Thorin

I shake my head, grumbling gruff tones beneath my breath at the unending stalking I seem to be repetitively partaking. The Shire, though quaint and welcoming, is a damned maze of little else other than thick green grass and minute hobbit holes sheltered with the sides of the rolling hills of Hobbiton. Before long, I wander, once again, to a great Oak which dominates a wide plain in a valley among the smoking chimneys. I trace the surroundings for the gleam of a mark upon a wooden door, but none flash before me. I inhale. Swallowing my pride, I stride to the side of the tree where a low echo of sound quakes. I come upon a group of fauntlings wielding fallen branches as weapons and sparring with a warrior's edge.

I pause my stalking, perusing the fierce little beings. One in particular, a young male with curled hair upon his brow and a stout figure upholding his miniscule stature, harbors my attention. Though a little hesitant, there is a spark within his movements, a prowess to the way in which he fiercely wields his oaken branch. Not to be startled, I creep to the squad of flailing fighters, cautious of my movements. They still are rendered motionless, despite my efforts, as I am caught in the gaze of a gentile like fauntling whom stumbles back, dropping his pretended object.

The others follow suit, all but the one which had caught my eye. He stands proud, if but a little hesitant, as the rest gather behind him. He meets my gaze before nodding once.

"Do you need assistance, Sir?" he questions with a brief pause and mild declaration.

I tilt my chin downward in reply as I come to a knee before the courageous being. "Aye. I am looking for a home called Bag End. Do you know it's name?"

He bobs his head again, more confidant now. His lips curl ever so lightly. "Yes, Sir. It's up that way." He points to a dusty path to our left. "Follow this path up the hill and around the first curve. You'll find a green door within the highest peak of Hobbiton. That is Bag End, home of Master Baggins."

"You have my thanks, Master Hobbit," I murmur, rising to my feet. I glance down at the branch now resting atop his shoulder. "You have admirable strength. Maybe one day you will wield a true blade."

His cheeks rise with a grandiose grin and a quiet rosie tint before he bends at the waist in a deep bow. "I cherish your words, Sir, and wish you well on your travels."

I leave the still cowering group with a subtle appraisal by the wave of my palm before striding along the given path. The hill is steep in relation to the rest of the tumbling lands but remains gilded by glowing blades of green and stark ocher. The sun sets swiftly during the ascent, and I finally see the door I have been searching for. An imprinted symbol shines the dousing moonlight like the gateway to Moria. It sparks a stunning silver against the bold green background, and a raucous laughter shakes the sturdy exterior from within. I hear the gruff tones of my brethren as the laughter reaches its peak before swiftly silencing as my knuckles rap against the wood.

A scuttle of feet is heard before the round door swings open to reveal a mature Hobbit with curled hair upon his brow and a stout figure upholding his miniature stature. His eyes are bathed in shock and wariness as he steps aside to allow my entrance. Beyond his shoulder, Gandalf - much too tall for the home - lumbers into the space.

"Gandalf," I greet, "I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. Wouldn't have found it at all were it not for the mark on the door." Said door sharply closes as the disgruntled hobbit speaks.

"Mark? There's no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!" he spouts.

I lift a brow as Gandalf thumps his staff upon the floor. "There is a mark, put it there myself. Now, Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce you to the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."

I swing my eyes up and down the short stature of the male. He is broad bellied and shifty, bound in a cotton robe which has been hastily tied, surely in danger of parting at any moment. A Hobbit he is, a general one at that. Like his brethren, I can only count for little experience. A burden and nothing more.

"So, this is the Hobbit. Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you any experience fighting?" His brow furrows as I begin to circle his form.

"P-pardon?"

"Axe or sword?" I push. "What's your weapon of choice?"

"Well, I have some skill with conkers, but I fail to see its relevance to this odd situation."

I scoff lowly. "Thought as much." I move past the short fellow as my gaze flickers to the wizard. "He appears more as a grocer than a burglar." My words are met with rumbling laughter as Dwalin grasps my shoulder and leads me into the dining area where food and ale await. I sit at the head of the table as the rest of the company takes up the surrounding seats.

Balin is the first to conjure the meaning of our business.

"What news of the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?" he questions.

"Aye." I nod, sipping the light alcohol. "Envoys from all seven kingdoms." A slight applause echoes.

"What of the dwarves in the Iron Hills?" Dwalin follows. "Is Dain with us?"

