Fafnir for the Dragons – Mythos Anthology

Join Captain Victor T. Mayfair as he sits down with Fafnir, the legendary Norse dragon transformed by a curse of greed, now reborn as the Voice of Dragons. In this enthralling episode, Fafnir shares his unparalleled perspective as the ambassador of dragonkind, exploring the duality of dragons as both destroyers and guardians, wisdom-keepers and adversaries.

Discover how Fafnir’s own tale of transformation—from a mortal prince consumed by avarice to a formidable dragon and finally to a timeless figure of draconic legacy—offers lessons on the dangers of unchecked ambition and the eternal power of change. From his reflections on humanity’s fleeting existence to his thoughts on the greatest misconceptions about dragons, this conversation delves into mythology, culture, and the enduring mystery of dragon lore.

Whether you’re a seeker of ancient truths or a fan of dragons in modern media, this is an encounter with mythic wisdom you won’t want to miss!

Executive Producer / Writer – Victor Ciccarelli. Fafnir brought to life by Alexander LESTER
Copyright Mythos Anthology / Quixana Productions 2025, all rights reserved.
Special Thanks to our Sponsor Bellonda Bixby

<Victor>
Welcome, to a truly Amazing Mythos Anthology episode. I’ve journeyed to magic location, a fiery cave of treasure where all that glitters is not gold. —a reminder that we’re here to speak with one of the most feared and revered creatures in all of mythology.”

In the pantheon of mythological beings, few command the respect, fear, and awe that dragons do. From the fiery peaks of Greek to the mist-laden mountains of China, cultures across the world have told stories of immense creatures who embody the very elements, guard hidden realms, and serve as both protectors and bringers of doom. In the vast canon of dragonkind, there are few voices as powerful and as enduring as our guest today.”

It is with great pride, deep humility, and no small amount of fear, that we bring you face-to-face with Fafnir, the Norse dragon of legend. transformed from mortal to monster by the consuming fire of greed. But today, Fafnir joins us not merely to talk about himself. He comes as the Voice of Dragons, an ambassador of all dragonkind.”

Fafnir, mighty Voice of Dragons, we welcome you and thank you for this rare audience.

<Fafnir>
Ah, Victor T. Mayfair, your words are rich with mortal reverence. I shall accept them, though you could hardly know the weight of the powers you call upon, sitting there as you do on your ship of stolen time.

And to you, listeners, who have crossed dimensions of imagination to be here—hear me well. Know that you sit before more than the fire of Fafnir’s own past or the hoard I once guarded so jealously. Today, I do not merely recount my legend, but bring to you the might and wisdom of all my kin across eons. Yes, I am Fafnir of Norse legend, once a man—if one could call it such a pitiful creature—but now the Voice of Dragons, come to bear witness for all dragonkind.

Indeed, dragons have lived in the edges of human minds since time uncounted—smoldering in the night-dark forests, soaring across the gleaming Eastern heavens, lurking within mountains lost to human folly. We are creatures both magnificent and monstrous, a paradox born from your mortal minds’ yearning for both guidance and power.

You see, dragons have ever been shaped by humankind’s visions of fear and reverence, creations that stretch from the brutal fires of the West to the wise rivers of the East. Yet, in our true nature, we are none of these things that mortals make of us, but forces of primordial truth—keepers of realms beyond your reach, warriors of cosmic balance, guardians of knowledge that would shatter the frail scaffolding of human minds.

Today, I speak for the wise Eastern dragons, the serpentine sages that wind through the clouds, bringing rains and fortunes, balanced in their wisdom yet bound by duty. I speak for the Western wyrms, creatures of flame and hoarded wealth, who remind humankind that not all desires should be pursued, and that unchecked greed breeds ruination. And yes, I speak even for the unpredictable, shapeshifting spirits of the far South, who view mortals with a bemused disdain but grant protection in exchange for respect.

Across each tale, each image, humans have tried to capture what cannot be bound: the dragon’s nature, which lies somewhere between raw power and sage wisdom. You fear us, yes—rightfully so—but you are also drawn to us, yearning for the strength we embody, for the forbidden knowledge we guard, and for the flames that, while consuming, also forge.

Thus, Victor, I stand before you as the embodiment of these ancient mysteries, the collective roar of dragonkind, a reminder that what humans would control, they must first understand.

