As the mighty dragon harmlessly barreled past his intended targets, a veritable landslide of cleverly-coordinated attacks rained down upon it.

Darmariq's hatchet flew true and found its target. Unfortunately, wood axes were never meant for throwing, and the distance it would have to travel to find its new, meaty home meant that it actually landing blade-first was patently unlikely. As it was, it was the flat side of the hatchet that made first contact. Like a pair of star-crossed lovers, the hatchet and the dragon's ankle met tragic ends together. A short sharp shower of steel shrapnel shot away from the point of impact, threatening to embed themselves in anyone nearby! The ankle, being a less romantic sort, merely chose to mark its tragically short-lived love in the form of a horrifyingly painful fracture.

Kodor's axe struck up a beautiful shower of sparks as it clanged harmlessly against the dragon's scales. The axe, driven by what seemed to be divine will but was actually an enormous angry barbarian, found itself between the dragon's scales. The axe, like the mythical Sword in the Stone, was stuck tight and impossible to remove through normal means; unfortunately, whosoever could remove this axe would not be crowned the future king of England. The dragon, equally surprised at the sudden discomfort in its neck and the sudden tearing agony in its leg, reared its head up and tried to fling Kodor off!

As the dragon's right hind leg buckled, Geoffrey's swung swine slammed into the dragon's belly. The pig's weight added plenty of force behind its impact, bruising the dragon's guts and making an amusing slapping sound. At the same time, a bullet from Russ tore into the dragon's gut, scoring a deep bleeding wound.

Pain and potent poison pulsed through the dragon's brain, driving it to exciting new heights of jealousy and contempt. With frightening speed, the dragon turned and tried to clamp its jaws around poor Geoffrey. Though a deadly predator at all times, its debilitated state slowed its movements and retarded its coordination. Perhaps even a humble swineherd could escape the dragon's fury!

Kodor let out a loud roar as the beast began shaking. Below, a wondrous cacophony had begun as the other warriors began their assault, though few could fly as high as Kodor. Fortunately for the barbarian, the axe has struck deep, and his grip was tight. Using the powerful muscles that were his abs, he maneuvered to the dragon's neck, and used his meaty thighs to clamp onto the throbbing trunk.

The axe was wedged deeply under the dragon's hard, metallic scales. Unfortunately, it was too tightly bound by the scales. Fortunately, Kodor knew logic. Axes go in, not out. Curling his thick fingers into rock-like fists, he mercilessly bashed the back of the head, wedging it further under the scales in the same manner as a hammer and chisel. From here, he was probably safe from the dragon's jaws, and could focus on the simple task of prying scales free and deepening this wound. Hot, steamy fluids sprayed onto his face and chest, obscuring his vision. With one last grunt, he clasped his hands together and brought them down in a final double axe handle, striking the blade.

Geoffrey was happy regarding his strike upon the dragon; the pig on the other-hand was not. The pig would've rather been eating wallowing in the mud or eating some slop instead of being used by a herder as a weapon against a dragon. Remaining in this situation was not a thing the pig was not keen about. Weaseling itself out of the bond that Geoffrey held, the pig hit the ground running.

This was noticed by the peasant, who also didn't want to be in his current predicament. After all, the dragon turned its head upon the poor herder, ready to bite into the peasant. Clearly the creature was not amused by being near an individual who dealt with domesticated beasts. Geoffrey turned towards his fleeing pig and grabbed its rear. And so the peasant was spared the dragon's maws, instead getting dragged across the forest floor.

As the pig fled, and tried to buck its tamer away, Geoffrey managed to pull himself onto the pig and saddle himself on as well as he could. This meant him mainly sitting on his swine, facing the right in a saddling position, with his hands firmly on the pig, and his feet being brushed along the floor.

Now he had the arduous task of trying to direct the pig. Pressing on the pig with his hands, the peasant cried out."Faster back t'tha...!" That was when Geoffrey's head was struck by a low hanging branch, which shot his head back, and left a mark on his forehead. The peasant gritted his teeth, and attempted to motion the pig the way he wanted to go. Another branch struck Geoffrey, this one striking at his left bicep. Again, Geoffrey tried to motion the pig to go where he wanted. But the pig was having none of that, as it continued running in the direction it felt like. As the pig continued to run with a somewhat sense of freedom, Geoffrey's feet were being stung by burrs which embedded themselves firmly upon both feet.

