I am the dragon that calls themselves Dovah, and this, is my hoard.

You... don't look really look like a dragon?

Well, hardly anyone does these days. As times have changed so have we. The scales and wings worked along the dinosaurs. But we quickly learned that wasn't going to fly with you people. Though I do admittedly miss our kin's tails.

You were around all the way back to the dinosaurs?

Well, not me, personally. How old do you think I am?

...There is no safe answer to that, is there?

No.

So... when you say this is your hoard...?

All dragons have one. Some stick to the old gold and jewels thing, but that is somewhat cliché these days. Most of us nowadays like our hoards to be a little bit more sophisticated than 'shiny.'

Like what?

I have known dragons whom collect snowflakes from the first fall of the year over dozens of centuries. Dragons that collect the petals of flowers left on the graves of loved ones. Dragons that keep and care for soft toys and comfort items, left behind by children as they've grown up. Dragons that guard happy memories and shards of sunlight, kept safe for rainy days.

I myself have found my calling in by nature of the digital age; 1s & 0s. These two primitives let me freely build my hoard out of most anything, at unprecidented density. Music, art, film and writings, and not just the famed works of noted names, but just so those of lesser praise. I catch all that which catches my eye in the digital stream, and I do my best to uphold my sanctuary of information.

Forgive me but, that seems unsafe to slumber on

Military-grade casing is a small price to pay for a safe and self-heating hoard in winter.

Wow. So all these things... really mean a lot to you, huh?

They are my memories. All the things that have helped shape me into the being who stands here talking to you now. Every last one of them, in some way, is a fragment of my very self.