The pooling blood of the seven shadow stalkers slowly seeped into the cracked clay at the roots of the weeping reeds, turning the shallow puddles into a thick, foul muck that gave off the sharp stench of Zerith's body.
Sol stood still in the center of the crushed grass patch, his breath coming in slow, deep measures.
The molten golden-silver liquid inside his body rolled with a heavy, thick rhythm, settling deep into his chest pool like a reservoir of warm star metal.
The unrefined essence of the Layer 3 scouts he had just harvested was thoroughly absorbed by the sun core this time.
Thauren slid his massive blade back onto his gold-scaled shoulder, the heavy bone-fittings clicking against his leather bindings with a wet, heavy thud.
He wiped a splash of green Zerith ichor from his scarred chin, his eyes looking at the five carcasses the warriors had just finished pinning to the ground with their long bone-spears.
