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.