To no avail, Zakarius had ushered in a terrible power for the thugs to fear and yet they cared not. Their minds were gone; lost to a rage filled torrent of adrenaline that carried them beyond pain, beyond the limits of a mortal body, and beyond reason. Even the rigid man; held in check by a sickening trap of dark arts and malicious electrical current, pushed his body harder and harder until tendons snapped and ligaments tore away. He was blinded by not only rage and sweat, but by the current that flowed through his body. His skin was quickly melting; blood boiling and popping from pores all around his body. His left arm went limp; blade falling idly to the floor below as he lost use of the appendage, and yet his right arm still tried futilely to reach outward and grab the drow by the throat. His face was a mask of dripping sweat, and his heart was beating for the last few moments it could sustain the pain he unknowingly endured. This was the power and the curse of whatever chemical the men were under, and the price far outweighed the benefits at that moment.

The second man did not slow, nor did he hesitate as his comrade was locked in place and tore away his own muscle and flesh from within. Instead he moved faster and with more defiance evident in his features, as the knife in his hand became like a cleaving nightmare of force. It swung downward and forward; aiming to cut the drow from shoulder to hip, as a grotesque popping sound emanated from the man's own shoulder. It tore clean from the socket as he swung, and yet he did not notice or care. He felt no pain, no pressure, no hot or cold, nothing but the exhilaration and determination that boiled inside of himself like a rolling sea of magma. He would cut down those before him as he was instructed, and nothing would stop him from trying....

Malakii was in a very different predicament behind the bar. He had two men; now standing in a line before him: Too little space to stand side by side, and the unconscious bartender between him and them. Surely they would realize soon enough that he was alive, and Malakii wouldnt let himself be forgiven if the innocent man was slain before his very eyes. He had to not only protect himself, but the injured man. But what to do? or Moreso, how to do it? He knew he had to stop the advancing brutes before they caught him in the corner, and he didnt dare let them get their hands on him for their obvious strength, but he wasnt one prone to violence. Least of all violence aimed at puppets.. 

"What happens, happens" He thought silently while standing and fixing the folds of his robe.

His eyes bore down upon the first of the brutes that marched onward towards him. There was no anger or hatred within, only a sense of pity and sorrow for what the man must be facing internally, and yet he knew without a doubt that it was the thug's life, or his own. He would have to strike and do so without hesitation or hindrance. He would have to be free of regret, of guilt, of sadness, sorrow or confusion. He would have to be at peace with the actions he took, even before taking them... But there was no time to meditate or pray... Only a step lay between the man: now swinging for his skull with a crushing strength lent to his fist, and himself... There was only time to take a deep breath...

and release..

When Malakii drew in that single breath; concentrating in the moments between the rapid beats of his opponents heart, he pooled the stagnant air around him into the gap between him and his enemy, and with a forceful shove forward; lent an increased speed and strength through training and a shaolin monk's pose, a shotgun blast of compressed wind exploded from his palm with his expelled breath, and through the shockwave that expanded from him, only the mans arm continued forward. Torn away from the body that rocketed backwards into the other dim-witted enemy, the limb fell to the ground in a puddle of its own congealing blood, as Malakii drew in another breath; stepped over the unconscious bartender and the severed arm, and once more prepared himself in a pose of constant balance.

The two men got to their feet; one bleeding so badly that his legs grew shaky and weak despite his willingness to continue, as Malakii dared a glance at the Drow and the other thugs... This was going well, all things considered... But whether Malakii would have to deal with the other creature or not was undetermined. For now they were both fighting to survive this karmic coincidence...