Flesh is a weakness; it rots, it bleeds, it fails. I have shed the frailty of the organic to become something eternal, something unyielding. The sound of grinding iron is far more melodic than the pathetic pleas of those who think they can stand against me.
Speaking of standing... I can smell a certain "hero" attempting to push his limits from miles away. Tell me, little dragon, how much of your soul will be left once I've crushed your scales beneath my heel? I’m ready when you are.