"Yer gona-" Another branch struck Geoffrey, and a few leaves latched onto the peasant's dingy clothing."Uuugha...DAMNED SWINE!" Geoffrey glanced forwards and realized, the pig was leading him into thicket of tree-branches. This wasn't going to be pretty.

The pain the dragon was experiencing right now was, by all accounts, completely foreign to it. Not once had it ever considered that such miniscule bipeds could not just inconvenience it but threaten it in such a way, and the thought of it happening right now was bewildering. The dragon thrashed wildly in an attempt to shake Kodor off.

The dragon's wild thrashing and blind staggering brought it close to the inn. With a hail of brick and splinters, the dragon slammed into the inn and stoved in its eastern wall. Though the inn was still sturdy enough to avoid crumbling from just this blow enough, a small cloud of wood dust and shrapnel tore across Kodor's exposed back and shook Russ's perch. The dragon, stunned and in unimaginable pain, did its best to stagger towards the treeline. If only it could shake off this thing that was tearing at its neck, it could escape to lick its wounds and plan its revenge!

When the persistent dragon directed its fury at the inn, the first proper lodging Welt would have in weeks, the first haven which was not a cemetery -- here it should be said that Welt did not discriminate against the inanimate dead by any means, and was oft seen by the likes of Goffrey emerging from a hole and noting silent deference to his mute skeletal hosts before departing -- Welt decided it's enough! I shan't sleep in half-dug graves tonight!

Temerariously, he charged at the beast as it staggered towards the treeline from behind, almost slipping on the bloody trail left by the wound, and then with all the power his atrophied legs lent him he jumped and grabbed hold, haloing the tip of the dragon's tail, mounting as if it were a horse. It flapped around viciously but Welt wouldn't let go. He rattled and rattled in the air as if he were the tail of a giant, scaly rattlesnake, was smacked on the ground many times, roots and dirt filling his cavities; but he did not let go.

Ludmilla watched the chaos unfold as her filthy nonmagical plebians and the apparently also nonmagical lizard duked it out. Judging by the apparent seizure it was having as it charged, partnered with the utter lack of tactical reasoning or any reasoning at all for that matter... Was it one of the lesser drake species? Ludmilla briefly regretted devoting so much of her time studying the world's plants rather than its creatures, but hindsight was 20/20.

Whatever the thing was, it was certainly dragon-like, and that could only mean one thing: A hoard. Deciding that she'd already done enough anyways, Ludmilla flew past the dragon and came in low, swooping down into and through the forest's canopy. She followed the large, obvious tracks and bloodstains which their recently-deceased Imperial and soon-to-be-deceased lizard had been so kind to leave in the rich loam, mud, and occasionally on the sides of nearby trees throughout the forest.

After several minutes of flying she came across her first objective: The battered, chewed, half-eaten corpses of several Imperials- from the looks of things, about ten or fifteen soldiers backed up by a pair of mages- or maybe just one mage? Two mage halves, anyway- and a mostly-intact priest. The latter was particularly relevant to Ludmilla's interests.

Touching down, she kicked the corpse over unceremoniously. The man's stole indicated that he was a priest of Galven, the Bladefather. Trained swordsmen to a man and capable of calling upon powerful divine miracles that were nonetheless not as cool or interesting as Ludmilla's magecraft, they were a force to be reckoned with. It was common knowledge that the Empire's close working relationship with the priesthood was the driving force behind their many campaigns.

More importantly, all properly ordained priests of Galven carried a ceremonial sword forged from white iron and studded with topaz chips the size of a man's thumbnail along the fuller and pommel. Such blades were ugly, lacking in serious craftsmanship, of very little practical use and- now this was the important part- were spectacularly valuable.

Sure enough, the poor old bastard had one strapped to his belt. Odds were he hadn't realized the scale of of creature he was dealing with until it was too late- the creature's bizarre ability to contort itself around trees and spindly, malnourished frame meant its burrow might have resembled that of a much smaller beast. Tugging a couple of rings off the man's cold, dead fingers- the signet might fetch her a pretty penny- she grabbed the man's ceremonial sword and moved on. No time to strip them clean; Ludmilla had a lizard to rob.

"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.