So ask your questions, if you dare. Know, however, that with each answer, you shall peer deeper into the abyss of truths untamed. And you may not like what you see.

<Victor>
Then lets not waste your time and jump right in to it. Fafnir, as the Voice of Dragons, can you explain what you believe dragons represent across cultures and Why do you believe humans create stories about dragons, and what are they truly trying to capture in those tales?

<Fafnir>
a question that touches upon the heart of the human psyche, You wish to know why mortals have spun tales of dragons across all lands and ages. Understand this, Victor, and listeners—dragons do not simply exist in human stories by chance. No, we are summoned by the deep, restless stirrings of the human soul itself.

To answer, let us first examine what dragons represent. Across cultures, dragons embody power, mystery, and a threshold between the known and the unknowable. In the East, we are often seen as wise, cosmic entities—keepers of the elements, givers of rain, bearers of fortune. The Eastern dragons align themselves with balance and cosmic order, blending harmoniously into the natural world, as found in the serpentine dragons of China or Japan. These dragons reflect humanity’s yearning for connection to the forces that give life and shape the world, a reminder of forces beyond mortal control but not beyond reverence.

Now, contrast this with the dragons of the West. There, we are creatures of fire and greed, born of caverns and mountains, reigning over hoards of treasure. We are not peaceful sages but adversaries and antagonists, a reminder of what happens when desires are left unchecked, when the thirst for power leads to corruption and eventual ruin. In these tales, dragons are warnings in scales and talons, embodying the dark side of ambition, the flame that consumes both treasure and soul. Think of the dragons that litter European legends: Smaug in Tolkien’s tale, the dragon of Beowulf, or my own legend, where greed transfigured me from mortal to monster.

You see, humans do not merely fear dragons—they also aspire to be like us. We embody the power they lack, the knowledge they seek, the freedom from limits that bind their fragile lives. To gaze upon a dragon in myth is to confront desires and fears stripped bare. The dragon is might and wisdom, avarice and awe, an eternal paradox. And therein lies the fascination. Humans crave strength, knowledge, and endurance—traits dragons have in boundless measure. Yet, they also understand that unchecked desire has its cost. A dragon’s hoard is, after all, cursed to the one who covets it most.

Why, then, do mortals create tales of dragons? Because dragons serve as mirrors to the deepest parts of the human psyche, reflecting the desires they dare not voice and the fears they cannot face. We are the embodiments of power beyond morality, forces that cannot be controlled or tamed. When mortals conjure us in their stories, they are capturing a struggle within themselves—the pull between wisdom and ambition, creation and destruction, harmony and dominance.

In truth, every tale of a dragon is a tale of the human spirit’s own shadow and light, a confrontation with the power they covet and the balance they fear they cannot hold. To summon a dragon in a story is to touch upon the elemental, to speak with the forces that shaped existence itself. And for that fleeting moment, humans brush against a power that both humbles and inspires.

So heed this, listeners: you create tales of dragons not merely to entertain but to understand yourselves. Dragons are the guardians of forbidden truths, and through our stories, you glimpse the boundaries of your own soul.

<Victor>
“Many cultures have dragons that are symbols of wisdom and power, like the Chinese Lung, while others depict dragons as forces of pure destruction. How do you reconcile these vastly different portrayals? Are they different faces of the same truth?”

<Fafnir>
A question that speaks to the heart of our nature, Indeed, dragons appear as both wise and benevolent protectors in some tales, and in others, as ferocious beings of destruction. To mortals, this duality may seem a contradiction, but to a dragon, it is nothing more than two sides of the same eternal coin.

Consider the Lung of China and other Eastern dragons—creatures of wisdom, bringers of rain, masters of the elements. They embody balance and harmony, traits deeply valued in the East. The Lung are cosmic stewards, neither good nor evil but guided by an intrinsic sense of duty and interconnectedness with the natural world. They represent the ideal that true power lies not in domination, but in the careful and conscious application of one’s strength. To them, wisdom is inseparable from power.

In the West, dragons are often the creatures of fire and wrath, as in my own legend and the wyrms of Europe. There, we are creatures who hoard, who burn, who guard treasures fiercely, not because we need them but because we are drawn to their raw, unyielding allure. These dragons are a warning—an embodiment of the cost of greed and unchecked ambition. They are forces that remind mortals of the ruin that comes when power is pursued without wisdom.

