This thing cannot possibly be a warrior if this is its reaction to violence. Even the ordinaries, the unskilled mortal things, have had the chance to become accustomed to the violence and know to avoid it. How in the name of all Old Ones has this one lasted so long? Illyria would settle on the explanation of pure luck, but it seems its luck has just ran out.

It doubtless will not last here much longer, in the thick of combat as the demon lords lay waste to the city and wrestle over claims of land. Thus, the sickening responsibility for this thing has come to rest on the sole being capable of saving it. Illyria watches it right itself with vague, weary disgust. She wishes to return to her violence. That would be preferable. Yet letting this tiny thing die in the heat of battle would be tantamount to killing it herself, and she has made her oath.

"Come," orders the God-King, grabbing the creature around its wrist with one of her shell's unerring hands and pulling it across the malformed landscape. "If you wish to live you must not remain."