There is no creature, living nor dead, more greedy, more vile than a dwarf. In the frozen reaches of Asgaard, beneath her mighty stone peaks, do they dwell, ever hammering to forge more gold jewelry, to carve more gleaming gems, to breathe curses into their finery.
Among these wretched kin is Fafnir, son of Hreidmar, with a swollen smithing arm and a ravenous hunger for violence, both of which are eclipsed by his avarice.
Once Spring, Odin, Loki, and Honir visited Hreidmar's realm, bearing an otter pelt they'd skinned on their journey. Horrified, Hreidmar entombed the Aesir, for the otter was, in truth, his third son. Freedom would not be theirs until Loki returned with the hide filled with gold. Refusing to be outdone, the Trickster God, stuffed the pelt to bursting with the cursed treasure of Andvarri. Hreidmar, unaware of the maligned hoard, greedily exchanged the Aesir for the wealth. That night, curling his powerful arm, Fafnir strangled his father and vanished into the frosted night with the cursed gold.
And so it was that madness took him. Paranoid his last brother would steal the treasure, Fafnir guarded it jealously while the curse whispered in his ear. Slowly, surely, twisted he became, scaled and nightmarish. His breath turned to poison, his maw, fanged, his demeanor, fouler. A dragon, he became. The very symbol of greed.
For centuries Fafnir kept no company, but the War of the Gods grows ever closer, and the clink of coin runs rampant; a bulging sack on the belt of every warrior. He craves every piece, and spares no thought to shed blood for the glittering gold.