Boztun Badlands, Klos 18th, 350AC, 9:15  (partly cloudy, 36 degrees, crescent moon)

Lazetur’s eyes narrow to slits.  Some of you think you can see light glowing from within (silver irises now backlit so look black).  His hoarse voice becomes a near whisper, just made out above the winds he is generating:  “You know the cyborg of whom I speak.  Yet you give me nothing.  Tell me what I seek or some of you will suffer grievious injury.”  He looks slightly down at Zeebo, “You are standing on a grave.”