Next Morning.
The first thing Sol woke up to was a rhythmic, persistent tapping.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It wasn't the earth-shattering roar of some Behemoth or the mechanical thrum of a some obnoxiously large insect pack. Instead, it was light, hollow, and felt right next to his head.
At first he didn't care much, and was about to go back to sleep, but suddenly he remembered where he was, and instantly, all the sleepiness was gone and his eyes snapped open. The heavy, Golden Liquid in his stomach and silver liquid in his chest instantly flared from a dormant hum to the roaring furnaces.
He shot up from his bed of silver leaves, his hand blindly grabbing the shaft of his Void-Oak spear before he was even fully conscious. He dropped into a crouch, leveling the obsidian blade at the thorny wooden grate he had built the night before, fully expecting a toxic serpent or a pack of giant insectoids trying to chew their way inside.
