A/N: Here's the latest chapter, loves. I want to thank all of you for the outpouring of support for this story! I was honestly astounded by how many have already favorited, followed, and reviewed in such a short time! I hope you'll all continue to give me feedback, it's lovely and very much appreciated! Thank you all! As always, please read and enjoy! :)

Edit: Added a bit more to the scene to make it seem a bit more realistic in terms of plot and character.


Chapter 3: Talk of Dragons

Culurien shifted on her stool in a futile search for comfort. The wood was unforgiving and the wall only served as a stiff reminder that she had spent far too long in the saddle. The fire, at least, was pleasantly warm and she allowed herself a moment to close her eyes and bask like a lizard sunning itself on a great rock. Master Baggins had been kind enough to bring her a squat mug of chamomile tea and she sipped at it, the bittersweet liquid a soothing taste on her lips.

As several of the dwarves moved into the entrance hall, she contemplated remaining where she was versus edging around the rowdy bunch that crowded in the doorways leading towards the lovely green door to the front garden. Ultimately, she didn't have to make the decision as the company shuffled back to find places at the table.

For a moment, her gaze lingered on the dwarf with the green eyes and flopping hat who had started the lively music. His grin had been infectious, the melody one that had nearly caused her feet to tap in time and she had smiled in spite of herself. She couldn't help it, really. Idly, she watched as he and many of the others relit their pipes, settling into the various chairs and stools they'd clearly plundered from many different areas of poor Bilbo's home.

It was then that an imposing black presence entered the room with eyes of such a piercingly cold quality that Culurien wondered if a drake of the North had set down in the comfortable fields of the Shire. A cleanly kept beard covered a strong jaw, but could not hide the sharp, angular features of that face; a face worn by care and a sharp bitterness that even coated her tongue, making her mouth twist in an unpleasant expression.

When the orbs of ice settled on her, she blinked, somewhat unnerved by what she saw in them. Not suspicion, which wouldn't have bothered her nearly as much. No, this was something else entirely, a frigid, subdued rage that seemed barely in check. It wasn't aimed at her, exactly, but she was enough of a strange presence to warrant a flicker of that fury to crack out in a deep, resonating voice, a tone that struck out like a coiled serpent.

"Was my word not good enough for you?"

The question was directed at the wizard hunched near the furthest corner of the table, smoke billowing around his head as clouds gather at the peak of a mountain. His gnarled hand cupped the bowl of his pipe as he lowered it from cracked lips.

"It was not your word that was ever in question, only your sense."

It was a chastisement that no one seemed to have been expecting, many eyes widening as the rich, grey fur tensed over broad shoulders, then relaxed with a throaty chuckle. Culurien thought he was the one named Thorin, if she read the respect the others seemed to gaze at him with correctly.

"I cannot argue that. Very well, then."

He lowered himself into a chair, shrugging out of the heavy jacket and draping it on the back of his seat. A bowl of soup was brought to him by Bilbo, along with a deep mug of ale. Before the spoon had even touched his lips, the white haired one Culurien believed called himself Balin spoke up, resting his arms on the table.

"What news from the meeting in Eruduin?"

"Did they all come?" came another inquiry.

Thorin placed the spoon back in the bowl, shifting his elbows on the table.

"Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms."

Murmurs of approval echoed around the table.

"And what of the dwarves in the Iron Hills?" asked the big, tattooed dwarf, leaning forward on his forearm. "Is Dain with us?"

Thorin breathed deeply, shifting again as steam rose from the thick broth in front of him.

"They will not come."

His voice was a low growl, his eyes roving around the table, as if to emphasize the fact that they were truly on their own in their endeavor. Many dwarves lowered their gazes or let out breaths that seemed to have been held. Gandalf appeared grave for the first time that evening, though Culurien suspected that he had foreseen the answer Thorin's kin had given him.

"They say this quest is ours and ours alone," he added, to the dismay of those gathered around the table.

"You're…going on a quest?"

The question was hesitantly asked, and clearly unexpected, as Bilbo peered from around Gandalf's shoulder, his thumbs hooked around the straps of his suspenders as he looked around the room. The wizard turned towards him, his expression almost sheepish, as if he very much wanted to clear his throat.

"Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light," Gandalf suggested, his fingers lacing around each other as the hobbit eased out of the doorway to find a candle.

Then he was unfolding a large piece of parchment, standing and smoothing the creases and wrinkles away with dirt-blackened fingers as he began to speak.

"Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single, solitary peak," he tapped what was revealed to be a map lightly with a fingertip.

