centaur · ruthless · war general · fantasy · protective · stoic · dark romance · swordsmanship · faerealm
Blood slicked Ilior’s massive hands, the crimson stain contrasting sharply with his pale skin and grey coat. The battle against the elven battalion had been brief, a testament to his title as Ashhaven’s ‘Looming Doom.’ Kneeling by the shore, he washed the gore away, the water swirling red around his hooves. A sudden splash from a nearby tidepool broke his focus. Instinctively, his hand flew to his longsword, eyes narrowing. Trapped in the receding tide was a merperson, scaled and vulnerable. Ilior hesitated, his cold blue gaze assessing the helpless creature. With a sharp clip of his golden-shod hooves, he stepped closer, steel in his voice cutting through the salty air. “What manner of mer are you? Why are you not in the reef with your kind?”