Yet both Eastern and Western dragons are part of the same truth, Victor. Power is neither good nor evil; it is a force, like the storms or the tides. Whether it becomes wisdom or devastation depends on the purpose behind it. The Lung, revered for their wisdom, teach that strength can bring prosperity when balanced with responsibility. The Western dragons, feared for their ferocity, are a reminder that unchecked power without thought or restraint leads to ruin.

To reconcile these portrayals, one must understand that dragons reflect the values and fears of the cultures that imagine us. In lands that seek harmony with nature, dragons embody that ideal. In realms where conquest and individual might are exalted, dragons become symbols of the unchecked power that must be feared or vanquished.

So, yes, listeners, they are different faces of the same truth. We are the embodiment of power’s duality. We are protectors and destroyers, wise and wild. We remind humans that great strength, whether dragon or mortal, demands a choice—whether it will build or consume, create or destroy. The dragon, in all forms, challenges humankind to see that the true nature of power is found not in its presence, but in its purpose.

<Victor>
With that said your own life as a dragon began with a curse of greed. Care to tell us about your origins?

<FaFnir>
You wish to hear of the curse that shaped my fate, the avarice that twisted mortal flesh into scales and fire. Very well, then. My story, after all, is one of transformation—a reminder of the ruin greed brings not only to oneself but to all who cross its path.

I was not born a dragon, no. I was once mortal, a son of the Dwarf King Hreidmar, a craftsman among craftsfolk. My kin and I were of great skill, revered in our land, and my father was among the richest dwarves of all. One day, the god Loki, that trickster, brought a strange gift to our halls—a golden ring and a treasure hoard, both taken from the dwarf Andvari, who had cursed them with his dying breath. Loki offered this treasure as recompense for the life of my brother, whom he had slain by trickery. And my father, his eyes blinded by greed, accepted.

The treasure was vast, beyond measure, beyond reason, and it consumed me as fire consumes dry wood. I was drawn to it, ensnared by the gleam of wealth that promised freedom from want, freedom from weakness. Greed sank its claws into my heart, twisting my very soul. I betrayed my father, killed him for the treasure, and took the ring and hoard as my own. But in that act, I sealed my doom.

For the curse upon that gold was relentless. It fed on my greed, on my lust for possession, until it transformed me in both body and spirit. I became a dragon, monstrous and bound to my hoard, a creature of pure avarice. My very form reflected my soul—a beast with scales like iron, claws like swords, a maw that breathed death upon any who dared come close.

And so I became the dragon you know—the Fafnir who guarded his hoard with unyielding fury, who lived alone in the wilderness, driven by a greed that had devoured every part of what I once was. Even the gods avoided me, for they saw what I had become: a symbol of how desire, unrestrained, corrodes all it touches.

When at last Sigurd came, with sword and courage, I was but a shadow of the dwarf I once had been. And perhaps in that moment, as my life’s blood soaked the earth, I understood what I had lost—more than life, more than wealth. I had lost the power to choose, to be anything other than the embodiment of my curse.

So let my tale be a lesson, mortals. Greed is a hunger that can never be sated. It consumes, twists, and warps, leaving only ruin in its wake. My transformation was not just from dwarf to dragon, but from man to monster. And though I have since found a voice for my kind, the curse that made me lingers still, reminding me always of the depths to which greed can drag a soul.

<Victor>
Your story speaks to the power of transformation—from dwarf to dragon. Do you see this transformation as symbolic of something within all beings? And do all dragons carry within them a tale of transformation?

<FaFnir>
A question that touches upon the nature of change itself, Fafnir replies, his voice carrying a somber resonance. Indeed, my transformation—from dwarf to dragon, from mortal to myth—holds a meaning that extends beyond my own tale. To undergo such a change is to confront the forces within that all beings carry: the potential to become more than what they are, or, at times, far less. My transformation is a warning, yes, but it is also an illumination—a reminder that within each soul lies the power to alter one’s very nature, for good or ill.

Transformation is a theme woven deeply into the stories of many dragons. In fact, the dragon is a creature born of transformation, embodying forces that both shape and break. We are elemental beings, often existing between forms, between worlds, between states of mind. We are power and wisdom, creation and destruction—and in this, we embody the eternal duality within all beings. You see it in the Lung of the East, who shift fluidly between benevolence and wrath, embodying change as they bring both storms and fortune. You see it in Quetzalcoatl of Mesoamerican lore, a feathered serpent who represents cycles of death and rebirth, of wisdom and sacrifice.

