Mal watched the two approach, his brow raised in an open question. Jaelle was gorgeous, and he didn't mean aesthetically. She had appeared at just the right time, sheparding the two older folks to the back as best she could. The Petersons were innocent folk, and with them gone Mal didn't feel too bad wrecking their livelihoods. Strange how morality and guilt worked. Within the folds of his sleeves, his fingers moved, weaving the flows of magic around them to prepare for whatever was coming. He didn't cast a spell yet, not wanting to give anything away in case they were powerful spellcasters. 

When they pulled out the silence pistol, Mal scowled. He moved like a practiced fighter, quick and efficient, left out shooting out and grabbing the gun's barrel with a flow of force, twisting his hand and breaking the gun's barrel. The second man was already aiming with a firearm of his own, Mal's eyes widened, bending his arm until it was position like he was about to pull a seatbelt down over his torso. The gun fired, bullets sparking off an invisible shield Mal had summoned at just the last moment. Bullets crashed into canned food and peanuts. 

Mal riposted with a solidified collection of sharpened force, slicing across the two men's necks and beheading them. Or, that's what he had expected. He didn't exactly know what happened when he had used the attack. The razor edge of mystical aether energies turned into heavy molasses to Mal's senses as it passed through the two men. He felt fatigued even trying to run controlled magic across them. He couldn't exactly understand what was happening, and the assailants looked only a bit dazed. 

"Back of the store!" Malcador cried to the Petersons. The old man, Liam, had shouldered the door a couple of times. As he went for a fourth attempt, Mal breathed a spell, the door weakening as he hit it. The old man nearly crashed to the floor, but he caught himself and his wife grabbed at him. 

"Liam!" She cried. He grumbled and grunted, pushing himself forward. Mal was satisfied, but when he turned back, one of the men ran at him, attempting a tackle. Mal leaped to the left, kicking out with his foot. The blow truly did smart, but it succeeded in sending the guy to the ground. Malcador's heart raced, sweat beading on his brow. He placed his hands over one another, palms facing the ground. He breathed an incantation, not bothering with rhythm or cadence. His voice rose in octaves beyond human capability, and the men within didn't seem too worried, just merely note of Mal performing a spell. If they valued their lives, they would start running. 

Blue-white flame coalesced around his hands, burgeoning like a a blow torch. Malcador didn't know who the hell these men were, but this spell was a dwemor that could turn the whole store into a cinder if he didn't control it properly, and even if it was, Mal's immediate vicinity was going to be obliterated. He called it 'Mund-spilli' or 'Destroyer of Worlds.' A bit of a misnomer, but it sufficed for what its intended use was.