The Avriel felt assorted aches and pains flare across his body as he continued to struggle with the thief. Gradually, deeper and deeper breaths were being forced from his chest, his torso heaving as he attempted to suckle in enough air to supply all of his musculature in its battle against the foe. He had certainly been in worse scraps throughout his life, though there was little doubt that this was the roughest training he had ever attempted before. Typically, rules were established beforehand which dictated the winner, and often they were simple things like whomever drew first blood, but they had not attempted to restrain themselves in like manner, and so now they continued their struggle far beyond the point where it would normally have ended.
A part of the Avriel recognized why neither of them had surrendered, why it would be so anathema to the both of them to admit defeat. Theirs both were races of dominators, of subjugators, conquerors, and perhaps most obviously, enslavers. The two of them had come from bloodlines that relished dominance, and some semblance of that likely leaked into their modern thoughts, their intentions, the way that they felt about certain activities. This entire process, the fighting, the verbal quips, the threatening, and perhaps even the better moments, the smiles and the jests and the good-natured gesticulations… all of it was a part of that ancient activity of determining who was on top, which of the pair was the Alpha, and which was the Omega.
The Prince was a warrior, a killer and a fighter, a person who had been in a great number of armed conflicts and survived, and that experience had granted him some wisdom in regards to himself, in regards to his capabilities, strengths, and occasionally even his weaknesses. He recognized that he would tire out soon; a side-effect of using heavy armor in combination with the vigorous movements he had attempted, and so he would need to end the fight as quickly as possible lest he suddenly lose whatever advantage he had mustered with his greater martial talent.
Thankfully, his offensive had worked to his advantage. The instant that he had made contact with her wounded leg, she had very nearly tumbled to the ground. That would actually have been rather unfortunate for the hybrid, because his assault had hinged upon a successful combination of rapid attacks culminating in the final tackle, and it would be nigh impossible to redirect his momentum after it had already begun. The Fates themselves seemed to be on his side, however, because instead of falling to the ground, she managed to keep her footing, which allowed him to slam into her like a comet slams into the Idalosian soil.
It had been evident from the beginning that her physicality did not support the lifting of heavy weights, nor did she seem particularly inclined towards physical labor involving excessive strength or toughness. That was partly the reason that he had instinctively regarded her as a being capable of inflicting somewhat lesser damage unarmed, though clearly he had been rather wrong in the assumption. Nevertheless, now that his platemail was pressing down upon her, it became evident that she was struggling to rid herself of the weighty mass crushing her. He held her against the floor as best as he was capable, taking note of the way that her wings thrashed and slammed against the air and the floor, spastically moving so as to allow her to escape his grasp.
He attempted to quell and subdue her violent movements somewhat by striking her in the face, intent on disorienting her, listening intently to the dull thud that it made as the gauntleted fist made contact. He did not bother so much with restraining himself, instead allowing the blow to fall heavily, recognizing that too hold back so late in the fight could spell disaster for his chances at victory. She wheezed from the impact, and then smiled upwards at him, her mouth painted in the black and shadowy blood that had been expelled by the blow. He matched her smile with his own, displaying the wet crimson that too had swelled within his mouth, and allowed a quick single-note chuckle to escape from him at the similarity between the two.
Whatever kinship might have been possessed was tossed away in favor of continuing the fight, and he felt somewhat wet and liquid splash across his face, blinding her for a few moments as he attempted to blink away the substance. The difficulty with wearing armor as opposed to standard cloth was that it was rather difficult to wipe away things stuck in one’s eyes upon plate, and so he released the grip on one of his arms and promptly cleaned off his vision with a quick swipe of the hand. Underneath him, the Naer bucked and shifted like an unruly mare, refusing to be broken even after she had so plainly been dominated.
Perhaps he had been mistaken. It took only a few moments of the bucking to remove part of his balance, and the sway and swing of her wings allowed her to wiggle out partially from underneath of him. The Avriel was beginning to lose his straddle upon her, the wriggling wretch managing to slide out from underneath him even as he pressed downwards. His hands worked quickly, clutching at handfuls of meat and cloth and leather without thought to modest decency. One hand clutched roughly upon her thigh, and he yanked himself forward by it, allowing himself to fall rather heavily atop her once more.
No more was he straddling her in nearly as dominant a position, but now he found himself laying atop her, not altogether like how a person lays a wooden board atop another one. Crimson eyes glared into blue, and the Avriel cackled softly to himself, his tone full of amusement and wickedness.
“Clever.” He uttered, refusing to re-position his limbs any further for fear of losing his place atop her once more should she begin to wriggle.