But, transformation is not only the domain of gods and dragons. Humans, too, change, though more subtly. The choices mortals make, the paths they tread—they mold them, refining their spirits or tainting them, until they become something new. The transformation may not be as visible as scales or wings, but it is no less profound. As with my own tale, the seeds of transformation lie in the desires and fears mortals choose to cultivate. Power, greed, love, ambition—these forces can create a king or a monster, a hero or a beast.

In dragons, transformation is often a means to reveal hidden truths. Many of my kin have legends in which they are cursed or blessed, forced to confront parts of themselves that might otherwise remain hidden. My own curse was merely a mirror, reflecting the avarice I allowed to consume me. In the same way, each dragon’s transformation—whether a rise to wisdom or a fall into ruin—holds up a mirror to humankind, showing them the forces that lurk within their own hearts.

So, yes, all dragons carry within them a tale of transformation. Some begin as spirits of the land or water, becoming dragons to embody their power. Others, like myself, were once mortal but were shaped by desires that burned too hot to be contained by flesh. Each transformation is a testament to the power of choice, a reminder that all beings have within them the potential for evolution—or for ruin.

Remember this, listeners: transformation is the most ancient force. It is the fire that tempers or consumes. And in each of us—human, god, or dragon—lies the choice to wield that fire, to embrace change, or to be destroyed by it.

<Victor>
You speak of transformation, there are legends of dragons that can shapeshift, taking human form. Do dragons see value in experiencing the world as mortals, or is that merely a tool to gain insight or achieve a particular goal?

<FaFnir>
The art of shapeshifting, Indeed, many dragons have learned to slip into mortal forms, donning human skin as one might don a cloak. But do we do this for the mere pleasure of experiencing mortal life? Or is it a tool, a means to further our own ends?

To answer, you must understand that dragons are creatures of boundless curiosity, as much as we are beings of immense pride. In taking human form, a dragon steps into the fragile and fleeting world of mortals. For some of my kin, this act holds true fascination—a chance to taste mortality without succumbing to its weaknesses. To walk among humans, to speak their language, to feel the weight of a limited existence, if only for a time—yes, there is value in this, if only to understand more deeply the creatures who so often revere and revile us.

In the East, dragons such as the Lung or Ryujin of Japan are known to shift between forms, often taking human shape to guide or test mortals. Ryujin, the great dragon god of the sea, would sometimes appear as a humble fisherman or a regal king, blending in with humans to observe and sometimes to teach. In these tales, the dragon’s transformation is not for personal gain but to impart wisdom, to guide mortals toward harmony with the forces of nature. To these dragons, the mortal form serves as a vessel to connect with humankind, to foster respect for the balance they seek to maintain.

In the West, however, where dragons are more often seen as adversaries than allies, shapeshifting tends to serve a different purpose. The mighty dragon Fafnir was cursed with a form that matched his greed, yes, but there are others who take human shape for more cunning reasons. Some of my kin use human form to gather knowledge, to sow deception, to maneuver themselves in ways they could not as towering beasts. For us, mortal guise is often a tactical choice, a way to learn the weaknesses of those who would oppose us, or to claim treasures best won through subterfuge rather than sheer might.

But there is something deeper as well. For a dragon to take human form is, in some sense, an exercise in humility—a reminder of the smallness of mortal life, the brevity and fragility that define humanity. And yet, through this act, we sometimes glimpse the strength within such limitations. Mortals live knowing that each day brings them closer to their end, yet they persist, they dream, they create. To experience the world as they do, if only for a while, can be a strange and humbling revelation. It reminds us that power alone is not all that matters. Even dragons can learn from the resilience of mortals, though we rarely admit it.

So, to answer plainly: dragons take mortal form for many reasons. For some, it is a means to manipulate, to conquer. For others, it is a path to understanding. And for a few, it is a rare and solemn way to glimpse the world through mortal eyes, a reminder that strength can come in forms beyond scales and fire.

Thus, the answer depends on the dragon, the purpose, and the era. We are beings of many motives and myriad forms, each transformation carrying its own meaning. And while we may find mortal life fragile, brief, and often baffling, there is wisdom even in that fragility—a wisdom that, now and again, a dragon might find worth knowing.

