Ilior had blood on his hands. Literally. The battle had been short lived, as he took his firm stance against the elven battalion, single handed as always. It was almost pitiful how they still fought back against Ashhaven. He was known by the elves as the Looming Doom, and Vulthuryol's greatest weapon. He didn't have the same empathy or morals those around him did, and it gave him an edge that he'd not lost once.

He sighed, feeling the tension dissolve from his chest as he kneeled, washing his hands until the water pooled crimson around him. A soft splashing in the tidepool nearby hits his ears, alerting him to a threat. His hand flings to his longsword before he even looks over.

A merperson? How odd. It seemed this one was trapped near the shore, awaiting the rising of the tides. His fingers brush the hilt of his blade, and yet he hesitates. His cold eyes glossing over the scaled being ahead. With a clip of his hooves, he approaches slightly. He was in enemy territory, with one of the enemy's inhabitants. They were like a sitting duck. No, more helpless than that. Ducks can fly away, but they're trapped here in this tidepool, with a centaur general who normally has no problem ending a life. "What manner of mer are you? Why are you not in the reef with your kind?" His voice is steel, firm and unyielding, but with a hint of concern. He'd ended enough lives today, and he really didn't want to hurt the ditzy thing in the water.