"Blasted!" 

The axe-head shattered upon clashing with the dragon's hind leg. He looked around the field and at the tavern for an object to hurl at the beast's leg once more, but he found nothing of worth. Perhaps the pig would be of great use, or maybe the barbarian, he thought. The wild man was surely thick enough. Frustrated, he readied his stance, and as he assumed proper form, drawing upon his pool of magicka, madness ensued. 

His mouth was agape and eyes were bewildered. He had seen a duelist toss feces at an opponent's face, seen a drunkard pull out his member and urinate to quail a rowdy bunch, and was near a thief who broke the foulest of wind to provide a route of escape, but never has he witnessed someone insane enough to use a porcine companion as a weapon, against a dragon of all things, and as if fate was taken by a comedic spirit, the dragon's right leg weakened! 

But the outrageous actions of some peasant did not warrant further attention. The giant creature yet drawing breath deserved that honour, and there was yet another chance to tame its thunderous steps, and if he wanted to survive the day, there could be no reserves.

As the dragon smashed into the tavern, Darmariq channeled as much magicka as he could wield, squeezing his staff with all the strength he possessed. A dark red substance spiraled up from his feet and around him, carrying with it the sounds of a raging fire, overlaid with a rhythmic incantation. The arcane power poured into the staff and rendered it a radiant red finished with a blackened flicker. He was set to expel a bone crushing blow, uttering the final phrase, and as he raised the luminous bronze end of his staff towards the dragon, it began to proceed in his direction.

He forced the phrase to completion. A red rotating form rushed from the staff and towards the forelegs of the dragon, sending dirt and leaves into the air as it grew in size, but a small portion of it held an intent of its own. Some of the form split and went backwards, its sunwise motion engendering a force that sent Darmariq stumbling backwards, and another portion made its way off ground and arced into the sky and into wherever fleeing spells go. He twisted his torso to redirect his fall, held the staff against his chest in a horizontal manner, and rolled in the direction he was falling. Instinct drove him to position himself towards the adversary and to hold the staff forward as if he was impaling a bloodthirsty bandit, and then he noticed something peculiar.

He narrowed his eyes and hissed. The dragon was not stampeding, but staggering. "Wonderful," he said, forcing himself to his feet, only to fall onto one knee and grabbing his stomach. His body began to ache throughout and his vision began to blur. Not now, he thought, gritting his teeth and slapping his head. The only hope he could conceive of was the remainder of the spell disabling a foreleg and making it a slug of a beast, and he doubted even that. Dragons were not exactly easy to acquire for psionic training.