In the waning of the Elder Days, when the fields and spires of Beleriand yet rose proud above the waves and the mighty Noldorin kings dwelled in their secret cities, the Dark Lord looked upon his black armies of orcs and found them wanting. Though great in number and savagery, their weaknesses were many and easily exploited. Short, weak, often dim-witted and with an aversion to brightness, especially the sort which was blessed, Melkor knew he could not hope to defeat the mighty hosts of the Noldor with such pitiful creatures. A greater servant, one that could withstand the silvered swords and darts and lances of his enemies and strike fear into their hearts, that could drive them back with terror and searing flame, was needed.

In the fell pits of Angband where nameless, formless abominations grew and changed as their master willed, Melkor took living stock and set to work. By his ministrations his victims were reformed beyond recognition, body and mind warped so completely that they no longer shared even the vaguest kinship with their unaltered brethren beyond Angband’s reach. Instead their bodies submitted to Melkor’s needs, growing great horns and wicked spurs, barbed hides and claws that could rend the very stone. As they bred and inbred, their offspring grew closer and closer to Melkor’s vision of perfection until at last his efforts bore fruit, and his dark heart was made glad at the sight of it.

And so, in the closing days of the First Age, Melkor created the first dragons.

Even now their devastation is legendary. For centuries Melkor’s finest soldiers wreaked all manner of havoc upon Middle-Earth at his command. The burning of Nargothrond and Gondolin at the claws of the crawling drakes still weigh like a black cloud upon the hearts of elves the world over. Tales of the deceit of Glaurung and the sheer enormity of Ancalagon the Black make grown men shudder in their skins. From Angband to the havens they writ their legacy in fire and the blood of men, elves and dwarves alike.

But their like is not in the world today. Glaurung and Ancalagon were slain. The Valar and their host cut short the flight of the first winged dragons even as they laid low the very continent beneath them. As the greatest <span class="mu-i">urulóki</span> plummeted from the sky and the chorus of leathery wingbeats was supplanted by the cries of eagles, a scant few of the least of their kind escaped to far-off lands in the north. The dragons of the modern day, descended from these ancient survivors, are a mere echo of a memory of those that came before.

Yet the old histories are still passed by word of mouth from parent to hatchling, and the vestiges of past greatness still kindle the old fire in the breasts of young dragons.

You are one of these dragons.