The Gift of Drakthorite

“In the stone sleeps fire, and with fire, we shape our fate.” – Dwarven Forge-Hymn

The years of wandering shaped the dwarves into hardy survivors, but the mountains of Steerbright offered little beyond iron and stone. For centuries, the dwarves forged tools and weapons that could cleave rock and carve shelter, yet the mountains themselves seemed untouched—unyielding to even their finest steel.

It was during the Twilight of the Wandering Age that the dwarves’ prayers were answered. The elders say that Dumathar, the Veinsmith, had watched from the shadows, measuring the worth of his creations. When the time came to guide them to their birthright, he walked among them once more.

The Veins of Kharak-Dur

On the frozen slopes of Kharak-Dur, the tallest peak of the Dragon Spine, Dumathar appeared to the clans—not as a god of fire and stone, but as an old smith wrapped in a cloak of soot and ash. His eyes glowed like embers beneath his hood, and his hands bore the calluses of one who had spent lifetimes at the forge.

Without a word, he led the clans deep into the mountain, where the ice grew thin and the air thickened with the scent of the deep earth. They descended for days until, in the heart of the stone, Dumathar placed his hand upon the cavern wall.

Where his fingers touched, the rock split and veins of dark blue metal shimmered beneath the surface, glowing faintly like lightning frozen in stone. The cavern filled with a soft hum, and the warmth of the metal seemed to drive away the mountain’s chill.

“The serpent sleeps beneath the mountain,” Dumathar said, his voice like the grinding of stone. “Its breath lingers in the rock. You will forge your kingdom from this fire, and it shall bear my name.”

The dwarves knelt, tracing the veins with reverent hands, feeling the faint pulse of warmth in the ore.

Naming the Ore

The dwarves named the metal Drakthorite—“Dumathar’s Breath” in the old tongue, believing it to be the crystallized essence of the mountain’s heart, forged by the lingering fire of some ancient and forgotten beast.

Legends grew quickly around the discovery. Some claimed that Kharak-Dur held the skeleton of a great dragon, long dead but whose breath had seeped into the stone, leaving behind veins of the strange metal. Others believed that Drakthorite was the very blood of Dumathar, spilled into the roots of the mountains during his crafting of the dwarves.

Whatever its origin, the dwarves knew they had uncovered something rare—something greater than iron or gold.

A Metal That Would Not Yield

Though the veins of Drakthorite stretched deep, the metal would not yield to ordinary flame. The dwarves mined it with reverence, carrying it to their forges with songs of praise to Dumathar. But even in the hottest fires, Drakthorite refused to bend or melt.

Days turned to months, and the forges burned endlessly, yet no hammer could shape the blue-black ore. Frustration crept into the hearts of even the wisest of the dwarves, and the clans grew disheartened. Some whispered that the gift had been a test, or worse, a curse meant to humble them.

It was during this time that Dumathar’s words echoed in the minds of the forge-priests:

“The dragon does not burn for simple steel. You must build a fire that remembers the first days of the world.”

The meaning eluded them, until the forge-masters of the Blackvein Clan sought counsel deep within the mountain. They descended past the stone halls, following the winding paths where molten rivers coursed in the darkness, until they reached the Molten Heart of the World.

There, where the mountain’s heat pulsed like a living thing, they kindled a forge unlike any before—a forge that burned not with ordinary flame, but with the molten breath of the world itself.

The First Fire of Thrangrim (Deep Forge)

In this great chamber, the dwarves constructed Thrangrim, the first forge capable of shaping Drakthorite. Its name, meaning "Deep Forge" in the old dwarven tongue, reflected both its location beneath the roots of Kharak-Dur and the immense power it harnessed from the molten heart of the mountain.

It is said that the flames of Thrangrim were stoked not by bellows, but by the will of the dwarves who stood beside it, their chants calling the fire to life.

When the first vein of Drakthorite melted within Thrangrim’s flame, it glowed cold and brilliant—radiant like sunlight piercing through stone. Unlike steel, the molten Drakthorite did not spark or hiss. Instead, it flowed like quicksilver, silent and heavy, as if the mountain itself watched in solemn witness.

From that forge, the dwarves shaped their first blades, hammers, and armor—each piece gleaming with the faint glow of Drakthorite, as though Dumathar’s blessing resided within.

The Legacy of the Discovery

The discovery of Drakthorite marked the end of the Wandering Age and the beginning of the dwarves' ascent to power. With the secrets of the forge unlocked, they began carving out the first great halls beneath Kharak-Dur, knowing that Dumathar had given them the key to shape not just stone, but their destiny.

From Drakthorite, the dwarves forged weapons that could cleave through solid rock, armor that could turn aside dragonfire, and tools that could carve through even the hardest stone. But more than that, Drakthorite became a symbol of their unity and purpose—a reminder that even the mightiest gifts must be earned through patience and perseverance.

In every dwarven hall, a single shard of unshaped Drakthorite rests upon the hearth, a reminder that the greatest fires often slumber, waiting for the right hand to awaken them.