"HUERGH!" Kodor gave a grunt, gritting his teeth as wooden shrapnel exploded, several splinters as long as his forearm lodging in his back.

Nobody hurt Kodor.
Kodor hurt everybody.

Kodor's vision went red as sheer instinct took over, and he tightened his hands over the axe's grip. Veins bulged and tendons went taut like cables as his thick, ropy muscles tore the axe free, sending several dislodged scales flying. His legs only clenched with renewed vigor, and he slammed his axe down onto the wounded area with a primal fury.
One hit wasn't enough. He struck again.
Again.
Again.

Kodor refused to stop, he could not stop at this rate. Spit and shouts flew from his mouth as he mercilessly pounded the quivering, wet hole with his massive axe. Over and over, he raised the blade up and down, unable to stop until the dragon fell or he was simply torn clear away.

The beast was faltering. His gun worked on it just as well as against any other being, and its myriad wounds from prior and current attacks were sapping it of wit and strength both. Before he could feel triumphant, however, the dragon careened towards the inn and demolished its eastern wall. Weakened did not mean dead, best to not be caught by any such attack, he thought as he crouched low and shielded his face with an arm to protect himself from the cloud of dust and shrapnel kicked up by the thrashing animal, leaving himself at risk of not seeing another blow coming in exchange for keeping his eyes mostly intact.

A blow did not come, however, and as he peered through the building's remains through half-closed eyes he took stock of the situation. The enemy charged towards the treeline once more, perhaps intent on retreating back to its lair. On its back, the muscular barbarian that had slain the imperial howled in a frenzy as he hacked away with reckless abandon, delivering blow after blow of massive axe. Down below, a cloaked figure he had not seen before seemed intent on clutching the beast's tail, as if that were to accomplish anything other than endagering him. He spotted no wounds to exploit on the creature's behind.

Deciding he was still relatively safe and well-positioned on the building's roof, Russ finished loading Nat once more and postured up to get a good shot, targetting the back of one of its spindly hind limbs, specifically the "knee", or whatever looked like it might serve the same purpose as that part of his own legs. Once more: deep breath, take the situation into account, breathe out, relax, pull the trigger, all one swift action. The crack of detonating gunpowder sounded across the forest once more, audible even with the general commotion, and Russ once again opened his weapon's breech and prepared a reload.

From her place just inside the inn, Nariana watched the proceedings with the dragon. She couldn't engage in the open - her skillset was unfortunately unsuited to such undertakings. She didn't want to let the poison be her only contribution to the battle, but her options were greatly limited by her preparation time.

Roping the dragon was an appealing plan. Ropes made of her silk were far stronger than standard hemp and would, with planning, hold under a dragon's thrashing. However, she didn't have any time to prepare enough fiber to be effective, so she scrapped the idea.

Climbing the inn and jumping to the beast's back seemed appealing. She had no doubts that her innate climbing talents would allow her to cling to the beast without being bucked. However, the problem lay in her attack: while she would be beyond the reach of tooth and nail, she would only be able to get at scale. She did carry a rondel dagger which could pierce the scales, but she doubted that it would do more damage than a thorn would to a person.

That left the belly. It would put her at risk of the teeth and claws, but she could at least attempt to spill its entrails. She wasn't fond of being targetable, but she'd yet to see any fire from the dragon, which meant she could probably rely on her dexterity to carry her through the battle. Plus, a bit more poison probably wouldn't hurt.

So thinking, Nariana left the inn, a haze of magic mixed with her stealth skills making her no more than a blur as she approached the drake. As it staggered toward the treeline, Nariana danced beneath, dragging her long, venomous daggers along its softer belly while keeping clear of its legs.

Lisa huffed and puffed as she ran through the woods. Of course the undead man had an undead horse of some sort, but Lisa had short legs and plate armor, and this particular combination did not equate to quick travel. After some time, however, she finally came upon the dragon, who was destroying the evil tavern. The fool obviously did not even realize that he was turning a sanctuary of evil into wood chips, and therefore depriving himself of power. Perhaps it was the large man on his neck that perturbed him so much that he blindly slammed into a place of evil, but regardless, this was her chance!

