His body was not his anymore, already having given in to the lust for battle at the first signs that it was inevitable. These men had their minds fogged by chems of some kind, though it was no care of his. Every pore of his body oozed his weapon of choice for this current situation. A herald to his current patron god, Tzeentch, Lord of Change. 

The smoke curled and split, moving with eddies of air, wrapping around his form, pooling on the floor. Ah, yes, at his feet, this pool had grown larger over the fleeting seconds, growing in size until blotted out the floor beneath it. Within this small quagmire of but a few inches, something stirred, shifting static discharges popping and arcing throughout the small cloud. Zakarius spread his arms, as if welcoming the oncoming assailants, releasing more of this smoke in a billowing puff. This stuff would fall from him, hazing his figure from sight just as the brutes came forward. 

As the boot of the first one disappeared into a thick patch of smoke, his whole body would go ridged, as a sound like multiple small detonations in quick succession rips through the air. The scent of scorched meat assaulted his nostrils immediately as white smoke oozed from the pores of the brute. His every action ceased as he stood, frozen. Sickly purple bolts of power arced between the man’s legs, the entry point of the trap, the man’s foot, was nothing but a charred black mess of matter, fused to the floor, as steaming fluids began to run from his pores. 

Zakarius stood immobile amongst the smoke, arms still spread before his gaze ran over to the other attacker who drew near, wondering if this show of power would reach its addled mind.