Smaug was having a good dream. He doesn't remember it now, of course, because it was ruined by that sudden insertion in which a stout man-being called out to him and cut at him with a blade that stung and who would not flee even at his charmspeak command, but he was sure it had been overly pleasant before that. Then he briefly dozed before his great senses caught something that woke him wide awake. It was the air.
Fresh air. Strange air.
Air not from the mountain. He glared at a small hole that had been knocked in many many years ago, when he had settled too quickly and the stone had crumbled at a clumsy touch of a wing. He had never liked that hole, but kept it around because it reminded him of being wrong when he got too arrogant.
He thought he'd very much like to cover it up now if it was the reason his dreams had been disturbed - that and the soft knocking from above he occasionally thought he had heard. He stretched luxuriously, to sniff that air and learn of it.
that was when he knew the cup was gone.
Thieves! Fire! Murder! The audacity and extreme arrogance! What fools would dare to steal from him!? This had happened once or twice long, long ago when he first settled in the Mountain, and then taught the stealers a lesson - which he promptly made clear, boiled within their skulls and turned to festering ash. This mountain and all within it was his! None should be so incompetent that they would think to steal from him! He would have screamed, but the fire that raged from his mouth and stung the walls was all he could do not to collapse the place around him. If it killed the thieves he would do it with out a doubt. But he knew that they would be long gone from here. Without a thought, he raced from his nest and through the palace roaring with a fury unspeakable - out into the open air, which was definitely the same scent he had caught from within. He would find this intruder.
His roars thrummed through the wind and he felt the tiniest pleasure at this - they would hear this and surely run. Or quake and cower. It didn't matter which. He would find them.
From the air jets of flame scorched through his mouth to the earth below, marking his territory, seeking his prey, hoping to flush them out and into his grip. His eyes caught everything, and if he were not so furious, he would have liked to compare how the world had changed since last he woke.
But he was furious, and his prey had yet to reveal themselves. He belched fire and smoke upon the mountain side but at least could see no signs of travel - and that would make it easier to tell from whence they came once he did, and how they got in.
He came to the other side from the North, again washing the earth in flame. For a second he thought - but then there are screams of fear and the wretched smell of burning mane - and he swoops upon some ponies that have broken from their ropes, each running off with no thoughts of the others.
He follows the largest group of them screaming and burning the flame as they gallop off, taking pleasure in the pursuit, for the poor beasts are his only reward for now, it seems. He kills most and eats some of them them - two of which are burnt beyond consumption and the other too far and insignificant to be of importance.
He would have guessed men had come from the river, from the man-town of Esgaroth, for the ponies resembled a particular breed that was caught long ago in the wild hills there, and certain packs and saddles, though unfamiliar in some ways were also made of the same materials that had grown in the lake valley long ago.
Except 14 men would not have likely ridden there on ponies.
And men were not as often stupid enough to be tempted to steal treasure from a dragon - unless they were suddenly put in it's presence, faced with the sheer beauty of the wealth. But the packs and camps spoke otherwise, dotted about as if searching for something - a way in, and since the trail into his lair was still not obvious nor found, it meant it had been done deliberately. It had taken time and thought.
Most men would not be stupid enough to plan such a thing. Or perhaps too stupid to know how.
Of course, they would also be stupid enough to give supplies to those stupid enough to plan such a thing.
That being dwarrows.
Still, as he hunted the length of the mountain he came up with a frustratingly small amount of clues - most of which he'd already deduced. From the smoking remains of his wrath he learned from the camps that the visitors had been over ten in number, and smaller, as the indentations of their sleeping places suggested, as well as workers of fire, as the camp fires had been tended in a way that he could only describe as dwarvish.
When dawn finally rested on his scales, he abandoned his work, knowing full well that he had gleaned all the knowledge he could.
With no sign of the intruders he had one plan - return to his lair. Regain his strength. Travel to the laketown. Burn and pillage until some one told him where and who and when and how. Then raze it until only smoke and steam remained.
And of course, lastly, regarding the the thieves themselves...
He would find them and burn the heart right out of them.
In the lair his ruby glow cast upon his hoard, and he curled down to wait.
After all, a thief of 14 would hardly be satisfied with the small cup, and dwarrows, well.
Their gold greed rivaled that of the dragons.
He lowered his eyelids, and fell silent.
And waited.
He did not have to wait long.