Wyrmslayers have, through painful trial and error, amassed an arsenal of tricks and techniques to give them an edge against the mightiest of monsters. Wyrmslayers have learned to brew ointments that protect them from a drake's flame, and know how to strike a drake where its scales are thinnest, wounding the beasts as much as possible.
Stop calling it a Dragon, you fool boy. What lies in the cave is naught but a Drake, two, three thousand years on him. Ol' Scaly here is just a stripling, boy, a hatchling of his kind. There all I've ever heard tell of, and all I've ever seen. Real Dragons, the Terrors you hear of in legend, they're all dead, or all sleeping in the heart of the World. I hope to never meet one. The Elves sing of The Dragon, Terror of Terrors, who nearly wrecked the World and was so fierce even the All-Father couldn't kill it. This is no Dragon, boy, though he be a hundred feet long, he's nothing but a babe. Even so, he's still death itself.