After the barbarian closed his wounds with his electric fireworks and then proceeded to do Malagen’s bidding, the salvage party that rescued the slaves was gone. The cleric lass buckled and struggled; she seemed profoundly resolved to stay and help. She had a heart of gold and the demeanor to go with it; shame she was too much of a dullard to misplace them, misuse them on a bastard like him. It was yet another detail that linked her and Dharnia. Both women were too foolish to see that Malagen was too decayed to be rejuvenated, too corrupt to be a hero. Heroes would ride out of this wretched town on a white horse with those gentle hands wrapped around their waist as they scudded into the sunset to live happily ever after. Or some ballyhoo along those lines.

But Malagen was no hero and he had a different fate waiting for him. The crowd started to gather around the massacre site, their eyes bulged and disbelieving. Some of them dislodged the contents of their stomach at the crimson imagery of a dark artist that was sitting with his back against the barrack wall, half-dead and twice as dreary as usual. His eyes were dead, cold, in sync with the Salvar landscape. His lips were caught in a smirk though, the caustic mischievous kind that struck fear even into some of the bolder that dared to walk through the battlefield drenched with blood.

Soon the perpetual, well synchronized, clanking of the armor could be heard, heavy feet and iron boots clink-clanking their way through the stone-paved streets and approaching the site. The mass made a path instantly for the law, letting through the tall, masculine figure dressed in official guard attire, his armor spic and spank, the fluffy plume on his helmet dangling mockingly. In tow, some twenty men were trying to keep their eyes before them, but the training they had was insufficient to prevent them from taking a glance at Malagen’s handwork. There was upset in their eyes, sheer disquiet and perturbation. It made Malagen proud.

“You there. What happened here?” the captain of the guard approached the fallen Dram messiah, holding his hand on the hilt of his sword and his stance proud and stoic. Malagen did something that he couldn’t remember doing in quite a while. His lips curled even further and his chest rumbled with what seemed like a caustic laughter. “Who is responsible for this massacre?!” now the voice was irritated and angry as he got into the face of the dark warrior. Malagen tried to bring his armed hand to decapitate the captain, but his muscles, drained by the blood loss, refused to obey. All he was left were words.

“You’re looking at him.” the voice, raspy and dry, got through the smirking lips.

“You... You monster. Restrain him! Take him to the dungeon!!” the captain got all flared up, his face frowning deeply, his eyes keen enough to cut a man in twain. Malagen refused to respond with anything else save for that same haunting rumbling laughter, cold and acerb, spreading through the scene like a bad odor.

A monster. The title certainly suited him well.