One Dwarve’s Chaff is another Dragon’s Treasure

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Thousands of years ago our ancestors lived in peace with the other mountain tribes in Jurdin’s Palm. They carved paths to each other, traded resources, upheld justice for each other. In storms, they worked together. In fair weather, they celebrated life. Peace was not perfect, but it was a much easier time.

Even fewer years ago, the dwarves found the first vein of juryte. A couple hundred yards into the mountain and then several more down. It was shiny, green, and not at all the ore they were looking for. They set it aside in piles like dirt in the way of treasure. They tried cutting gems from it, but it lacked the beauty and sheen of diamonds and rubies—indeed it seemed packed with several impurities. At the time, their leaders were the pragmatic sort, “If it’s useless then dump it.”

When the vein of juryte quickly overtook the regular stone of the cave they thought even less of it. As the farmers detest the weeds, so too did the miners rank juryte among the most worthless of rocks. When you were breaking through it, you could never be sure how soft it would be or whether the impurities might cause a spark from the impact of the pick ax.

Unpredictable, impractical, and plentiful, the annoying green stone earned several scornful nicknames. Miner’s called it trick stone, naturalists called it Jurdin weed, and commoners called it any number of names based on the properties of the impurities. Ones that sparked? Flash Stone. Hard ones? Jurdin’s Knuckle. Soft ones? Jurdin’s Taint–mothers told their children it was Jurdin’s Belly. Sparkly ones? Fancy Stone. Dull? Dim Stone.

As the miners expanded the caves the piles of juryte grew. They traded it as cheap jewels, toys, or flint substitutes with the other tribes. The humans and elves found it very curious, but little more than that. Children would often sneak into the quarry dump looking for Flash Stone, Jurdin’s Belly, Fancy Stone, and Jurdin’s Knuckle. They set the Flash Stones,Fancy Stones, and Jurdin’s Belly in piles that would explode into a glittery, green dust cloud when they hit it just right with Jurdin’s Knuckle. The tribes made the best of it, but the vast majority was dumped in the pile of trash rock.

Day after day the piles grew and surprisingly the other tribes found more traces of it on their own mountains. Eventually, the dump filled and the miners finally earned their break. Whenever the dump fills, the mountain has to be prepared for a controlled landside. During this time the miners receive rest and recognition from the tribe for their incredible work. All drinks, all accommodations, all manners of amenities are free for them as a gift from the community.

Four weeks of work prepares the landslide. Four weeks of environmental engineering and arcane assistance from the other tribes creates a semi-natural slide that dumps the mountain’s chaff at the lips of the bay to the east with the least interruptions to nature. This slide, appropriately named The Chaffway, has been maintained since the earliest generations of the dwarven tribe, Jundir’s Wards. It is a marvel of man’s balance with nature–regarded with the utmost reverence. At the end of four weeks the Dwarves hold The Chaffway Feast, inviting members from all tribes in Jundir’s Palm to celebrate the culmination of generations worth of work. The miners’ spouses yell, “Now back to work ye lazy bums!” and pull the levers and chains that release untold tons of rock crashing down The Chaffway.

That was the last feast in 63 years. The dump has not been full since then, for that very next day fortune frowned over the valley. A passing dragon–hiding in the quaffed, red clouds of the morning–smelled the water soaked juryte and dove down.

Instinctively, drawn to the strange, alluring scent of the scattered juryte he landed in the shadows and his scales blended in with his surroundings. “What is…” he pondered, picking up a small boulder in his massive claw, “this?” He reached out his tongue and licked the juryte, immediately feeling a surge of power spread over his tongue. His pupils narrowed and his nostrils flared–regardless of its name or origin, what he knew for certain was that this stone was power.

He immediately took to masking the scent by flying up the cliff face and pounding out a rock slide from it. He flapped his slender wings to cover it in sand and whipped the trees with his pointed tail to spread pollen through the air. “I need to find the source,” he thought, “before anyone else. I must claim the source.”

