She can never be happy when she loses. But her traitorous heart is beating excitedly, far faster than it should, even given their vigorous workout. Her heat-inflicted body tingles for his touch; a woman's nature-fuelled craving that burns across her flesh even harder than the rebuke of his horn and hooves. "You win," comes her breathy whisper of a voice, her frigid eyes pointed sharp at the ground as her sides heave with exhaustion. Her tail lifts, releasing billowing waves of ripe mare, then slaps back down again. Her ears are held backwards, through submission rather than anger. She acknowledges his victory with dropped eyes and a stooped posture, an animal defeated.

Then, her sweat and rain-soaked shoulder shifts, aiming to press into his chest. Her eyeline lifts from where it's pointed at the ground and flickers upwards to meet his own, a tired but salacious smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Tiredness, and the season's temptations, lend her boldness she does not normally possess. "What prize does the victor desire?" He has bested her, and that means she is his to do with as he pleases. She has no idea if he wants the same thing she does - to unite their bodies in pleasure the same way they have just been united in pain - or if the stench of her heat will affect him as it has numerous other stallions. He might turn away, the knowledge of success enough to keep him warm at night. He might be content knowing he has defeated a friend, and she will have to take her pathetic female desires elsewhere; desires she thought she was above, steel soldier that she is. She was wrong.

Or he might not. He might let himself tumble into temptation, into sin, and a throaty grunt of need slips unbidden from her lips.

You. Her heart pounds, her blood races. Her aching, sweating body screams for him, and that one, single word lets her know that he isn't immune to her female charms. Her mouth dries with anticipation, eyes rolling and tail elevating just so. "I am yours," she purrs, embracing his neck like a pair of dancing snakes. Yep, Nyx is gettin' the good D tonight.

Of course, after the initial sating of her appetite, the silver knows she may have to contend with the possibility of a child. In her heat-fuelled state, driven by nature and the desire to reproduce, she hungers for a foal at her heels. A little miniature warmonger, her first on Helovian soil, sired by a man strong enough to best her in battle. A soldier of strong unicorn stock, born and bred for victory...Admittedly, being out of action with a stomach like a beached whale for the duration of her pregnancy is never appealing, but being a mother far outweighs the discomfort.

First, though, there's the pleasurable business of creating said child. She swivels, presenting him with her rump, and arches her tail once more. She is his, open, waiting and ready, heart pounding with exertion and anticipation, ready to sin with the handsome blood bay as many times as he wants. To the victor goes the spoils, after all.