Adorned in black plate mail and black spiked gauntlets, Elric walked into the bar. A coldness fell over the room and the louder conversations died down. They did not look at him, they knew who he was, they could tell when he entered the room, they just could not decide what he was.
The bartender brought him an ale.
"On the house."
The elf looked slowly at the bartender and wrapped his hand around the glass. Elric stared at the bartender, his blood red eyes captivating the man's attention. He squeezed the glass tightly and it shattered in his hand. Shards ripped open the flesh of his hand and the blood began to seep across the bar.
"I do not drink, old man."
The bartender grabbed a towel and began dabbing at the blood-drenched counter.
"An elf that doesn't drink?" laughed the old man, "What are you, freak?"
Elric rose quickly, knocking over the barstool. His blood red eyes began to swirl in columns of fire. He threw back the cloak covering his plate mail and withdrew a black sword. With a cry of fury, Elric thrust the sword at the bartender, burying it within his chest. The bartender screamed in pain, but no blood ran down. The elf withdrew the blade and tucked it back into his cloak. The bartender moaned on the floor, clutching at his chest, but no wound was visible. He writhed on the floor a moment longer, than lay still. Elric turned and walked out the door.