The dragon slithers amid his golden treasures, the thousands of glistening coins tinkling like little bells in the darkness. In the darkness, another sound, the ringing of steel; a sword is being drawn in the darkness. The dragon curls its long coils around its mound of gold while the hero, with weary steps, watches, silently approaching. The dragon is snoring in the darkness. The hero, on tiptoe, holds his breath.
A sword is lifted in the darkness. In the Darkness, a sword falls. A dragon’s head rolls down a mountain of gold, unseen in the darkness, and the gold sings as it falls.
In the morning, in the day, in the light, the slayer stands on a mound of bones, tinkling bones. He finds no dragon, no dragon’s corpse, but there is blood on his sword. There is blood on his hands. So, the slayer creeps back into the shadows and darkness where he is a hero.
Tale Told 