His footsteps were light, completely unbothered by the pressure field he was generating, but in the silent, suffocating square, each soft step of his leather boots echoed like a death knell.
He stopped right in front of the kneeling, trembling Elder and looked down at him.
For a fraction of a second, the towering, terrifying phantom silhouette of a Lord Dreadwing flickered into existence behind Sol's back. The massive, iridescent sapphire Dreadwing glared down at the tribe with its thirty thousand multifaceted eyes, radiating an aura of ancient, unyielding, hyper-lethal malice, before seamlessly fading back.
Sol leaned down slightly, his silver-crimson eyes glowing ominously in the shadow of his brow, radiating the cold apathy of a god looking down at a mortal.
"Now," Sol whispered, his voice carrying clearly through the absolute, paralyzed silence of the tribe, dripping with dark, mocking amusement. "What were you saying about throwing me out of the gates, 'Elder' Thorne?"
