For five and a half hours, the bar was busy as a bee-hive: The bartender serving drinks like a madman while they were constantly chugged or gulped down. The entire crowd in the place seemed on edge; each with their own particular anxiousness or nervousness bubbling below the surface, and there was no absence of violence before sundown was finally reached. Several tables had been broken when a drunken spat blew up into a full fledged brawl, but with couple harsh words and a serious threat, the bartender had the thugs out of the bar and into the dusty street beyond. Little outside of the bar existed in the rundown town of Oasis: A once thriving village on the outskirts of the largest kingdom in the lands, but for those who frequented the guttural dive, it was still home. A small metal-shop, and a meager assortment of homes were strewn here and there between the abandoned structures of past residents, but the candy apple red sign of the bar itself was the only sure-fire proof of life in the desolate place.

When darkness finally consumed the nails and timbers of the wooden ramshackle bar, the bartender took on a more serious persona and stopped speaking to the customers sitting in stools. He hurriedly cleaned up the floors and counters; moved debris and other bits of broken furniture back into a storage room, and took a long drink of some dark black liquor. Something was up, and the patrons seemed to feel the same way. One by one those who could walk, made their way out the doors of the saloon, and into the emptiness awaiting beyond the dim light of lanterns and candles. The air seemed to grow still in the establishment; as if waiting in anticipation for something to happen, and Malakii could feel the rapid beating of the bartenders heart. His breathing was fearful and silent, but his heart thudded in his chest like a drum signaling the march of a massive army.

There was no way of telling what the man feared or what he was on edge about, but Malakii figured it was something worth witnessing firsthand. He had no compulsion to act or to react to what was happening, but his drive for knowledge held him in his stool... Even when the bartender whispered a quiet plea for him to go.



The aged man appeared a hundred years older as he looked between the two: Malakii and the other at the bar, and his weak voice was far from the threatening and strong tone from before. Whatever had the man so worried, was going to happen soon, and the barkeep was so totally wrapped in fear that he could say little more. His voice quit falling from between parted lips, as the doors to the saloon swung open, and six heavy-set men lumbered in. Each of them wore a casual duster; long trench-coat like jacket with blades hanging limply from their belts, and the leader who moved forward first had eyes as coal black as the night itself. Malakii looked over his shoulder at the men; gripping his prayer beads casually as they moved closer, but his attention wasnt merely on them... He watched for any signs of reaction from the man sitting nearest him at the bar. The only patron still remaining from earlier...


He thought to himself; of the man nearby



His thoughts were paced; focused and slow, as he listened to each heartbeat nearby, and felt every breath taken in the now filled bar-room. There was much to take in; much to be ready for, but Malakii found peace in his own breathing and his own heartbeat, as violence loomed on the horizon...

This world, like so many others, had just what this … thing, loved.

Life,

It was in that one word, one could derive a thousand meanings. Love, spirit, survival… Hate, violence, war… Life was good. This planet had gone its own course, like millions before it, as a million others do now, and millions will on in time. So many paths, but this quaint little town was ripe for the pickings in many ways. This place had gone to the dogs, so to say, the strongest survive if being polite; but oh no, don’t do that here…
The man mused in his head as he supped from the smudged glass of dark liquid. The random brawls, bloodshed, smashed liquor bottles; it was second nature to this being, this… Drow Elf. All around he felt the very souls of the patrons within this particular bar of the wasteland, the very life secrets of the more weak willed out and open to his mind. But they were nothing but wasted time. He kept guarded of the man beside him; there was no reason, save then very air about him seemed foreign. Though Zakarius kept his guard about him at all times.

It was the liquid in this glass though, that had most of his attention, seemingly oblivious to the outside world as he brought the glass find parted violet lips. His eyes would roll just barely, letting the slightest hint of pleasure pass his hidden features. He came to this bar on this passing world for a drink, nothing more. No bloodshed, no souls for his patron Gods, no fighting. But this was life, and he knew his choice of establishments often exuded… life.

