Sol reached down casually, his fingers wrapping tightly around the back of the scout's neck.
With a smooth, heavy heave, he hoisted the broken Zerith straight off the ground, lifting him up until they were completely eye-to-eye. Greenish-yellow fluid dripped from the stalker's shattered joints, staining the wet grass stalks below.
"Now," Sol growled, his voice a low, rough rasp that carried a terrifying weight. "You're going to talk, or do you still want to try running away?"
The Zerith stalker was completely beaten, his limbs hanging at unnatural, useless angles, but as he looked at the black-armored hunter, his horizontal orange eyes didn't contain a single spark of fear.
Instead, they burned with a cold, unyielding tribal hatred. His split-mouth twitched, as he stared straight into Sol's silver-crimson pupils.