The dragon started to turn around, likely realizing his mistake and attempting egress. Lisa hid her luckily small self behind a tree and waited for it to get closer. After a couple of seconds, she heard a gunshot ring out, and decided that this was a fine time to strike. The dragon was probably too distracted by the gunshot and the screaming man on his neck to pay attention to a small speck of a woman rushing out from behind a tree.

And that is exactly what Lisa did. She charged out from behind the tree, her mace held high as it glowed with divine evil-smiting energies, and attempted to slam it into one of the serpent's more grievous, low-to-the-ground wounds.

Because Lisa was not a tall person.

"Puh." dejectedly the peasant spoke as he spat out a leaf from his mouth. Geoffrey's hands were firmly kept on the pig, much like how remnants of foliage stuck upon the peasant's attire. A series of recent red marks and some nicks and scraps adorned the peasant's face. However, despite the situation, there was a small silver lining to the ordeal.

His pig was not thrashing and fleeing about as swiftly as it was earlier. As of the moment the pig's steps were much more smooth, and the ride was much less bumpy. However, the pig was still going in a direction that Geoffrey did not want it to go. Fortunately for Geoffrey, the disobedience was not going to last much longer.

The peasant eyed the apple that was hanging off a nearby branch, and knew what he needed to do now. He reached over towards the fruit with his right hand and plucked it off the tree. Geoffrey held this newly gained item in front of his pig, in order to tempt it. And as to be expected, the fruit proved to be a successful bait and the pig began following it.

" 'Ere we go, thas right piggy... 'ollow tha apple now." spoke Geoffrey as his pig returned back towards the location of the dragon. The peasant eyed the creature with disdain as he dropped the apple near the pig. Slowly he got off, as his lips curled a bit in agony due to the fact standing caused the burrs to lodge themselves deeper into his feet. As his pig was happily devouring the apple, the peasant picked up a rock near his feet and eyed the dragon once more.

With the rock in hand, Geoffrey half-heartedly tossed it towards the dragon. If it struck, then all the merrier. However, the peasant knew the real important issue at hand. So Geoffrey sat down, shifting his gaze for a moment to notice his pig was trudging along sniffing the ground for more food. Seeing that his pig wasn't trying to flee, he reached down towards the bottoms of his feet and began plucking at the burrs to get them out.

A vicious hail of attacks pounded against the dragon. Bullets, blades, blunt objects, and psychic blasts tore intense wounds across the dragon's unprotected underbelly, exacerbating the beast's already woozy state. At a loss for options and addled by poison, the dragon did the only thing it could: it sat down. As its emaciated frame met the ground, Nariana and Lisa were forced out of the way. With its shattered legs tucked under its belly and only its iron-hard sides and back exposed, the dragon had made itself a much harder target.

Kodor's frenzy had definitely taken its toll on the dragon's neck, and he was certainly making excellent progress on hacking his way to its spine. Fat and muscle gave way under Kodor's mighty axe, until at last it met the dragon's spine. With an arm-shattering clang, Kodor's axe bounced off the dragon's cervical vertebrae. Bones and muscle stronger than steel formed a nearly impenetrable shield against direct attacks.

The dragon was angry. It needed to end this fight now, before these filthy, worthless, weak humans could hurt it anymore. It had one last trick up its sleeve, but it wasn't sure it could do it under these circumstances. The dragon opened its mouth as wide as it could, and closed its eyes. The deafening hiss of the dragon inhaling sounded across the enclave as it prepared to use its breath weapon. Unless the heroes could somehow block its windpipe before it exhaled, this battle would be as good as lost!

At last Geoffrey removed all the burrs that were stuck on his feet. The peasant smiled as he glanced towards the side to see if his pig was still sniffing around, which it was. His bags were still on his back, and his chickens were still tied to him. He just needed to collect his sheep, as the dragon seemed vanquished upon the ground!

Seemed was the key word to that thought, as the peasant realized the ugly creature was stirring about hissing! Something bad was going to happen if the beast kept breathing with its nostrils. The peasant clasped his hands together and grumbled, "Wouldst It let me do this deed 'n not die?" With that prayer uttered, the peasant rushed towards the dragon knowing the audacious task he needed to accomplish.

The peasant rushed towards the very face of the dragon, and slightly opened his left bag. Wanting the freedom, the first pigeon head popped out and tried to escape, only to be grabbed by the peasant who tossed it towards the nostril of the dragon. Hopefully the creature was also inhaling from its about as well, and that force would be enough to suck and trap the pigeon in.