It was just then that he felt the air shift, the incessant drone of the establishment slowly ebbed away. Zakarius took solace in the liquid of his glass, which seemed to never empty as he drank. Leaning lightly over the large oak wood bar-front, upon his meager stool, he watched as the soul density of the bar withered to just a handful. There was the bartender, a meager sliver of life, worthy for nothing but sacrifice as a demon host, and then the other man, His soul was different, strong, bright, it hinted at the best strength one could hope for in this life; potential. Zakarius studied this as the bartender spoke, offering warnings of something that the Drow had no care for. His confidence in his current setting would seem arrogant to an onlooker.
But damn, he couldn’t get this drink off his mind, head falling back for a second to drain another glass. His hood falls back just slightly as he comes forward, eyes trained on the large door of the bar, his witch-sight having a hint of the incoming men. Deep amber eyes fell back to the wooden bar where his glass lay, feeling the eyes of the second patron upon him for a brief second. These souls that would enter were dark things, strong for your average man, but simple, brutal… they were grunts. But one of them hinted something more, like the “potential” possibility of the other man with him.
It was obvious the bartender was not happy with the current situation, and the new uniformed patrons did not appear to be here for a night out with the gang. The air was thick with tension, but that-he didn’t care for, more curious about the strange air patterns around the other stranger. But beyond all that, he couldn’t get over this drink! It was so sweet, burning his throat like strong amsec from Cattechan, yet it numbed its own burn, like elder berry wine of Redwall. But what was worse, his glass was empty, the minor enchantment upon the glass to keep it fuller had run its time.
The pack of men behind him stood still, and for a few precious seconds it was perfectly quiet. The fear felt by the bartender, the panic and sense of preservation the leaked from the masses that vacated so quickly, it was all lost upon Zakarius. Even the stranger beside him, despite so much of his body clothed, he could tell the man ready, the very current of the air around his body somehow calmer than that inches from him.
It was all lost on him, as his picked up the glass, only to set it down before the paled bartender, tapping it lightly for service.

Malakii finally moved more than the usual and casual over the shoulder look, as his hand stretched outward and his fingers wrapped around the empty glass before the other patron. His lips did not part to explain why, nor did he look directly at the oddly attired creaturesque man, but instead he wiped the rim of the glass of the last droplets of liquid and ran his fingers beneath his nose. Just a small sniff and his eyes opened in surprise; a shock to his senses no doubt, as he bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood and moved slowly into a more meditative state. His hands clasped before his chest as he leaned towards the bar and closed his eyes, but the men who had just entered paid him no attention at all. They were glaring each and every one of them, solely at the bartender now huddled behind the counter too terrified to move. Whatever their motive, or their reason for being there, the barkeep wasnt equipped to handle them.

He shuddered and shook; his heart and breath matched up in a frantic race to a deathly finish, as terror overcame fear, and sickening dread washed over his features. Two of the uniformed men stood at the entrance and waited, while two more went to the back door and stopped. The leader; the soulless looking eyes of darkness embedded in a mortal mans head, walked calmly and slowly to the bar and rested his elbows on the hard wood. The last of the men; seeming distracted and new to the job, constantly twitching and looking about with paranoid spasms, hung close behind the obvious leader, but he did little more than grit his teeth against their shaking and his own nerves.

"Where is OUR.... Shipment?"

The leader spoke; lifting his eyes from the bar with a casual smile on his face. The bartender however was not smiling as he tried futilely to react or speak without stuttering and fainting.

"Sir its... its... its...."

His words were cut short as the black-eyed man reached across the bar in a flash; gripped him by the collar, and slammed his face back downward into the bar. Only to whisper the same question again, and draw out a small knife from his belt.

"Where... is.. our... shipment mason?

