"They will not come." Thorin said to the group at large, hunched over his bowl and not looking at any of them. "They say this quest is ours, and ours alone." There were general outcries of disappointment. The Dwarf King could not deny that he shared in their frustration. He too, had hoped for more.

"You're going on a quest?" A voice spoke at his shoulder. Thorin threw a glance at the Hobbit standing to his left, looking in on the troupe of Dwarves. Thorin was not so proud that he was unable to admit some of his faults; he knew he bad at placing trust in decisions made by others. Indeed, other than himself, his two nephews and Balin, he knew he did not fully trust anyone. It was reasonable, he argued, to be slightly wary when Gandalf suggested a Hobbit as their 'burglar'. He knew little of the Halfling folk, but as far as he was aware, they were not a society of skilled thieves and burglars. The little houses, brooks and fields he had seen on his journey here further convinced him of this. But this Mr. Baggins was even less than he was hoping for. His body was soft, the fine stitching on his clothes suggested a highly luxurious and lazy lifestyle, and Thorin highly doubted the little man would be comfortable away from his decorated china and comfy armchairs. Still, Gandalf the Grey was a wise and powerful man by reputation, even if his appearance suggested otherwise, so (apart from a few initial barbs when he first saw him) Thorin had reluctantly buried his doubts deep in his chest.
Gandalf shifted suddenly, and cleared his throat. "Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light."
Said Hobbit consented, and as he moved away to fetch a candle, the wizard gently placed a small piece of parchment on the table, and unfolded it. "Far to the east," he began, rising from his chair, the rough tones of his voice adding atmosphere and giving the candlelight that was flickering and dancing on the curved walls a foreboding air. "Over ridges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak."

Bilbo turned his eyes to the picture Gandalf was pointing at. A small mountain, drawn in black, with a large red dragon curved around in the air above it. "The Lonely Mountain." He said slowly, feeling the syllables weighing on his tongue.
"Aye." Gloin said, his accent adding a strong fervour to his words. "Oin has read the portents, and the portents say, it is time."
Thorin cared little for the superstitious ramblings of the older dwarf, despite his great respect for him, but if it convinced some of the Dwarves to stay, then he would hardly question it. However he suspected he was not alone in his feelings, as several other dwarfs sighed and shook their heads in exasperation as Gloin began to speak.
Then Oin, the resident prophet in the group, threw in his lot. "Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as was foretold. When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end."
There was movement behind him, and Thorin turned. Bilbo was staring at them all, a blank look on his face. "What beast?" The Dwarf almost felt sorry for him at that moment. The simple Hobbit clearly had no idea what was in store for him. He shot a suspicious look at Gandalf, who was studiously avoiding his gaze.
"Oh that would be a reference to Smaug The Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age." Bofur cut in, bringing his pipe away from his mouth just long enough to speak in his deep Dwarfish brogue. "Airborne fire breather. Teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks." Bilbo paled. "Extremely fond of precious metal."
"Yes, I know what a dragon is." He snapped.

"I'm not afraid!" The youngest member of the group, Ori, shot up from his chair in the corner. "I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of Dwarfish iron right up his jacksy!"\

This resulted in loud cheers from the group, apart from Dori, who quickly pulled him down with a sharp reprimand. Thorin allowed himself to smile at the young dwarf's naivety. He only hoped it would be enough to keep him alive.
Balin, always the voice of sense and reason, was the one to spoil to arrogant mood. "The path would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen." He paused, obviously wondering whether to continue with his thoughts. "And not thirteen of the best, nor brightest."
Exactly on point, the dwarves burst into furious protest. Thorin vaguely heard Nori demand to know who exactly Balin was calling dim, but then Fili silenced the group, reminding them passionately all that they were all born fighters.
"And you forget, we have a wizard in our company!" Kili said enthusiastically. "Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time."
All heads turned towards the wizard, who suddenly looked less than comfortable and raised his hand in protest. "Oh, well, no…I…"
"How many then?"
"What?"
"How many dragons have you killed?" Repeated Dori.
Thorin dragged his eyes over to Gandalf and let a ghost of a smile play across his features, as the wizard began to cough on his pipe and expel smoke in his discomfort. Sensing weakness, the dwarves attacked. Like a boulder dropping into a pond, another argument sprang up, dwarves flying to their feet and shouting at each other across the small table. Thorin allowed it to continue for only a few seconds before his patience wore thin, and he pounded his fist on the table, roaring at them to shut up. It was only when silence fell, that he heard the gentle knock.
On unison, fifteen heads swung towards the door. "Not another one." Bilbo said, almost in tears. "There's no more food in the house."
Thorin shot a suspicious glare at Gandalf, who met his eyes, and shrugged, with an awkward laugh. "Who could that be?"