Luckily, The Chaffway reeked of the salty juryte. The smell woke a hunger in his body, but he was a Shald Dragon, his kind knew patience, focus, and stealth. Running through the long shadows casted by the early sun he was nearly invisible—shifting scales seamlessly matched the environment around him. His wings folded neatly against his body, which weaved through the conifers with perfect precision. Fifty yards from the village Jundir’s Wards, he caught the second best scent he smelled that day—the alcoholic aroma of a recently debauched village.

Wasting no time he moved in, kept low and climbed from under the village. He listened for drunk soldiers–they were deep in the center. In two seconds he confused some groggy villagers trying to discern what just blotted the sun. In four seconds the soldiers in the main barracks barely registered that there might be an earthquake. In six, the barracks came crashing down under the force of the 20 foot long Shald Dragon, Tsa’lagner.

Blood curdling screams sobered up the entire town. Tsa’lagner completely destroyed their defenses, pulverizing the building and tossing its towers about. None knew what to do except run from the shifting demon cloaked in the shade of the morning sun. “Listen now!” He stood on two legs, spread his wings, and roared out to paralyze the entire populace in fear, “run and your death is guaranteed, but bring me your figure-head and I shall consider the use of your pitiful lives.”

Even those people at the edge of town were terrified of moving. Time stood still as the demand echoed through the valley. Some comforted themselves thinking that at least the other tribes will hear that and have time to flee. Then some steps broke the silence, “Here I am beast! Take me and spare my people!” An old dwarven man with white hair and callous skin tanned by countless days of sweaty labor confronted the giant shadow.

Tsa’lagner laughed and lifted his claw high above the old dwarf, “How noble, it’s an honor to replace—“ a burst of light pierced his shoulder before he could finish. As he recoiled in pain the old dwarf smiled, “You writhe before Feln, House of Atgur and lord of Jundir’s Wards!” Tsa’lagner cursed and grasped at his shoulder—a golden javelin buried deep inside. “And your pain is brought by our greatest general and my own dear son! Olander! 3rd finger of Jundir’s Palm!”

Suddenly, the javelin vanished from Tsa’lagner’s shoulder, releasing a font of blood. He searched for a second attack and barely saw the golden needle glinting in the sun. A slice of a second and a fraction of an inch—Tsa’lagner just barely dodged the Javelin and took flight down The Chaffway to the bay.

An elven cavalry was in hot pursuit behind the dragon. He hid no longer, heading straight for the stash of juryte, desperately digging for the stone. In the distance a contingent of archers took aim from high ground with the wind in their favor. “Hold your position soldiers!” Cried out Olander as he aimed his javelin, “Dragons like these can only fight up close, so use distance to your advantage!” The archers affirmed his orders and drew their bows aiming with the wind.

Tsa’lagner only had one last rock to heave–one boulder stood between him and survival. Looking up at the arrows sailing towards him was the furthest thing from his mind as he reached under it and grabbed his salvation. The wind was of no concern to him as he turned to face the soldiers and threw the rock in his mouth. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing as his innate magic imbued the stone with power. The massive rock exploded and the dust hung in the air for a split second before sinking into his throat with his breath. The first arrow hit him right between the eyes as the rest were engulfed by a torrent of sickly green fire bridging the gap between him and the archers.

The flames fell and a golden glint caught his eye. Olander jeered from behind an opalescent wall of shielding magic, “Don’t fight too hard, I want a clean skin.” The javelin sailed right to the pit of his throat… and glanced off his scales. Shock was the last feeling Olander ever felt when Tsa’lagner eyes glowed with white sparks of lightning.

The thunder pushed back the warriors cooked by the lightning. Tsa’lagner had no time to be surprised by the results of his desperate act. He consumed two more stones and flew to the village, flagrantly turning green against the steadily rising sun. Once more he asked for the leader. Once more the defiant Feln faced the beast. Once and for all, Feln was crushed by his claw.

Licking his paw clean, Tsa’lagner felt pride in his work. It wasn’t as straightforward as he hoped, but the result was the same and now he could grow stronger with the source of the juryte. At least he thought so, but he was only the first of many seeking out the secret power of the juryte in Jundir’s Palm.