But the peasant did not actively think about that, as he tossed another pigeon towards the same nostril and two others at the opposite nostril before tying up the bag.

The tree crowns from the forest finally blotted out the sun, Welt's most annoying enemy. Now in sweet shade, the skeleton was free to experiment and be creative at last, and since the dragon had calmed down and dropped its huge bottom on the ground, he was able to let go of its tail, and, with a quick tearing off of his cloak and tossing it aside caused by a sudden revelation of what had to be done, he began to strip, still rattling, taking one article of armour after the other as his ivory clavicles, ribs and hips flashed, until he was but 205 bones (he'd lost one toe as a child).

Raising his hand to thumbs up the serf and his pigeons and congratulate him on the excellent idea, he stretched a couple of times and then entered the dragon's smoky hot mouth, in which he curled up in the fetal position, save for one of his legs witch whose four toes he tickled the moist, low hanging uvula of the worm hoping to prevent its mustering of who-knew-what power.

The dragon's inhaling stopped suddenly, as each of its orifices was blocked in turn. With a noise somewhere between a huff, a hiccup, and an engine failure, a puff of feathers flew from its nostrils. The dragon's eyes widened, and its snuffling and puffing grew panicked. The dragon's tremendous ribcage expanded and cracked along its underscales to a frightful rumbling sound churning deep within its guts.

Like an overinflated balloon made of pork and sulfur, the dragon's torso exploded spectacularly. A gout of white-hot flame shot out from the hole in its neck, sending Kodor on a parabolic arc straight into the inn. A rush of dragonfire shot out of the dragon's mouth and nose, neatly cooking the pigeons in its nostrils, partially melting Welt's armor, and blowing most of the flesh off his bones. A wave of white-hot dragon teeth and bones embedded themselves in anything within a twenty foot radius, and a wave of fire as thick and sticky as napalm splashed the ground nearby. After only a few seconds, the only remaining evidence that a dragon had even existed here was a spreading pool of dragonfire, several dozen pounds of dragon bone fragments, and a few rapidly-disintegrating shreds of dragon skin.

The aftermath of the dragon's grisly backfire brought a brief respite, and a chance to survey the damage done. The inn was in ruins, of course-- not even the finest establishment could withstand such a blow, and this inn was not very structurally sound in the first place. Several people were wounded, either by the dragon's bony shrapnel or by its still-burning bodily fluids. Though the dragon was obviously dead, the havoc it wrought was very obvious. Stranger still, a set of five metallic boulders lay right at the epicenter of the explosion. Though they were still dangerously hot, each of them were about the size of a man's head and each of them gleamed like polished gold in the fading sun. Perhaps they held some power, or some value still?

As Russ peered over his hiding spot, preparing to fire once more, he saw that the dragon had decided to settle down, lie on its belly and inhale very, very deeply. He had no idea what may or may not come, but he did not like the very deliberate nature it went about it, no sir. So while the others scrambled to do whatever it was they were doing, Russ decided to follow his soldier's instincts and seek cover. Rather than try to go down the stairs and exit from one of the many doors beneath, he made sure all his gear was secure and went over to peer down the wall farthest from where whatever the dragon was planning would hit.

Thankfully, the beastman was right. There were plenty of places he could use for grips and footholds. Russ hurriedly scaled down, with no idea what was happening over in front of the inn and only a myriad of strange and disgusting noises to further whip him into seeking shelter. He jumped down when he was a safe distance from the ground and dashed away from the clearly doomed building as an explosion louder than any he had ever heard rocked the forest. His instinct once again taking hold, he yelled a curse out loud as he hit the floor and covered his ears to diminish the damage.

It was all for naught. Not because he was hurt in any way but because, in the end, it wasn't as bad as he thought it might be. The same could be said for the entirety of the battle, really. He looked around to see things were...mostly okay. The forest wasn't ablaze, not yet at least. The inn was completely and utterly destroyed, however. He had seen buildings take cannon fire and come out in a better state. With a grunt, he jumped back on his feet, dusted himself off and adjusted his hat before circling the demolished building to come upon the beast's remains and the aftermath of the battle.

