoats. Had her convoy almost made it to safety, only to be met and betrayed once their guard as down? Her last gambit to delay his troops had been for nothing--he already had allies in the very heart of their land, waiting for them.