Sol stumbled, pinching blindly at a Green-Back Viper that tried to strike his groin. He crushed it, throwing the carcass into the faces of the others.
As he finally managed to crush the one closest to him, he suddenly realized that the world had gone eerily quiet.
The frantic attacks had stopped. The horde had pulled back a dozen yards, forming a writhing, undulating wall of fangs. They were a sea of golden and red eyes, all fixed on his wounded form, waiting for the final command to feast. They didn't need to risk any more lives; they could see him swaying. They could see the light fading from his Charcoal eyes.
He looked at the snakes. He then looked at his broken, injured body, his shredded palms, his leg that was turning a sickly shade of blue, the blood soaking his shredded remnant of cobra hide and clothes.
And then he finally looked up at the Sovereign.