The thugs actions were too fast for a mortal man; too direct, concise, accurate for the average soul, but beyond that Malakii could feel even more going on. Each of the men who had entered took normal and calm breaths; as if perpetually patient and focused, but their hearts were now beating faster than he thought possible. Their muscles twitched and flared as they seemingly grew larger beneath the confines of their clothing, and the leader's brow was now slowly building a line of beading sweat. They appeared as though enraged and calm simultaneously; something monks and temple-goers had tried to do for eons, and yet it was apparent they were not mentally focused enough for it to be so. Something else was causing it....

The smell!... Malakii had sniffed the last drink the other patron had taken; the rim soaked with something he had never before witnessed, and now he was certain that whatever had been so enticing in the glass of strong brew his fellow drinker had consumed, was what these men were awash with. The same lingering odor of liquor hung on them, but each held the sickly sweet perfume that Malakii had now burned into his memory as well. In his state of semi-consciousness, Malakii did not move, nor did he act or react, but instead he focused so intensely on what was happening around him, that he could feel, hear, and smell everything nearby. From the blood running from the bartenders nose, all the way to the dripping sweat falling from the thug's brow.

"Sir, It.... It was stolen from the back room.... about four days ago... I had it under lock and key, but when I...."

The thug had obviously heard enough from the bartender, as he lifted the mans head by the tuft of dull grey hair at the back of it, and again slammed it downward. This time however, the mans body went limp from the impact, and a glass of vibrant blue liquor fell from the shelf behind the bar. As it exploded on the ground near the unconscious, and presumably dead bar-keep, the leader of the uniformed men rose up to full height and laughed...

"Clean up this mess boys.. no witnesses... burn it to the ground"

He whistled a light tune; smiling the entire time, as the two at the front door moved aside and he made his way out into the open air. He disappeared like smoke in the wind once the bar's door was closed, and now all of the other thugs were staring wildly at the two patrons still casually perched at the blood spattered counter...

The haze of the liquor had all but abated as the glass was taken from him. The abruptness and strange nature of the man honestly caught Zakarius off guard, staring openly from beneath his hood, amber eyes taking in the stranger’s features as he went into a state of meditation. It was strange to find such traits in a world like this anymore, for he recognized the naivety of the man’s actions as of a learned man. Whether ignorant from solitude, or uncaring from confidence, he did not know, but he felt he would soon find out.

Then the sent hit him, raw and unbarred, but inches from his face. Up until now he would simply stare at the other man, not listening to the words of the other men, as they seemed disinterested as of late with him being there. So, when a being of ability or power feels unthreatened, he would go about his way with little care.

I.e. Zakarius here and now.

But the blood, acrid and metallic in his nose and on his tongue. It was spilled with malicious intent by the one who’s soul had the darker streak to it. This brought Zakarius back to the world at hand, eyes focusing upon the exiting man. The others approached him, for now their intended target was dead, they were not sated, as their senses were roused for violence. His every muscle was on alert, left hand having already fallen to the leather book at his waist. His lips moved silently, as his fingertips slipped through the leather, just passed his nails.
The Drow was silent, seemingly unmoving as they approached him and the other, his eyes closing. “So much life…” He whispered to himself, watching every footfall of each approaching man. His mind was alight with seemingly random words of different spells, keeping every syllable in mind as each beat of every heart hammered before him. Then, the strangest thing, light, lavender-hued smoke, drifted lazily from the hem of the man’s cloak, pooling slowly at his feet.
“Bar’s closing it seems…” He whispered halfheartedly to the man beside him, eyes opening once more. The white had given way to a soft pink, the glow too weak to even be noticed, yet they began to ooze the strange purple smoke, the tendrils wreathing slow circles around his body.

Malakii moved with a graceful flip; his robe seeming to transcend the boundaries of gravity as it clung to him through the entire movement, and as his lightly clad feet came into contact with the flooring behind the bar, he knelt to better address the bleeding and somehow-not-dead barkeep. His pulse was shallow, his breathing ragged and rough, and there was little time left before he would slip off into certain darkness. At that moment; to preserve a life not his own, and to sate his desire for knowledge, Malakii knew he had to escape the bar-prison with the unconscious man, and seek to have him healed. Whatever the cost, the life of an innocent would always outweigh his own.

