His victory is sealed with the hammering wrath of his hindlegs, which bend her ribs beneath their ire. Her submission is absolute, his dominance assured; he lands from his kick and wheels around to face her, a sweating, heaving mass of blackened power and bloodied brawn. His temper, so close to the surface, so untamed, is finally wrestled under control at the sight of her with her rump pressed against a tree, as though to dissuade him from attacking further.

But the goliath has no intention of launching another assault on her. She is broken, defeated. There would be no glory in continuing her humiliation, so he lifts his ears from their position rooted in his mane and fixes her with his feral ruby stare. He is aroused by his defeat of her, and there is a husky undertone to his earthquake of a voice when he speaks. "Be at ease, nő." Nő is Hungarian for woman - the rough language slides easily from his tongue as he gazes upon her. She is far more injured than himself (his worst wound is the bruise to his left side, which causes him to walk with a slight limp due to the tightening of the flesh) and his unsympathetic eyes rest upon her ribcage, which could contain broken bones. Ah, she will suffer with those!

That is her punishment. That is what she deserves, for tangling with him. He is stallion, and she is mare, and nature's order demands that he crush her. So crush her he did. But he is not about to gloat, or pound her submission home further. He does have morals, and she fought well, albeit deviously.

He would dearly love to take her beneath him, to ease the pain of his own injuries with some beautiful, body-wracking pleasure, but he rather thinks she is too broken for that. A shame. It does not cross his mind that she might not want it, although the venom in her eyes and hatred in her posture should give him a bit of a hint; alas, he is oblivious to the notion that any woman might not desire him. "You should see a healer over those ribs. Are you a member of a herd? I will escort you there, if you wish." Let it not be said the leviathan is not a gracious victor, and he will ensure nobody attempts to harm her whilst she is weak.

She steps closer, and offers a warning to him; that her herd will not be pleased to see her current injured state. He smiles a cold smile. "I am sure they will understand that you cannot expect to fight and return home with only the mildest of bruises to your name. Things don't always work like that - but I appreciate the warning, and will bear it in mind." He idly swings his tail, and casts a glance up to the dragons. He is sure that, between the three of them, they could fend off any assault from Orithia's irate herdmates. He has never been to the Edge before, and knows nothing of it. It will be an interesting experience, he's sure.

She hobbles closer and lifts a wing; the stallion steps forwards, pressing his side gently against her and allowing her to lean as much weight onto him as she desires. Perhaps letting her get so close to him is not the wisest of moves after she's proven herself to be a devious little madam who will stop at nothing to land a blow, but this does not cross the black's mind. The sensation of flesh touching flesh elicits its usual natural reaction in the behemoth, but he fights to force his lust back down into its cage. Now is not the time to hunger after this particular mare; he simply lends her his strength as they begin to walk.

She gives her name, and even offers a compliment. The giant fixes her with his gaze, anger fizzling away to be replaced by curiosity. His berserker rage usually only lasts as long as the battle itself; he appreciates that the battlefield is a whole different world, and what one does during a fight should not be held against them outside the arena. Although he is a man of fire and untamed passion, he sees no reason to continue to nurture the fury that had exploded within him at her attempt on his manhood. "I am Volterra. You also fought well...although if I may ask, did I somehow offend you to cause you to strike for my balls, or is that just your token move?" He raises an eyebrow and glances at her with an amused expression - now the rage has dimmed, the attack has lost its original hateful aura. He's not sure he'd have been so casual about it had it succeeded, but thankfully his thick draft's tail is a worthy piece of armour.

Their progress is slow, but the giant does not object. He has little else to be doing with his time, as he won't be able to battle again for another few days in order to allow his injuries to heal. Escorting a beautiful woman home...he can think of worse things to be occupying himself with, even if said beautiful woman tried to bite his most precious parts off just a few moments ago. The beast often holds grudges about such things, but on this occasion he thinks the mare has been appropriately punished. Her broken ribs and plethora of bruises are enough, hence why he's happy enough to drop his drive for vengeance.

He cannot resist a chortle at her next words, even if the sudden wracking movement makes his bruised side ache. "You took me by surprise, I'll give you that. Had you succeeded, though, I would be able to deliver what remained of you home to the Edge in a small leather bag." His smile fades as he fixes her with his penetrating red gaze, saying in no uncertain terms you'd be unwise to try that with me again. And, indeed, had a man attempted it, Volterra rather thinks he would have slaughtered him regardless of its success or failure. But Orithia is decidedly female, and decidedly attractive, and that swings the odds in her favour.

Her reasoning behind the attack, though, piques his interest. Appearances can be deceptive, but he would not have associated this darling mare with a savage history. She seems so...pure, which was why he'd been so taken aback by her devious words and antics. But could it be that her pearly white fur hides a blackened and tainted past? It would appear so. "It is clear you know how to fight men like myself successfully. Calling them impotent ignites their temper and causes them to make mistakes, which you can then capitalise on. Smart, if dangerous." It had worked effectively on Volterra, and he thinks it would work just as well on any other man with masculine pride held in his heart; but she runs the risk of riling them to the point of annihilating her, and signing her own death warrant with her clever little tongue. "So is it safe for me to assume it is my gender as a whole that you dislike, and not me personally?" His colossal head tilts, his interest thoroughly fixed on this odd little woman.