My eyes drift to the soup I'm mindless stirring. "They claim this quest is ours, and ours alone." Disappointed murmurs surround me at the disheartening news. I cannot dissuade my agreement to their quiet mumblings. Dain was one I had counted on to stand by me. He and I are much the same, but my discontent at the loss of my home has made me ill hearted and guarded stone. Though I hope to dismiss the thought of war, the lack of my kin's support is fairly discouraging, but I will not stop nor stall. His presence will be surely missed should worse come to worse.

"You're going on a quest?"

I blink, brow furrowing as the Hobbit's voice breaks my mental concentration. I narrow my eyes at him as Gandalf bids a request for more light, which is quickly granted by a single candle within the short figure's palm. I lean forward in avid rapture as a withered parchment is spread upon the wooden surface by the wizard's elder hands.

"Far to the east, over rivers and plains, beyond woodlands and wastelands, towers a solitary peak..."he recites.

"The Lonely Mountain."

"Aye!" Gloin asserts. "Oin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time."

"Ravens have been seen flying towards the mountain. When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end," Oin quotes, his curled and braided beard bouncing with the movements of his jaw.

At the mention of the beast, the Hobbit's face sinks with worry and concern, if but a touch of fear. "Uh, a beast?"

Bofur straightens his bag in eager acknowledgement. "That would be Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our time. Fire breathing, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks, extremely fond of precious metals-"

"Yes, yes, I know what a dragon is," the Hobbit sharply interjects.

Ori hops up in response, his accented tone gentle despite his harsh words. "I'm not afraid! I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of Dwarvish iron right up his 'ole jacksie."

Several in the company shout before Dori reels his brother down to his seat. "Sit down!"

Balin exhales, catching my attention as his eyes travel over the occupants around the table. "This task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. We number a mere thirteen, none of which are the best nor brightest Dwarven folk."

A roarous reprisal of fierce objections follow the statement, Fili's voice echoing in the dim. "We may be few in number, but we're fighters, right down to the last dwarf!"

Pride boils within my heart at my nephew's words. Being the next in line to the throne of Erebor, I have tried, diligently, to mold him into a great leader. Though it was of little work on my part. His father was an honorable man, and Fili upholds each persistent quality of a leader among any race. I have only ever instilled within him the loyalty and kingly prowess of myself, my father, and my grandfather, and he has taken it in with the effervescent quality akin to wet sand which soaks up water.

"And you forget," my other nephew adds, "we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf is sure to have killed hundreds of dragons within his time."

This comment leads to a stuttering wizard and Dori continuing to press the matter until all have joined in the argument. The noise level rises and I soon rise to my feet.

"Shazara! [silence] We have read the signs! Do you not believe others have read them as well? Rumor has spread of Smaug's disappearance. For sixty years he has remained unseen! There are eyes which look to the east, to the mountain, waiting, wondering, weighing the risks. The vast wealth of our people may lay unprotected. Do you we sit back while others take back what is ours, or do we seize the chance to reclaim Erebor? Du bekar! Du bekar! [To arms! To arms!]"

Again, through the cheers, Balin sees clarity. "You forget the front way is shut. There is no way into the mountain!"

A familiar glimmering mischievous fills the wizard's gaze. "That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true." He fiddles with the folds of his robes before producing a small, ornately wrought key of gilded iron. I stare, entranced, at the very object which would reveal Erebor's once light filled and joyous halls. I reach a hand forward, fingers trembling.

"How came you by this?" I wonder breathlessly.

"It was given to me by your father, Thrain, for safe keeping. It is yours now."

The company goes on to establish there is indeed another way in as Gandalf eludes to the map and the runes encrypted upon it. A low passage which would allow us entry. This indubitably leads to the reasoning for the Hobbit's presence.

"This is why we need a burglar," Ori states.

The Hobbit hums in agreement. "A good one, too. An expert, I'd imagine."

"And are you?" Gloin asks.

"A what?" the short fellow retaliates, clearly confused.

Oin, in partaking the fellows growing ignorance, exudes, "He says he's an expert! Hey, hey!"

"M-me? Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I'm not a burglar. I've never stolen a thing a day in my life!"

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins," Balin says as the Hobbit nods in agreement. "Can't say he's quite burglar material."

"Aye," Dwalin gruffs. "The Wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."

Loud exclamations back the roughly spoken statement, and it is not long before the air turns cold and Gandalf fills the corner of the room. Shadows creep forward as his power infused voice deepens.

"Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is," the wizard thunders before the shadows melt away and the air grows still. "Hobbit's are remarkably light on their feet, able to walk unseen by many. Though the smell of dwarf is familiar to the dragon, the scent of Hobbit will be most unknown to him, giving us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the burglar of our company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. Appearances may be lacking, but he has a far greater deal to offer than any of you know, even himself. You must trust me on this."

His gaze meets mine, and I stare at him before sighing in defeat. "Very well. We will do this your way." Adament disagreements tumble from the Hobbit's lips, and I turn to Balin. "Give him the contract."

"Alright!" Bofur exclaims. "We're off!"

A long piece of withered parchment is passed to the still quarreling Hobbit. "It's just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, and so forth," Balin clarifies.

"F-funeral arrangements?" the Hobbit gasps.

He moves away, reading through the contract with growing anxiety, and I tip my head towards the wizard.

"I cannot guarantee his safety," I murmur.

"Understood."

My eyebrows raise. "Nor will I be responsible for his fate."

"Agreed."

I glance back at the bumbling Hobbit before turning back to the grey cloaked man. "Tell me, where is this addition you spoke of mere days before?"

He hums, pulling out his pipe. "Quite close, I believe. She is always late, I'm afraid. She will, of course, be a most valuable asset."

"Late or not coming at all?" I wonder sardonically.

He glances my way just as his eyes alight and a gentle rapping his heard against the door. Silence befalls the room as the Hobbit stumbles to the entryway, contract clenched between his fingers. The wizard and I follow him to the door, and the rest of the company shadows our steps, smothering the short space.

The door swings open to reveal a short - shorter than myself - being cloaked in black with a heavy hood pulled low over their head. A long, thick braid of entwining strands of roaring flame fall down the stranger's right shoulder with two smaller and more intricate plaits cascading down the other. Metal clasps of elegant inscription hold the strands together. The stranger bows, and I see a sheath of a heavy long sword on their left hip with two short sword sheaths on the other.

"Brielle Dragonkin," a soft, though somehow rough, voice dipped in Satin and velvet greets, "at your service."

"B-Bilbo Baggins, at yours," the Hobbit greets, scooting to the side as the dwarrowdam steps into the room. Behind me, the company is wholly silent. Gandalf is the first to pass on greeting, a smile lifting his bearded cheeks. My form, however, is entirely hardened with unease. Though the girl is small in stature and quaint, something within me is anxious at being in her presence.

"It is a pleasure to see you, my Lady."

Soft ivory hands lift to the hood, pushing it back to reveal a pale face with rosy cheeks, pink lips, and stunning irises of amber and gold dipped in starlight. Her cheeks lift with a gentile smile as she turns her gaze up to the towering wizard.

"Likewise, Master Gandalf." Her eyes flicker across the company, and I see recognition catch as she stares at me. She strides forward and drops to a knee before me. "An honor, Master Oakenshield."

I hesitate, slightly stunned at the attention. "Rise."

She comes up and stares into my eyes as Gandalf's broad hand lands on her shoulder. "Miss Dragonkin, I would like to introduce you to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Balin, Dwalin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Oin, Gloin, Ori, Nori, Dori, Fili, and Kili," the wizard points out. "This is Brielle Dragonkin, the fifteenth member of our company."

She nods to everyone, and they return the gesture. It doesn't take long, of course, for my much too flirtatious nephews to be at her sides. I scowl.

"You're a stunning lass," Kili immediately flirts with a smirk and a wink. Brielle, to my surprise, only twitches a brow in response.

"Thank you, Master Kili," she murmurs.

"Lady Brielle," Fili starts, "you have impressive weapons at your side. What is your wield of choice?"

"Short swords," she replies without hesitation. "Though, daggers are my passion." She removes her cloak as she speaks, revealing a deep violet tunic, twine trousers, and black boots. Her person is covered in metal from shoulder to boot with peeking hilts of daggers. Fili steps back in shock, and her face curves with an arrogant smirks.

"Well, lass," Balin rumbles, stepping up beside me, "it seems you will fit in well."

She smiles and bows. "Thank you, Master Balin. Ah, Master Baggins, would it be alright if I hung my cloak?" she wonders sweetly.