The others; the thugs and violent men who now circled the bar with eager eyes full of hatred, were consumed by their own addiction to the chemical they filled themselves with. Their focus, their patience, their every action was now dictated by instantaneous reaction and the willingness to do destructive things. They feared nothing, their hearts beat like wild horses flattening a field beneath stomping hooves, and they were too stupid to realize just how blind they were. One of them was close to death without feeling it; his heart reaching its absolute peak as exertion pushed it into a state of frenzied and irregular beating, while yet another was sweating so badly that the beading drops of salt now ran into his eyes and blurred his vision. They were mindless, violent, rage driven creatures. No more human than the one who had already left, but Malakii was not a man of hasty actions. Not even in dire situations such as that... He would wait and hold his own til the time to move or strike was right..

Which happened to be almost instantly...

Two of the men; both wielding their knives with white knuckled ferocity, lunged forward towards the Drow at the bar. Their speed and strength was only matched by their lack of control, as they rushed headlong into whatever the creature had waiting for them. Their blind fury; and the literal blindness of the largest, heaviest, and slowest of the group, would certainly be their downfall. If their raw strength and speed could be countered that was... They werent just fast, but instead with each breath and each beat of their hearts, they grew faster and stronger. More resilient and more dangerous... Malakii could feel how close to death each of them were, and yet he knew their bodies would not let go so easily as any other mortal man. This would get bloody, and it would get there fast.

As the other patron was rushed, so too was Malakii confronted by two men at the same time. One came around to the end of the bar; where the barkeep entered, and ran forward with lumbering steps smashing down on the hard floor. The other man leaped up onto the counter itself and tried to jump down on top of his would-be victim below. Had his buddy not gotten in the way, Malakii would have had a serious fight behind the counter, but luckily for him, the great brute rushing forward and the flying imbecile collided mid-way in a grunting puddle just in front of the unconscious bartender...

The last of the thugs; shaking and wide eyed, clung to his knife as if it would kill him should his grip lessen, and with a painful grimace taking his features from scared to outright terrified, he fell to one knee clutching at his chest. His heart was far too weak, his body too poor for the adrenaline rush he was succumbing to, and soon a silent death would entomb him in a visage of terror. This was meant to be over fast Malakii realized. These thugs were meant to die: All of them... "No witnesses" Malakii realized then, that not only were these men enforcers for their leader, but puppets who were discarded at will... He began to feel the rage building inside of himself. He could taste the cold and raw power that came from unbridled animosity. He would not let anyone's free will and life be taken away without cause or just reason... Not even thugs like them... Their leader would pay...

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.

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...

There was no playing with this crazed group, having established this fact. With one of them melting into a pool of ooze, and the other swinging so hard that the severed arm flies ahead, with him following. It was, to say the least, obvious the time for peace was out of the window. The Drow felt that there were going to be fundamental differences between him and the Monk, for the taste of blood on his lips drove another part of him over the edge. Without warning, he pumped both fists into the air, in defiance to the rushing attacker, a beastial roar of hatred passing his snarled features. The arm went short, landing at his feet, disrupting the smoke, before something snatched it away into the mist.

The rushing man would find no luck this day, its heavy footsteps urging it on to the clouds surrounding Zakarius. The Drow purposefully receded, so his enemy would follow, inching backwards slowly. To say it worked was innapropriate in this situation, the frenzied man had nothing but murder on his mind, and would follow without beckon. But this one would get no farther than the very edge. Inches from the face of the Elf, as five, horned tip, tentacles rip through the haze. Two come from the left and right, each piercing and lodging into the bones of the man’s hips. Third and fourth came at an angle shoulder height, to pierce bicep. The fifth, would come straight down from overtop. The chitin stronger than steel, its wickedly sharp point piercing bone and brain matter as one.

No sooner they pierced bone all over the body, did they pull back tight. Having lodged in tight, all tendrils jerked tight, holding the being inches from Zakarius face. Its body was so frenzied that still now the muscle spasmed, as if still lurching to kill him, though the life was far gone from its eyes. Zakarius would stop, leaning forward slightly, his right hand rising to the nose of dead piece of meat, swiping at the blood.

