He screamed as the pick tore into him. He was so soft that the pick went completely through him, though for some reason it lacked a blood spray or the spilling intestines. He grinned and bowed, healing magic washing over him, and he rolled his shoulders, before issuing an obligatory snarky comment. "We are sorry, but the mage has displaced himself to another location. Our turn."<br/><br/>He smiled, and released the suppressed Polymorph spell, reverting into his bronze dragon body, before giving the wyrmlord a toothy smile. "Last chance to issue your last words. I promise to carve them into your chest before we toss you into a mass grave for your army."