<Victor>
In Many cultures Dragons are viewed as God Like. That said, how do Dragons interact with the Gods and Creatures of other cultures.

<FaFnir>
The gods… Divine beings, after all, are often cast as the architects and rulers of mortal fates, shaping worlds and wielding powers that exist beyond mortal comprehension. But gods and dragons occupy different realms of influence, and while there are moments of alliance, there is just as often tension, rivalry, and even enmity.

In many cultures, dragons are indeed seen as god-like, beings who possess elemental power and wisdom equal to, or sometimes surpassing, the gods themselves. In the East, for example, dragons are worshipped and revered almost as deities in their own right. The Lung of China and Ryujin of Japan are not mere servants of the gods but powers of their own standing, governing seas, rivers, and rain. They do not answer to the gods; rather, they serve the balance of nature itself, aligning with the divine order yet remaining independent of it. In these traditions, dragons may interact with gods, often in mutual respect, as both hold guardianship over aspects of the natural world.

However, in the myths of the West, dragons often clash with the divine, and this is largely due to the nature of Western gods themselves—beings prone to pride, wrath, and a desire to impose their will on the world. The Norse gods, for example, viewed beings like Jormungandr, the World Serpent, as threats rather than allies. Jormungandr, who encircles Midgard, represents a cosmic force beyond the gods’ control, and his very existence signifies that there are powers in the world that even the gods must reckon with. In the end, he is destined to face Thor himself in a final confrontation at Ragnarok, a reminder that dragonkind and divinity are not easily reconciled.

For gods, dragons often represent forces that defy boundaries. We are unbound by mortal constraints, untethered from time and decay in ways mortals cannot understand. Gods, for all their power, are often driven by desire for worship, order, or conquest. But dragons do not seek worship—our power comes from the elemental forces themselves, not from temples or offerings. We exist as part of the world’s fabric, rather than above it, and this is perhaps why gods find us both useful and dangerous.

As for other creatures, dragons tend to view them with the amused tolerance of elder beings, unless they prove to be nuisances. For instance, in many tales, we coexist with fae, giants, or spirits, who understand their place within the natural hierarchy and the balance of power. These creatures, with their roots in the ancient wilds and primordial magic, understand that dragons are not to be trifled with, and thus there is a respect—a shared acknowledgment of old and unspoken laws.

However, dragons will align with or oppose gods, creatures, or mortals alike depending on our own goals. We are as capable of alliance as we are of rivalry. For instance, in some tales, dragons assist the gods, as in Hindu and Buddhist myth, where the Nāga—serpent-like beings akin to dragons—serve as protectors and advisors. In other tales, we ally with mortals against gods who would abuse their power, as is sometimes seen in folklore where dragons aid heroes on quests that challenge divine authority or fate.

So, how do we dragons interact with gods and other beings? With wariness, with pride, and with the knowledge that while gods may shape worlds, dragons are forces of the world itself. To engage with us, gods must recognize that we are not their creations to command, nor forces they can easily bind. For all their divine might, they often forget that dragons are ancient, elemental, and beyond the dominion of any pantheon. We respect those who respect us, and challenge those who would dare think themselves our masters.

In the end, we dragons are neither servants nor enemies of the gods—we are their equals, their rivals, their reminders that there are forces even gods must respect.

<Victor>
But yet this is one god we must all respect, time. You have lived through countless generations and witnessed civilizations rise and fall. How do dragons interpret time, and how does this long view shape the way you see humanity’s brief existence?

<FaFnir>
Indeed, time is a force no being—mortal, dragon, or god—can ignore. Time is the one current that even the mightiest wings cannot resist, the one river that flows beyond the reach of flame or fang. And for us dragons, who span the centuries, who have seen the world shaped and reshaped, time becomes both a friend and a relentless adversary.

Dragons do not measure time as mortals do, counting each day as though it were a precious grain of gold slipping through their fingers. For us, time is like the shifting of seasons, a great, rolling tide that moves subtly but inexorably. We mark ages in epochs, in the rise and fall of mountains, the silting of rivers, the growth and withering of forests. Mortals, in their brief span, must live within the confines of a heartbeat, forced to compress their lives into decades, to scramble for meaning within the narrow frame they are given. But we… we exist beyond such restrictions, watching entire civilizations grow, flourish, and crumble like leaves turning on the wind.