“Such interesting results…” He whispered to himself, before all five tendrils of black alien flesh ripped outward, pulling all four appendages and the head from the torso with a sickening crunch, and a fountain of blood.

Malakii could tell the ferocious drow was not only enjoying the bloodshed, but living in the moment it existed. This creature could prove far more dangerous or deadly than any of the abominations of mankind they now faced together in the bar. He would surely have to keep his eyes on him in the future: If there was a future for the two.

Snapping back into focus; seeing the two brutes advancing once more towards him, Malakii made a split second decision that would forever ring through the small town. He would utterly end the conflict occurring, and leave the establishment to smolder in his wake. He just had to make sure the bartender made it out alive, and that was all he cared for. He set his mind on the task at hand; completely set on the actions to come, as he began stepping forward with silent moves, and concentrating more of the stagnant air between his moving and flowing hands. Like water the air ebbed and flowed freely between his fingers and along the ends of his hands, as he slid into a crouching stance and extended his palms forward. His mind went blank; every lantern and candle left in the bar went out, and a deafening explosion rocked the rafters. A great hole stretched into view before him; where the two men and the back wall had once been, as the air he controlled created an implosive pocket between them and blew them apart piece by piece. Nothing remained, save for some spatterings of blood and some cloth still falling to the floor, as the back wall began to crumble, and so too did the rest of the building.

There was no more time for games, no more time to battle the behemoth men, and Malakii didnt care one way or another if the dark elf escaped. He scooped up the bartender, ran through the hole in the wall, and cleared the scattered debris, as the entire building began its descent into a smoldering pile of dust and ruin. There would be little time for action or reaction inside, but for some reason, the monk knew that the other patron of the bar would indeed escape...

Escape was the last thing on the Drow’s mind, actually as of those last few seconds, he had no mind., or more, it was locked away. No no, there was no escape for him. As he watched the man before him literally ripped limb from limb, the gore spattering and spraying all over as the drug enhanced blood pressure of the man vented into the bar room. Blood. So much of it. It had a hold on the Drow, as his mind struggled to keep control over the powers he utilized.

Indeed, every time he used something of such magnitude, he opened himself as a conduit to the demon within. Every word must be correct, every enunciation flawless, and his concentration unbroken. But then the Monk pulverized the foundation of the building, and Zakarius let his mind slip for the briefest hint of a second…

I forgot to save a bottle of that liquor…

It was all it took, his mind occupied by something other than the deadly task at hand, and the Demon took over with no notice. The result was a bloodcurdling bellow, like thousands of tortured souls in anger, never quite drowned out by the crumbling of the building. Timber and stone fell in, a cloud of carcinogenic dust wafting high into the sky. There was never silence, even as the last stone was rolling to the earth, the result would shift and rumble, never settling. The screams and hollering would start again as an ashen purple arm punched through a fallen wall, smashing through the glass pane. A soul. It was hungry. It would be sated or defeated. And it was coming.

It was still weak. For it had no soul to feed as it came into reality, but its ferocity and hunger went hand in hand, pulling forth the body of its host from the debris. The description was simple, for the personality that this Demon had was in no way vane; but his personality was not in question. The skin of Zakarius had gone completely black, still garbed with the soft black silk robe. His body was completely humanoid still, keeping every attribute of Zakarius, save his face. The face of what emerged was non-existent, featureless, blank skin pulled over where a jaw, nose, and eye sockets would be. But the roar was very real, from the very molecules in the air around him.

It stayed waist deep within the rubble, weary to advance, but its head fell back, far from cheated as arms opened. Another scream, piercing high into the sky as the very air rippled around him, enacting powers from its arsenal. Eyes sights were set upon the bright soul, retreating from the wreckage. Slowly it righted its vision, below releasing two blows with its fists into the earth, the resulting tremors easily heard and felt within a halfmile.