"Bastards forcing me to do this," Mallark roared, he released the spear in his hand as two strange symbols on his hands lit up.
Mallark brought his hands together as he felt the swords of his enemies break through his armour and pierce into his body.
When he brought his hands together a strange light surrounded him and teleported him away from the attack, but it didn't take him very far.
Mallark fell to the ground as blood gushed out from his wounds, "Mother Fucking saints," Mallark cursed as he tried to supress the laws that were clawing into his body.
Mallark was a warlock, as a warlock his forte was not close combat, fighting pugilist's was hard enough, because of their unparalleled destructive power, but saints were the worst, when they attack with laws, it was no different from being cut with a poisoned blade.
Mallark's only solace was that as a warlock he could supress and get rid of the laws clawing into his flesh, but he'd need time to do that.
