Ages apast there was a dwarf known as Brin'Toh. From the northlands was he, a barrel-chested, fork-bearded dwarf of middling age and middling stature. He lived in Kachar Delf, a dwarven holding which, in this day and age, has long since disappeared. None know where it once lay, yet it is said that somewhere, buried under the great firemountain of Kacahrin, it still can be found.

Brin'Toh was a common worker. He spent his days in his forge, crafting the pure iron ore mined in the delving of Kachar, working his arts to produce fine blades, broad axeheads, and dealy arrowheads, all gleamingly polished to fetch a high price. He had no family, and thus soon became quite wealthy, for he had none other to support but himself.

However all was not well in the land. As is common in so many legends, a great dragon, his name lost to the ages, was laying waste to the land at that time. It is widely known that many of Aurealis' fully-matured dragons are very lustful after physical wealth, and though their holdings are often sought after, it is commonly known as well that dracongield is cursed.

Dragons, grown to what is thought of as full maturity, for no mortal being truly knows their age, for no dragon has yet died of withering body, are known to sleep for a thousand years, and feed and hoard wealth for two thousand. Woe be upon any land in the path of a dragon's hunger while it is awake. The waking of the dragons is a dark time indeed for the world. Let us be thankful that we live within the second century of the dragons' sleep.

However this tale takes place within the fifth year of the dragons' wake. From his lair hidden somewhere beneath the land crept this great serpent, hunger filling his being, a hunger of the body and a hunger of greed, of wealth, of riches. From his lair hidden beneath the land he crept, and death, darkness, and fear sprang up in his wake. He saw the light of day for the first time in ten centuries just two miles from the great firemountain Kacharin. The dwarven holt may have been there for five centuries, yet its fate was sealed the moment the first hammer struck earth.

Sensing the richness of life within its territory, the great serpent hungered. Sensing the richness of minerals newly brought near the surface by the dwarven delving, the serpent's greed rose. Letting out a great bellow which rang from peak to valley, it sprang into the air, climbing higher and higher until it was beyond even dwarven vision. Yet none had seen it, though its bellow had been felt beneath the earth, such was the great beast's strength of voice.

The dragon watched this business of dwarves from on high, observing, calculating, hungering. It smiled a wicked, toothy grin as it looked into the days to come. Then, when the bright sun began its descent, it winged its way back to its lair.

A week passed.

Another, yet the great beast waited, watching, learning of its prey.

A month, a year, time is nothing to these ageless beings.

Yet the beast knew the time was right. His fruit was ripe for the plucking. At dusk on the first day, the seventh before the day when the moon would eat the sun, he crept from his lair, sprung into the air with silence, and winged his way two miles, to land upon the rim of the great firemountain Kacharin. None in the depths of Kachar Delf heard. As the dragon looked deep into the churning, liquid rock of the firemountain, its eyes shone not only with the light of that heat, but the light of sure victory as well.

He knew he had made a mistake the first day of his waking, bellowing his presence to all the world, and had not made a sound since. If any in the delving suspected, it would do no good. All knew that a dragon could not be killed.

For six days, this great serpent waited there, upon the rim of the firemountain Kacharin, wrapped inside of himself to look no more than a rough jumble of rocks.

Brin'Toh knew. As his great uncle had known, three generations and 400 years apast, he knew. As his great uncle had known, yet had known too late, Brin'Toh knew and had prepared.

His was the legacy of a family dragon-touched. Four hundred years gone, all in his family had been slaughtered by a great beast known to the dwarven people as a dracon. Taken by the lure of dracongield, his great uncle had done the impossible. He had stolen into a dragon's lair while it slept and made off with a tiny portion of the riches there, enough to make any dwarf wealthy beyond comprehension. He had stolen this treasure, but had not recalled the curse that lies upon all dracongield, the curse upon all dragon treasure.

Awakened in a furious rage, the dragon had torn from his lair and soared into the sky, pulled by his own treasure towards a five-century-old dwarevn delving. It had ravaged the holt, torn its great iron doors asunder and slaughtered each and every inhabitant therein with the exception of three. Orphaned, Brin'Toh's grandfather had been placed in the care of this great uncle. But taken as he was with the lure of dracongield, he was deemed an unfit warder and the nephew was placed in the care of a caftsman and his barren wife. During this destruction of the holt, the three were in a nearby human village, selling their wares. Thus survived Brin'Toh's grandfather, his family forever after dragon-touched.

The story was told from the grandfather's foster parents to the grandfather, from him to Brin'Toh's father, and to Brin'Toh. Brin knew what he had to do. It was said that a dragon was not killable. Swords would not penetrate its scaled hide, arrows the same, axes bounded off, flails shattered, and magic useless. Yet Brin knew what he was to do.

