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“Ｃａｒｅｆｕｌ, how you speak of me.” Tryndamere made a growl to the Metalmancer. “You pester a bull; you recieve the horns.” Tryndamere did not know much of this man but discovered quicky that the barbarian hates him. “Crawl back to your mother’s breast so I can once again be reminded of my duty in this lame land.”

“By the gods, if you were any thicker I doubt even that massive blade you carry could pierce your skull.”

He shook his head. “Truly, if there is any bull whose horns I fear, it is not that bull whose horns are hollow and made of paper. I don’t even see horns on you, you magic-less, pig-headed brute. Gods, we need less people like you.”