CHAPTER ONE

The Request

This is the story of a young woman who wandered, never stopping in one place for long, never making any allies or friends; trekking throughout the day on the back of her horse, camping against his side at night, staring into a crackling fire and eating that afternoons hunt. Her eyes had seen more than the oldest man, her ears had heard more than an entire towns' population, her feet had trodden on many aground yet she still yearned for more. She had worn the same clothes for weeks; her hair had only seen river water; her skin had been dyed olive by the sun, dotted with scars from battles with mountain lions and bears; her hands were permanently gloved for use of her bow and arrow, her only means of defense. Naturally, her senses were keen; her wide eyes sought even the tiniest movement, her elf-like ears enabled her to hear like a fox. But after years of walking in the wilderness; she was lighter on her feet than even an Elf, her speed that of a pony at full pelt, her accuracy better than any dwarf in the country. And her sense of direction was too accurate to rely on; her vision at night more enhanced than a badger; and her skills with a bow and arrow was astounding. She could hit a moving target sixty meters away. Her bow was made of ivory, as was her quiver where she kept twenty arrows fashioned from redwood and other species of tree, with four eagle-owl feathers at the end and an iron point. She had shot something in every county in sight.

Except for the Misty Mountains. She had not set foot over those monstrous peaks, she hadn't even thought about it. Though she yearned to see what was beyond, what new land there was to explore, what new species of animals there was to examine, what new battle there was to fight in.

But she had not yet fought in a battle although she had watched from afar. She admired the strength of the victor, the cowardice of the enemy. Of course, she had battled with a stubborn bear or wolf, or at this moment, a nasty toothless landlord who had roughly slapped her behind instead of handing her a pint of ale. She had growled menacingly and knocked an arrow into her bow before the landlord had time to laugh with his bartenders,

"Lay your hands on me one more time," she said quietly, dangerously, "and it will be the last thing you ever do," the landlord turned his eyes inwards to stare, terrified at the point of her arrow, digging into the skin between his eyebrows. He waved a shaking hand to one of his cowering bartenders and a pint of ale was slid across the wood towards her open palm. She lowered her bow, returning it to her back and glared at the landlord. She did not thank him.

Then her ears picked up the sound of elevated breathing, coming from the back of the inn and the smell of smoke filled her lungs. She heard quiet murmuring, the sound of her name and the name of a mountain. She had not touched her ale, slowly turning around and spying the two speakers; an old man dressed in grey with his back to her and a heavily bearded man with several layers of fur laden on his shoulders. The bearded man suddenly caught her eye and leaned in towards the older gentleman, hissing so quietly that even she couldn't hear. He beckoned her over to his table with one flick of his head, dragging a chair next to him,

"Lady Farren, come and sit with us," the man said and his voice came as a surprise to her, it was young and strong yet his face was tired and old. She became confused as she cautiously joined the two men, sitting on the edge of the wooden chair. She wondered how this man knew her name, and why he used it in such a casual fashion,

"I heard you talking about me," she muttered quietly, "You said my name,"

"My, your hearing does live up to the stories," the elderly man told her with a smile, "'They say she can hear even the wind singing'," he recited with an airy tone and Farren looked down at her lap, taking a large gulp from her drink,

"May I introduce myself? I'm Gandalf the Grey," he continued and she cracked a hasty grin,

"I know who you are, I've seen you several times before," she replied simply, "But you, I have yet to know your name," she turned to the bearded fellow and noticed, for the first time, how small he was. It was rather odd, his shoulders were broad, his chin was square, his nose was long and his eyes were almond shaped; he looked like a regular man, expect he was maybe half the size. He was openly staring at her which, from the look Gandalf had given him, was not usual,

"This is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain and rightful king to Erebor," Gandalf introduce him instead, rather angrily, as if the subject of 'a rightful king' was frustrating. Thorin merely nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed deeply,

"I would like to invite you on a quest," of course, Gandalf knew which buttons to press and instantly, Farren's eyes lit up and her lips spread into an excited smile,

"A quest?" she asked, hardly containing her happiness for she had been aimlessly wandering for several weeks, not having anything to embark on. And to suddenly be asked on a quest? How could she turn down such a spectacular adventure?

"A quest to take back the Dwarf land of Erebor," Gandalf said quietly, leaning forward and seeing his reflection in Farren's wide and excited eyes, "To retrieve the Arkenstone from beneath the fire-breathing dragon, Smaug,"

"I have heard that you have encountered several dragons on your journeys," Thorin put in, also very quiet and she nodded, almost solemnly,

"My family were dragon tamers, we rode them and spoke to them," she explained, "It's in my blood to be with dragons," and Gandalf sat back in his chair triumphantly, sipping loudly from his tankard,

"Well then," he smirked, "Welcome to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield,"