During the year after which the great serpent's roar had shaken the delving to its deepest shafts, he had prepared, hoping that he had time enough to do what was necessary. He began collecting the purest ores that could be bought, forgetting about the future, forgetting about earning a living. He lived off of what he already had saved, and that was enough. He bought these ores, and the purest which could be found. He went to the master mages, asking them where was found the powerful spirit metals of the lands, where ores imbued with the spirit of the world and therefore powerfully magical. At great cost, he bought these.

He locked himself away in his forge, poring through ancient texts on weaponmaking, on magic, on what little is known of magical ores and metals and weapons. For a year he filled his mind with this knowledge, knowing that if he did not, that if he missed anything, he would fail his people, fail his delf, fail his great uncle's curse, fail his life.

Melting these ores down to near-liquid state in his forge, mixing them, refining them, he created a metal now known as Aurelan, unbreakable, imbued with the spirit of the land and of its user, ever-sharp and priceless. He let this cool to form an ingot, a roughly rectangular block of red-hot metal. With his hammers and tongs, he forged this ingot, flattening it out, folding it back upon itself multiple times to increase its intrinsic strength, working out air pockets and impurities, placing it back among the coals of the forge to keep it white-hot, he worked it. When its shape pleased him, he stopped, cooled it, and hid it. Then he left his forge.

He went again to the mages, asking more questions, questions this time about wood, different kinds of woods. What was the strongest, what was most powerful, what was most easily imbued with power. He learned of two kinds of wood, oak, which is known to be unequalled in strength, and sinj, known to be favored by magic-wielders for its acceptance to power. He bought two lengths of these, of equal heft and size, and brought them to his forge.

He created two presses out of hard iron, twisting, in a spiral, and slowly, heating to create softness, pressed the two shafts into these molds. There he left them to be shaped until the first day, the seventh before the time when the moon would eat the sun.

When this day came, he removed them, and found that they had taken this new shape, and were now tightly-pressed and their strength increased tenfold. Brin took these two lengths and fitted them together, and they joined with an edgeless fit, as though they had grown in this shape. A shaft two inches in diameter and three feet in length, a spiral of light oak and dark sinjwood, looking like one piece, this was his product.

He took from its place where it was hidden amongst the rest of his half-finished hammers his creation of Aurelan. This he fitted over the shaft, making the joint tight and pounding it tighter with iron nails, until the finished hammer was of perfect heft and balance. A finer weapon had never been made. This he did upon the first day, the seventh before the day when the moon would eat the sun. Then he left his holt, his home.

Climbing the firemountain Kacharin, he came to where his feet led him: the rim of the mountain's fire-spewing belly. Across the crater he sensed something which filled his spirit both with fear and with rage. His knuckles shone white upon the haft of his hammer.

The great serpent as he settled himself, grew aware of something watching him. He looked across the crater and saw with his keen dragonsight a lone dwarf, shaking with what must have been fear, determinedly facing him. In his hands he held a stick with a lump of metal attatched to the end. He chuckled, a deep rumbling within his chest. Yet lo! What was this? That lump of metal wielded by this somehow-familiar dwarf cast a glow rivalling even the firemountain's upset. That glow struck fear into the heart of the great serpent, just as recognition of the dwarf struck rage within his heart, rage at his long-stolen hoard. The dwarf sat upon the ground.

For seven days the two watched one another.

Upon the seventh day, the day when the moon would eat the sun, Brin'Toh rose from his cross-legged seat.

Upon the seventh day, the day when the moon would eat the sun, the great serpent rose to its full height from where it had crouched.

Brin'Toh held his hammer high in challange.

The dragon reared and spred his wings in challange.

The sun's light grew as it peaked the nearby mountains, and both were bathed in its warmth.

The dragon effortlessly leaped into the air.

Brin'Toh's grip tightened upon the haft of his weapon.

The dragon's belly grew large with breath.

Brin'Toh raised his hammer before him.

Fire spewed forth, bathing Brin'Toh, singeing his hair, skin, clothes.

The hammer broke the tide of fire before Brin, protecting him.

The dragon bellowed mightily. The earth shook.

Brin'Toh shouted his response.

The beast swooped down at the small dwarf.

Brin'Toh reared back with his hammer.

The serpent struck at the dwarf.

Brin'Toh swung his hammer mightily.

Great, venomous claws raked across the dwarven chest, tearing flesh and breaking bone, stealing life.

The might of Aurelan, imbued with the spirit of the land and the rage of Brin'Toh hurled into the skull of the dragon, shattering bone, stealing life.

Dragon and dwarf plunged into the mouth of the firemountain Kacharin.

The land shook.

The firemountain roared to life, showering the land with its rage, burying the dwarven delving with its molten flows, destroying the dragon's lair as the land shook.

Thus ended the curse placed upon Brin'Toh's family, the curse of dracongield.

(written by Cyng Swiftwind)