This is a bad idea, this is a very bad idea. Penelope thought to herself, twisting her hands nervously as she paced up and down the Hobbit's small front garden. She didn't know what she was more nervous about, being back in the heart of the Shire, or the fact that on the other side of the door were thirteen dwarves. Neither species had been particularly kind to her in her life thus far, apart from her parents of course.

She didn't really know why she'd thrown her pack over her shoulder and run out of Bree last night. That damn wizard knew her too well, she smirked to herself. She'd slept rough, curled up in one of the tree branches, where she could see all of her surroundings with ease. Not that she had anything particularly to cause her worry in this part of the world, apart from perhaps some farmers, angry at finding a traveller hiding in one of their trees, but habit sent her climbing through the branches anyway. She'd walked for most of the day, taking the long way round to avoid going through Waymoot and the surrounding woods, there were too many familiar faces there, and after getting lost and losing the last light of day stuck in some godforsaken field, she had finally found the right house. The lights were on, and she could hear the raucous shouts and yells from the moment she had entered Hobbiton. As she pushed open the gate and lightly stepped up the grassy steps leading the large, round, front door, the voices became clearer. The dragon seemed to be the main topic of conversation, then she heard a thinly veiled insult about the general intelligence of the group, which was immediately met with furious outcry. Her lips quirked up in a small smile. Wherever they go, whatever they do, Dwarves will always be the same. Wanting to waste no more time, she raised her hand and knocked on door.

As Bilbo was the only one standing, it became his unfortunate job to open the door to the mystery visitor. That, of course, did not stop the rest of his guests crowding around in the entrance to his dining room. He winced as he heard boots scrape against the varnished wood of the table. That was not going to come out easily. But, to be fair, that was the least of his worries at the present moment. Bracing himself for whatever hideous being would be standing on the other side of his door, he pulled the handle and swung it open.
"Can I help you?"
Penelope jumped as a voice behind her spoke. She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed the door open behind her. She turned. It was a Hobbit that stood in the doorway, the bright orange light of the house casting an aura around his body. She gave him a quick, glancing look up and down. Her original guess had been right, this did indeed appear to be a Hobbit that was in the habit of enjoying the finer, cushier things in life. He was fairly young, yet there was a resistant circle of fat resolutely hanging around his lower midriff, and his chin. Regardless of that, he was not ugly, his hair framed his face in a flattering way and his eyes were a pleasant shade of blue. He didn't seem to know what to say to her, instead staring at her travel – worn appearance, and focusing (as everyone always did) on her curious mismatch of facial features. They watched each other, warily for another moment, until movement in the passage behind him caught Penelope's eye and she let out a relieved smile, moving past the stranger and into the hallway.
"Gandalf! Thank God, I was so worried you wouldn't be here!"
"Penelope, my dear!" Her old friend let out an indulgent smile and embraced her, bending down so his head wouldn't knock the wreath of candles hanging from the ceiling. "I am so pleased you decided to join us."
"And who, may I ask, is this?" The deep, harsh voice made her jump. Peering around him (and feeling oddly like the little girl who used to hang onto wizard's well-worn grey robes and not let go until he told her a story), she encountered a most peculiar sight. Around the Hobbit's small kitchen table were crowded twelve…no, thirteen dwarves. She could almost feel her hackles raise as they stared at her, and a ripple of distrust run across her skin. Dwarves…
It was Gandalf who chose to break the awkward silence. "Ahem. Gentlemen, may I introduce you to an old friend of mine, Penelope Cotton." he shot a glance at one of the dwarves. Penelope followed his stare and felt her stomach sink like a stone when she saw one of the company glaring at her furiously. If looks could kill, she'd be no more than a splatter on the wall. However, she refused to back down and matched his glare. It wasn't long before he looked away, obviously made uncomfortable by her eyes.
"I was hoping she would consent to be the final member of our company." The wizard said, more to the Dwarf who had been glaring at her than anyone else.
There was no hesitation. "No. Absolutely not."
"Thorin…" Gandalf said warningly, but he was ignored.