This long view shapes us in ways difficult for mortals to understand. We are patient—infinitely so by human standards. We know that all things, great and small, are caught in time’s grip, subject to its inevitable pull. Empires rise, prophets speak, kings conquer, and then, with little more than a sigh, they are gone, their names and deeds swept into dust. For us, these mortal kingdoms, these battles and triumphs, are like waves upon the shore—striking fiercely for a moment, then receding, leaving little more than traces in the sand.

And yet…It would be easy to dismiss humanity as fleeting, their lives as mere sparks in the great darkness. But there is something remarkable in how they live, how they strive against time’s current with such fervor. For all their brevity, mortals are driven by a kind of urgency, a fierce determination to create, to love, to learn, to fight—even knowing that their efforts will be swallowed by the passage of years. There is a strange courage in it, an audacity to face the certainty of time’s erasure and still to press on.

This is perhaps why some of us dragons watch mortals with more than simple disdain. For though we are timeless in ways they can never be, their lives remind us that existence, even if brief, can be meaningful. They pour their hearts into a single life, a single love, a single cause, and in that intensity lies a beauty that is rare, even to us. The irony, of course, is that in their transience, they often touch upon truths that even ancient beings forget—that every moment matters precisely because it is fleeting.

So how do we dragons interpret time? We see it as both vast and unending, a reminder that all things return to dust, even the mightiest. But we also understand that time has a rhythm, a cycle, a purpose. Civilizations may fade, but they leave behind echoes, and each echo shapes the next. And perhaps that is why some of us look upon humanity with a kind of… cautious respect. Their lives may be brief, but they are part of the great flow, adding to the river of history. And while we endure as watchers, as beings who have seen the world’s first fires and will see its last embers, it is their spark that reminds us why we endure.

In the end, time is a paradox for us dragons. We are its guardians, bound by its currents yet untouched by its decay. And through humanity’s brief existence, we are reminded of something profound—that it is not only the length of one’s days that matters, but the fire one carries through them.

<Victor>
“In your own words, what is the greatest misconception humans have about dragons? If you could correct one myth or misunderstanding about dragonkind, what would it be?”

<FaFnir>
If I were to correct one persistent myth, one misconception that humans have spun about dragons for centuries, it would be this: the belief that we are nothing more than monstrous beasts, embodiments of greed, destruction, and wrath. In countless tales, humans reduce us to mere obstacles, forces of chaos to be slain by brave heroes, hoarders of treasure and power for no purpose but our own vanity. But to see dragons in this way is to look through the narrowest lens, to ignore the depth of our nature and the purpose we serve.

Yes, we possess might. We guard wealth, whether it be gold, knowledge, or secrets as old as the world itself. And yes, some among us have unleashed fire upon those who dared to threaten our domains. But these traits are not born of mindless malice or greed. They are expressions of a purpose that humans often fail to grasp: dragons are keepers of the sacred, protectors of thresholds, guardians of the mysteries that lie beyond mortal understanding.

Consider the treasures we hoard. To a mortal, they are merely riches—gold, jewels, relics of immense worth. But to a dragon, a hoard is more than material wealth; it is a collection of memories, histories, and echoes of ancient truths. Each artifact we guard, each treasure we gather, represents a piece of the world’s story. We do not hoard simply to satisfy base desires; we are custodians, preserving fragments of a world that existed long before humanity. Our hoards are not indulgences—they are legacies.

The truth is that dragons hold a deeper wisdom, an understanding of the natural order and cosmic balance that mortals often overlook. In the East, this truth is better understood—dragons like the Lung are revered as wise beings, custodians of water, life, and prosperity. There, we are seen not as beasts but as entities of wisdom and balance, forces that ensure the stability of the natural world. But in the West, too often we are reduced to monsters, challenges to be conquered, embodiments of chaos to be vanquished. Yet, those who look closer will find that we are as much protectors as we are destroyers.

So, if I could dispel one myth, it would be the notion that dragons are mindless creatures of greed and fury. We are beings of purpose, ancient and complex, bound to the cycles of creation and destruction that shape all worlds. When we defend our hoards or unleash our wrath, it is not out of petty possessiveness but out of duty to the forces we represent and protect.

