Bróin's sleep is restless all throughout the night, for dark visions seem to cloud his mind...
The gold glitters gently in the firelight as he passes through his treasure vault, Bróin's eyes palely reflecting it as he walks enraptured through the hall. It was his fourth pass through the vault tonight, but it was his gold after all; he had earned it, fought and bled for it, why should he not marvel at it? What business was it to the rest of the world what he did with his wealth?
And what wealth there was! Gold and silver coin, jewels and gems of the most glittering grandeur, and the finest craft from across Rhovanion was locked away here. He walked upon fine woven carpets in from distant Raj, wrapped himself in silks brought in from Pelagir... all around him laid the ripened fruits of his labours over the years.
But soon the glint of gold darkened, then turn fiery. Smoke began to rise around Bróin as flames began to envelop the vault! He turned around in a frenzied panic as the shadows twisted and morphed into a monstrous form poised before him, and by its spread wings and malefic gaze he knew it to be that most ancient of his people's foe - a Dragon.
But when the dragon opened its maw to bathe Bróin in flames, inside the beast's was a face. And it was... his?