How it might have otherwise ended…
Lost property
Thorin awakes with a shiver. It takes a few moments for his brain to warm up enough to work out why. His thick, fur-lined cloak has fallen off in the night. Yet, groping around beside him, he can find it nowhere. Sitting up with mutter he scans the campsite, just lit by the first gold rays of the dawn, to see if some sleepwalking dwarf has borrowed it for the night. But it is not there. And, chillingly, no one appears to be on watch.
Struck by a sudden pang of anxiety, the king scrabbles frantically in his pack and remaining pockets for his most treasured possessions, only to find the search fruitless. Four days out of Hobbiton, and he has lost his grandfather's map and key. The ensuing roar of pain and wrath wakes the rest of the camp instantly.
Within seconds the peaceful scene is in turmoil.
"My axe! Someone's taken my axe!"
"My knives are gone!"
"My boots!"
Gloín is shaking the company's coffer frantically. It makes a reassuring rattling sound, but upon opening proves to be full of nothing more than pebbles and old pennies.
Still cursing the loss of their prized weapons, dwarves across the camp are opening their packs, scattering the contents across their bedrolls and the dewy grass.
"Someone's taken all my pipeweed!"
"And mine!"
"It was the finest, cost me hours in the forge…"
"My tankard! It was my grandfather's!"
"My carvings are gone!" Bofur has dug to the very bottom of his bag, to no avail.
On the far side of the camp, Ori is nearly in tears over his missing quills and paper, not to mention drawings and writings product of several weeks of travel. Nori tries to comfort him, privately mourning the collection of silverware he had 'acquired' and carefully stowed away for later use.
"Thorin!" Kíli runs up breathless, hair tangled and cascading over his face without the silver clasps that normally hold his braids back. "The ponies are gone! All of them!"
"And all our food supplies with them." Balin adds gravely.
Thorin reaches for the haft of his weapon to calm himself, only to recall that it is no longer there. A few of the dwarves with heavier weapons seem to have retained theirs, but clearly, Thorin thinks bitterly, his was too finely crafted to pass over. Looking round at the devastation of his quest he notices one more absence, and bruises the ground with his fist.
Gandalf stands quiet in the centre of the clearing, surveying the chaos calmly, with what one might almost mistake for a smile of quiet amusement. His head looks somewhat bare without his customary hat.
"If I say he is a Burglar, a Burglar he is, Thorin Oakenshield."