The Hobbit quickly smiles in return, retrieving the fabric and hanging it on a hook near the door. He gestures to her weapons but she declines, instead focusing on the parchment still in his hand. She swiftly steals the object, eyes perusing the words as she ventures back into the dining area. She flattens the paper atop the wood as the company once again surrounds the table. The Hobbit hovers about her person as the words tumble from her lips. Bofur begins a long crescendo of descriptions for the beast and the numerous ways in which it can instill death upon the small grocer. It seems no time at all that the Hobbit is on the floor, breathing steadily in unconsciousness. Brielle glares at the dwarf, and I narrow my eyes at her. She turns away and swiftly moves the fainted man into a chair in another room. Gandalf follows soon after.

Brielle returns with a quill in hand, signing her name on the contract with a subdued flourish.

"This is a dangerous quest you are venturing on," she murmurs quietly, and all eyes shift to her as she stands tall. "I hope you know of the consequences you may encounter. A dragon is no simple enemy."

"It is fortunate, then, we are in your company," Balin states, and all eyes move to him, except mine. I keep Brielle in my gaze, catching the subtle twitching of her fingers as if they yearn to grasp her sword.

Her jaw clenches, and her eyes harden to golden coins. "I'm afraid I am unfamiliar with what you mean."

Balin smiles and his eyes shine. "Ah, Miss Dragonkin, I am familiar with the tale of Azaghal. A fine king he was, my Lady, and struck too soon by such a great beast."

"What's he goin' on about?" Kili asks.

"My father was slain by the dragon Glaurung in the First Age," Brielle replies, adding nothing more.

"And for that, your presence is questionable." Her eyes shift to me at my gruff tone. My hardened stare meets hers. "You are hardly old enough to be of the First Age, much less an heir to Azaghal."

To my surprise, she smirks humorously. "Not all are as they seem, Thorin Oakenshield. As for my past, there may come a day when I trust you enough to tell you." She steps away from the table as Gandalf returns, curiously watching Brielle leave. "I must get some air. I will return at dawn."

I rise from my chair as she disappears around the corner, followed by the subtle click of the door. A beat of silence comes before the dwarves begin moving into a separate area of the house where a fire roars. Gandalf looks down upon me, an unreadable emotion in his eyes.

The patter of bare feet echoes as the Hobbit shifts down the hallway. Balin sighs as we watch him go, and the elder dwarf moves to my side.

"It would seem we've lost our burglar. It is probably for the best. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy makers. We are hardly the stuff of legends."

"There are a few warriors amongst us," I mumble, watching the company in the living area.

"Old warriors," Balin scoffs.

I turn my head to look down at him. The doubt is clear within his irises. "I would take each and every single dwarf here over an entire army from the Iron Hills. When I called, they came. Honor. Loyalty. A willing heart. I can ask no more than that."

He shifts next to me, boots clanking. "You don't have to do this, Thorin. You have a choice. You've done right by our people, and you've built us a life in the Blue Mountains, one of peace and plenty. It is worth more than all the gold of Erebor."

I swallow and lower my gaze to the key in my hand, holding it proudly between us. "From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor reclaimed their homeland." I inhale. "There is no choice, Balin, not for me."

He squeezes my shoulder, nodding in confidence. "Then we are with you, laddie. We will see it done."

I lay my hand upon his shoulder in return and lead us to the company. I release him as we step over the threshold, and I allow my eyes to shift over each member of the company. They lounge in chairs, stand against the wall, or lean upon their hands on the wooden floor. I stride to the hearth, leaning an arm against it as I gaze into the blaze.

In the golden flares, I can envision the halls of a home lost. Cold stone once filled with roaring fires, joy, laughter, and the clinking of metal against earthen forge decorated by splendor. The King's Halls, the atrium to the great mountain, which holds the crowning jewel of our people, a gem so pure it gleams with the very starlight which fills the night sky. A copious dwelling littered with meticulous stones and warm gold and flaming forges. A home lost to a beast of destruction and death. My home, which I will reclaim, no matter the cost.

I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of fresh firewood. A tone fills my mind which transforms into a smooth hum. The melody is met by others as a song of old befalls my lips.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away ere break of day

To find our long forgotten gold.

My brothers join, and the words swell in the low ceiling room, echoing throughout the halls.

The pines were roaring on the height

The winds were moaning in the night

The fire was red, it flaming spread

The trees like torches blazed with light.

Whoa. Mmkay. So, there's that. As you can see, some of its verbatim, some isn't, and some - such as with Brielle - is warped to fit the story. I'm running off a transcript to get the feel of everything, but I'm not claiming accuracy or verbatim writing. Regardless, hope you enjoyed, and please comment! I would love to hear your thoughts.~Zoe