Penelope looked at him with interest as he went on a verbal rampage, ranting about loyalty, secrets, trusting Gandalf to find the burglar (which he highly doubted he had succeeded at) and now attempting to bring a stranger into the group. So this was the famous Thorin Oakenshield. He had an impressive presence, she had to admit. His face, although it seemed to be permanently angry, with a deep set frown, had elements of a rough, rugged, handsomeness about it. His eyes were the brightest, clearest blue she had ever seen, although they were currently narrowed in strong distrust. She raised an eyebrow at his insults, they were certainly inventive, although far from the worse that she had ever received. She could feel Gandalf seething and realised she needed to make a stand. She had to show these dwarves that she was more than capable of handling anything they could throw at her, if she allowed the wizard to defend her against mere insults then she would never get their respect. The idea of trying to earn the respect of dwarves made her stomach turn but she swallowed her pride. The things you do for a bit of adventure, she thought bitterly. When Thorin appeared to finish his rant, she gently disentangled herself from the wizard's grip and moved forwards, so that the two of them were stood nose to nose. Or rather, nose to chin; his height advantage made her feel slightly uncomfortable, but she refused to show it. For several long moments she said nothing, simply staring at him, without allowing him to look away. Tension grew in the room then, quite without warning, surprising even herself with her strength, she slapped him. Slapped him so hard it made her hand sting. His head snapped to the side, but before he had even had time to blink she had grabbed his face, hard, and turned it towards her. Dimly, she was aware of Gandalf holding back some of the dwarves who had attempting to move towards her, no doubt highly offended by her physical assault on the 'King Under The Mountain', but she couldn't have even tried to care. She had faced much worse in her time than an angry dwarf.

"Listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield. I know about you, and what you're trying to accomplish here. You may imagine yourself as a noble hero searching to reclaim your homeland, but I have travelled these lands for longer than you know and know them better than you ever could. They are not the same as they were in the golden days of Erebor. Trolls are coming down from the mountain, Orcs and Lord knows what else are becoming freer and more confident in their exploration of Middle - Earth. You are not ready for what is out there. You resist Gandalf's choice. Why? Because I am female? Let me assure you, I am worth as much as any male here, and just as capable of protecting myself. You think me young and inexperienced? Gandalf would not have come to me if that were the case. You need my knowledge of the land if you're to survive this journey, and I will not, do you hear me, not tolerate anyone, King or no, talking about me in such a way." She released his chin and took a step back. "For some Godforsaken reason, I have decided to come with you and help you as best I can. Whether you want me there or not is irrelevant."
She looked at the rest of the Dwarves. No one spoke, although all were looking at her in shock, and several with deep distrust. One, especially, who had a large bald patch on the top of his head, that was covered in tattoos, was looking at her as though he would very much like to hit her. However one dwarf with a rather impressive white beard was looking at her with interest, the interest of a scholar. She raised her eyebrow at him, and he took advantage of her attention.
"Excuse me miss, I don't suppose…"
"My father." She said, not unkindly. With Dwarves, she had found, the best approach was straight, and to the point. She would hardly have dared use the approach she had just used with Thorin on one of the Elven Lords, or, God forbid, Saruman, but while she knew he would not like her for it, it would gain her some measure of respect by seeing that she was a force to be reckoned with, and make him more likely to allow her to accompany him. It was a good sign that he had yet to speak. She snuck a glance at him under her eyelashes. He was looking at her thunderously. Oh. Well, perhaps he was so angry he was unable to form a coherent sentence. But, it did also mean that the Dwarves were now intrigued by her, therefore more likely to make conversation. Besides, she liked the look of the old Dwarf, he seemed kind.
"Your father?" He was shocked, not unduly. "But that would make you…"
"Half Dwarf." Thorin said in a low voice. Briefly, he transferred his glare onto Gandalf. "You would thrust on me some kind of half creature, whose Father disgraced his people by Bedding one of the Halfling folk?"
"I had no idea you enjoyed being slapped so much, for here you are begging for another one." Penelope growled at him. Someone round the table hastily stifled a snort.

She glanced at Gandalf, willing him to intervene and try to reason with Thorin. He cleared his throat, and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. "You all may as well know now. Our Penelope is one of those rare, ethereal creatures, the product of a love stronger than the rules of two separate societies. Her father was a dwarf, a blacksmith from the Blue Mountains. However, her mother was born a Hobbit, in the remote fields of Waymoot." He looked down at her like an uncle might look at his favourite niece. "They were two good friends of mine. I have watched her grow from a shy, timid child, forced out into the world by forces she did not understand and could not control, to this woman you see before you. I was not able to look after her like I should have done." Here, he fixed Thorin with an unblinking, icy stare. "I sent her to live with her Dwarf relatives after she was cast out by her Hobbit ones, assuming they would care for her and give her a home, until she was old enough to look after herself. You may distrust anyone and everyone that is not a Dwarf, Thorin son of Thrain, but I assure you, your race has given her plenty of reasons to be suspicious of you." He patted her on the shoulder. "However, her, rather different experience of life makes her an invaluable part of our company."
"So I am to be held accountable for the bad nature of a few of my race." Grumped the heir to the Dwarf throne.
"It is no worse than you holding all Elves accountable for the actions of few." The wizard pointed out, which earned him a furious glare.
Thorin turned and stomped out of the dining room, into the living room across the wide, circular hall. "Leave it to me." Gandalf murmured to Penelope. Then, he turned and followed the King Under The Mountain, leaving her alone with the rest. Mainly to avoid the curious stares, she turned and faced the Hobbit.