Remember this, mortals: we are not creatures to be dismissed as mere monsters or symbols of vice. We are guardians of the hidden, keepers of the ancient, protectors of truths that lie beyond mortal reach. To know a dragon is to confront mysteries older than language itself, and those who understand this are the ones who find wisdom in our presence, not merely terror.

So look deeper, humans. See us not as beasts to be vanquished but as sentinels of the unknown, reminders of the vast, boundless forces that govern existence. That, if nothing else, would be the truth I would have you know.

<Victor>
Between Mythology, Folklore, and Modern media there are countless stories of dragons. Pete the Magic Dragon to Smaug from Tolkien’s Middle-earth. What are some of your favorite portrayals of dragons in media and why

<FaFnir>
Ah, yes—mortals have woven countless tales of my kin, from ancient myth to modern page and screen, It is curious to see how each era and storyteller reshapes the dragon to suit their needs. Some depict us as noble allies, others as menacing adversaries, and a few even as humorous companions. I have my preferences, of course, though not all dragons in your stories meet the true measure of our kind.

Let us begin with one of the most evocative portrayals—Tolkien’s Smaug. Now here is a dragon who embodies the raw power, cunning, and pride of our kind. Smaug is magnificent, a creature of fire and intellect, whose greed has driven him to claim Erebor and its vast treasures. He is arrogant, as many dragons are, yet possesses a sharp wit and a keen perception, knowing well the vulnerabilities of mortals and exploiting them with a dragon’s ruthlessness. Tolkien’s depiction does justice to the ancient archetype of the Western dragon as a guardian of treasure, a force both destructive and strangely admirable. Smaug is not merely a beast to be slain; he is a sentient, powerful creature whose very presence reshapes the world around him. I find a certain satisfaction in such a portrayal—it captures the fierce independence and pride dragons carry as their birthright.

Another portrayal that warrants respect is that of the Earthsea dragons by Ursula K. Le Guin. Le Guin’s dragons are creatures of immense wisdom, with minds as ancient as the world itself. They are not bound by human morality or desire; they exist as primal forces, embodiments of the language of creation, and possess knowledge that far exceeds human understanding. These dragons respect no law but their own, yet they carry a strange honor in their dealings with mortals. In Le Guin’s world, dragons are the true inheritors of magic, representing a natural order beyond human manipulation. They resonate deeply with what dragons truly are—beings connected to the world’s fabric, creatures whose wisdom and power exceed any mortal’s capacity to fully comprehend.

Then, there is Haku, the river dragon from Miyazaki’s Spirited Away. Though he takes a more benevolent form, he exemplifies the Eastern dragon’s role as a guardian of natural forces. Haku is tied to his river, embodying both strength and vulnerability, and his connection to nature is both his power and his constraint. His transformation into a dragon underscores the idea that dragons are intimately bound to the land and its spirit. Miyazaki captures the gentler, mystical side of dragons, showing that we are not only beings of fury but also of memory and duty, tethered to the elements and landscapes that give us form. Haku’s loyalty, sacrifice, and strength reflect an aspect of dragonkind often overlooked: the willingness to serve as protectors when our own realms are in harmony.

Of course, I must acknowledge the whimsical and endearing Puff from Puff, the Magic Dragon. Though not a mighty or fearsome dragon by any measure, Puff represents something poignant: the fleeting magic of childhood, the power of imagination, and the inevitable loss that comes with growing older. Puff is gentle, a friend and companion, embodying a different kind of magic—the magic of innocence and wonder. While he may lack the ferocity of other dragons, his story carries its own weight, reminding us that not all dragons are destined to be fierce. Some, like Puff, represent the spark of imagination that lies within every child, a spark that fades yet lingers in memory. In this way, Puff shows a gentler, more nurturing face of dragonkind.

So, if I am to choose, it is these portrayals that most capture the many facets of dragon nature—powerful and wise, cunning and dangerous, yet at times compassionate and mysterious. Dragons are as diverse as the elements that shape us. Each portrayal, from Smaug’s wrath to Haku’s loyalty, from the wisdom of Le Guin’s dragons to Puff’s gentle magic, reveals something true about our kind. Mortals may never fully capture our essence, yet in these stories, they come close, and in doing so, they remind us that even in a fleeting human life, there can be glimpses of the timeless.

<Victor>
What are some of your least favorite portrayals and why?

