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.
Just where do you think you're going? Do you know what lives in that cave, yonder? Ah, so you do. Are you daft, then, thinking you can take a Drake in its lair? Fighting a wyrm isn't like fighting a man, or even a beast. Aye, you look like you know how to wield that sword, but what will you do when the Drake breathes at ye? Or, even if he don't, once you're in that cave the stench of him'll hit you, burning your eyes and throat. You'll be left blind, and inside a minute you'll fall in a swoon, and he'll have you. Haven't thought this through, I see. So why exactly are you here? There's easier ways to win glory than fightin' Drakes, but there's no easier way to die.
What's that? No, I've never heard of the place. Waitâ€¦ that village in the dale, that's it, isn't it? I passed through about a week back, right after Ol' Scaly did. Your village, then. Let me guess. Drake swept through like a plague - burned your houses, destroyed your crops, and scattered your folk. Probably killed you for good measure. And now you can't find your people, your children are starving, and you want revenge. Who have you lost? A wife? A lover? Children? I can see her in your eyes. You think you're the only one that's lost a true love in this World? Seek them instead of the Drake! She's still alive, and so are you. Isn't that enough?
I suppose not. So what will you do then? Charge into that cave, wailing for vengeance? You're a fool. Only a fool seeks certain death, even in this Age. Each time you die, a piece of your soul never comes back, even though your flesh will. Rest assured, boy, death is what's in that cave, and it's all you'll find there.
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.
Why am I here? Same errand as you, though my reasons may differ. See this necklace? They're Drake's teeth, boy, and I pulled every one of 'em myself. Look familiar to you? Harsh memories, eh? Twenty teeth, one for each of the beasts I've killed. I am a Wyrmslayer, and I've been hunting the most dangerous beasts in the World since well before you were born. The anger in your heart, the thirst for revenge that's brought you here - it's a good beginning, but it won't be enough against that monster. He's an old one, this Drake. I've hunted him for six months, and I've seen what he can do. If you go in there, you won't stand a chance. If I go in, I'll kill him. Just you wait and see. And he'll stay dead, too. From what I can tell, Drakes don't come back like we do. Why not? Hellfires, I don't know - go ask a Priest. Maybe the Drake's gods haven't died.
Still going in? You'll never make it, boy! Just look at yourself. You've only got a sword. Even if it can pierce Ol' Scaly's hide, which no normal iron can, you've got no range with it. You get inside the reach of his arms or neck, and you'll be dead before you've time to scream. To kill a Drake you need a good long spear, like this one. You also need to know where his weak spots are, where a spear point will hurt him or kill him. You'll also need protection. I know how to make the ointments that'll hold off his flames, and a mixture that will bear me through his stench unharmed. Also, I know enough to wear light armor. Against those claws even the richest plate mail makes no difference. If you can't move quick and leap to avoid his claws, you've got no hope at all. I know all the tricks to Dragon killing. Galen Balandwyr, first and greatest of the Wyrmslayers, taught them to me himself.
Why do I hunt Drakes? Not for the same reasons you want to. I was a man of forty when Cambruin was crowned, boy, a seasoned soldier. I rode with his Champions to battle, and I was at Kierhaven on the day of the Turning. I was wounded in that battle, almost died. Now I'll likely never get the chance. In all the years since, I've spent two lifetimes or more in battle, and I've killed just about every manner of beast or man that walks in the World. Drakes, they're the only sport left for an old man like me. There's another reason, too - I had a wife and children once, but the Elves took them from me and they died in the War of Tears. I've heard tell that it was Dragon's Blood that was at the root of the Turning. Who knows? Perhaps one day I'll slip, and the Drake will take me, and I'll get to see my family again, even for just a moment. Or perhaps I won't. Like I said before, I'm no priest.
The sun is high, it's time to kill this beast. So, you want to call yourself a Wyrmslayer? I can teach you, if you've wits enough to learn.
Start by watching. And make sure you stay well back.