"Good work", he said nodding to no one in particular before stopping to stare at the metallic boulders amongst the dragon's remains. He pointed to them, then to himself, then back to the rocks. "One, mine" he said, gun in hand. He paused, looked around at the survivors, then shrugged. "Half, good too". Russ was many things, but exceedingly greedy was not one of them.

The stomping of the dragon, the screeching of metal on scale, the beastly cries of struggle, and that flesh reeling hiss. It was all muffled, and Darmariq was all but there as his senses flooded him with conflicting stimuli. The grasping of his staff was like clenching a pole of thorns. Breathing left his mouth with a sour taste and the ground felt as if it was swallowing him whole. He glared up at the creature with its mouth bearing teething as large as him and chuckled softly.

"There's still... some magic in this," he muttered.

He pulled himself up his staff and lumbered into a stance. As he braced himself for a final attack, the potion but a lingering presence in his frame, the wild peasant came running across the field with bag in hand. What is he playing at now, Darmariq wondered, and when he thought the day could not become any more eventful, the peasant tossed three pigeons at the dragon, impeding the air into its nostrils, followed by someone—something—inviting itself into the dragon's mouth.

"Drat!" he uttered at the sudden realization.

He fell as he attempted to sprint into the woods, crawling like a bear unto on his feet and did not bother looking back as something terrible roared behind him. The clamour became more dreadful, more intense and more angry. An amalgam of a burst and plopping chunks of meat assaulted his ears as he hurried behind a tree. An odour of enteric gases soon claimed the air he swiftly regretted gasping for, doing everything in his power not to spill his breakfast onto the ground. He looked up at the branches and felt a swift embarrassment when he saw his robe.

He dug his backpack from the loose dirt and pulled out one of his two waterskins. The splitting of the dryness in his throat never felt so welcoming.

Time to see what remains of the creature, he said to himself. He patted his waist and felt nothing, and sighed when the memory dawned on him. He donned his robe and backpack once more and set forth to the battle site, removing the broken leaves and twigs from his hair and pondering how he could convince anyone of the deadly use of pigeons.

The serf was happy with the noble sacrifice he forced some of his pigeons into. And they all seemed to hit their mark as well! Things were looking up for Geoffrey, and truly nothing bad could happen to him now.

While nothing bad happened to him at that moment, there was something ominous that was going to happen really soon. That strange noise was not natural. With that in mind, Geoffrey reacted in the most logical fashion he could think of.

"AAAUUUUUUGGHHAAAAA!" shrieked out the peasant in fright, wildly flailing his arms around as he began running away from the beast. In the distance, the herder's sheep were running alongside his pig. They also wished to be away from this situation.

Geoffrey's feet carried him a good distance away, perhaps far enough away to avoid being impacted by the blast of the dragon! To an observer, who probably should've been running away as well, it was clear that Geoffrey didn't get out of the way quick enough.

A plethora of bone and teeth shards blasted into the peasant. Each piece made a distinctive sizzle upon the peasant's flesh as they were lodged in, and left behind a vast array of new scorched holes in his attire. Geoffrey's lower back and legs were riddled with jagged pieces of the creature's remain.

Wracked with pain, the peasant unceremoniously collapsed face-forward on the ground with a thud.

A large beam of wood raised into the air, and Kodor stood up, grunting as he heaved the beam off his body. It was battered and marked with shrapnel, coated in a layer of wood dust and two kinds of blood: his and theirs.

It was apparent to the barbarian that his constant hacking into the dragon's delicious spine and arteries had moved it into a desperation mode. The dragon had preferred to kamkikaze, go out on its own terms rather than meet its end at Kodor's hands. Such a spiteful, malicious being deserved such a painful demise, especially if it were in vein: Kodor lived to die another day.

The barbarian stumbled over the wreckage, stepping over burnt beams and the occasional body part. He found his axe lodged in what used to be the barman's rack of prized, three hundred year old wines, right above a pile of broken glass and now inedible alcohols. The axe was scorched, but still serviceable. He slung it across his back, crosswise from his sword, then sauntered forward to his fallen prey.
Unfortunately, the dragon's last move had left little in the way of food, to Kodor's chagrin. What was left were a set of metal balls. Kodor supposed that when they cooled, he'd make either dinner or a flail out of one.

"One of those is mine." he said, marking his bounty with a wad of spit. The liquid sizzled as it slapped against the golden sphere.