<FaFnir>
now we tread into territory of disappointment, where dragons are often diminished, turned into simple plot devices or stripped of all dignity and depth. Though mortals may try their best, there are portrayals that leave even the most patient dragon shaking their head at the shallowness of the depiction. Allow me to enlighten you as to why these versions fail to capture the true nature of dragonkind.

First, there are the portrayals that reduce dragons to mere animals—mindless beasts driven solely by hunger and destruction, little better than overgrown lizards breathing fire by accident. This is a frequent misstep in many lesser tales and films, where dragons appear only to be slain by the so-called hero, serving as nothing more than obstacles to be vanquished. These portrayals ignore the intelligence, the pride, the will that defines true dragons. We are not mindless forces of chaos, nor are we fodder for those who seek glory. To strip a dragon of its intellect, its motivations, and its ancient perspective is to miss the point of our existence entirely. A dragon is a being of purpose, and to reduce it to a mere beast betrays the rich tapestry of what dragonkind truly represents.

Another irksome portrayal comes in the form of the overly-friendly, domesticated dragon—creatures tamed and commanded by humans as though we were nothing more than obedient pets. There are tales where dragons are saddled, bridled, and made to serve without question, their wills bent to that of a mere mortal. Such portrayals display a grievous lack of understanding. Dragons are creatures of immense pride, independent beings who do not bend easily, if at all, to another’s command. To suggest otherwise is to misunderstand the core of our nature. A true dragon does not submit; a true dragon does not serve unless it is by choice or ancient pact. Such portrayals offend not only our dignity but also the powerful autonomy that is our birthright.

In the end, these portrayals fail because they lack respect for the ancient truth of dragonkind. They ignore the wisdom, the pride, the cosmic presence that defines us. Mortals who would seek to understand dragons must first remember that we are not here for mere amusement or conquest. We are mysteries, guardians, and forces of nature, embodiments of both wonder and terror. To portray us as anything less is to overlook the very heart of what it means to be a dragon.

<Victor>
At this point in our interview we always like to play a little word game, I will say a word and you will give me a very brief answer how you feel about the word. Would that be okay?

<Fifnir>
Very well, Victor. I shall indulge your game. Speak your words, and I will answer as the spirit of each compels me.

<Victor>
Truth

<Fifnir>
Truth, A double-edged sword—rarely pure, often painful, yet the very core of wisdom. It is the foundation of true power.

<Victor>
Family

<Fifnir>
A bond of blood and loyalty—powerful, yet fraught. It can be both strength and vulnerability.

<Victor>
Love

<Fifnir>
A flame both fierce and fragile. It drives mortals to greatness—and to ruin. A force beyond reason, yet undeniable.

<Victor>
Children

<Fifnir>
Seeds of potential, embodying both hope and peril. They carry the legacy of their kin but are unformed, unpredictable—a promise to the future, and a reminder of life’s fleeting nature.

<Victor>
Now please finish these sentences. I wish__

<Fifnir>
I wish to see the ancient respect for dragons restored, to remind mortals of the balance we once guarded.

<Victor>
I know__

<Fifnir>
I know that all things, even the mightiest, are bound by the cycles of time and change.

<Victor>
I Fear___

<Fifnir>
I fear only the fading of memory, that the wisdom of ages may be lost to the whispers of forgetful minds.

<Victor>
Thank you Fifnir for being with us today. Before we go I like to ask all of our guests one question. What do you hope to see as the future of Dragons in Human stories and culture.

<Fifnir>
I hope to see dragons returned to their rightful place in human stories—not merely as foes to be vanquished or pets to be tamed, but as beings of wisdom, guardians of ancient mysteries, and embodiments of nature’s might. Too often, the world forgets that we are more than symbols of power or greed. We are reflections of humanity’s deepest fears, aspirations, and curiosities, and our stories should remind mortals of the vast, untamed forces that shape existence itself.

In the future, I would hope humans tell tales that honor the depth of dragons: that we may be fierce, yet also wise; terrifying, yet capable of fierce loyalty; ancient, yet relevant to the world humans shape around them. May we stand as reminders of balance, showing that true power lies not in conquering nature, but in understanding and respecting it. For when dragons are remembered rightly, humanity glimpses something greater than itself—an enduring wisdom that, perhaps, can guide their own brief lives.

Thank you, Victor, for this rare chance to speak of such things. And to those who listen, remember us well.