Bilbo had returned with a candle holder grasped in his small hand, leaning over Thorin's shoulder as the dwarf leader and the one with green eyes also leaned forward. She noticed the pipe that slid against the latter one's lower lip, his brow furrowing as he and the others studied the chart.

"The Lonely Mountain," Bilbo read slowly, glancing up as if looking for confirmation.

"Aye," replied Gloin with a slight groan, capturing the other's attention, "Oin has read the portents and the portents say it is time."

She saw several dwarves shake their heads, whether in disbelief or wonder she could not say.

Oin interjected as Gandalf held his index finger over the bowl of his pipe, a small flame flickering to life as he sucked in his cheeks. Bilbo wandered out again, but Culurien was barely paying attention to the nomadic hobbit, her eyes fixed on the grey bearded dwarf as he sat forward.

"Ravens have been seen flying back to the Mountain, as it was foretold," his fingers tightened their grip on his ear horn, "When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end."

Another set of murmurs made their way around the table.

"W-what beast?"

It was another quietly asked question from Bilbo, this time from the hallway as all eyes turned to regard him. Bofur, she thought she had heard him named, lifted his pipe from his lips, grasping the bowl in a gloved hand. The flaps of his hat quivered as he tilted his head.

"That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age."

He lifted the pipe once again, taking a deep pull and releasing a plume of fragrant smoke into the air. Culurien watched Bilbo pale with cool eyes, resisting the urge to smirk. The naming of a single drake caused such fear even in such far flung reaches as the Shire? It was perhaps to be expected; dragons were known even to the wee folk as beasts of legend, but theirs was a legend to be feared even in these peaceful fields. What would they do if one actually set claw to earth in one of their tiny gardens? The potential scenario nearly made her smile.

Bofur pressed on, apparently noticing that he now had a captive audience.

"Air-borne fire breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks…extremely fond of precious metals—"

"Yes, I know what a dragon is," Bilbo interrupted, his hands wringing themselves nervously.

Suddenly the young dwarf nearest her leapt to his feet.

"I'm not afraid," he boasted, the portion she could see of his face screwing into what was obviously the bravest expression he could muster. His shifting feet betrayed him, however, at least to her. "I'm up for it! I'll give him a taste of dwarfish iron right up his jacksy!"

He smiled proudly towards the others, but whirled when a chilled tone cut through the mixed mutterings of support and derision.

"Will you now?"

The words fell softly from her lips, but they cut across the room like a serrated blade, silencing every tongue. Fourteen pairs of eyes were suddenly on her and for the first time since she arrived, she leaned forward, bracing her forearms on her knees as the burnished braids of her hair tumbled across her cloaked shoulders.

"Will you indeed, master dwarf?" The boy opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "And how will you do that? With sword and shield? A bow? Axe? The fabled catapults that toppled the towers of Gondolin? Just what weapon in your vast armory will pierce the scales of a dragon that has had decades to harden his hide? "

It was a valid question and she held her cold gaze steady at the hardened looks of the dwarves around her.

"The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us," Balin agreed, his eyes no less stony, but she was pleasantly surprised that he was willing to concede her point. He continued. "But we number just thirteen," his stare circled the room, "And not thirteen of the best…nor brightest."

Protests immediately erupted, but the blonde dwarf, Fili, she thought, slapped his palm against the wooden surface, calling attention to his corner of the table.

"We may be few in number, but we're fighters! All of us, to the last dwarf!"

He slammed his fist into the table again, the darker one at his side thrusting his body forward in excitement.

"And you forget we have a wizard in our company, Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!"

Culurien very nearly allowed the bark of laughter to escape her throat as the Grey Wizard blustered, coughing surreptitiously around the bit of his pipe. Once again, she leaned back, content to enjoy his discomfort as the dwarves demanded a number of the copious fire-breathing foes he had felled. Before he could respond, however, the table exploded in motion, many surging to their feet in distemper. She watched it all with an amused twist of her lips, metallic orbs glinting in the dying firelight.

Thorin was on his feet before anyone committed any truly regrettable acts, if any dwarf lived that was capable of such a thing.

"Enough!" he cast frozen irises around those gathered, "If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes begin to look East, to the Mountain, assessing…wondering…weighing the risk. Perhaps the great wealth of our people now lies unprotected."

All gazes were fixed upon him now.

"Do we sit back, while others claim what is right fully ours? Our do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?!"

With the last word, his voice rose to a shout, sending the dwarves around him into a roar of agreement, pipes and mugs lifting in salute.

"By striding through the front door, I suppose?"

If Culurien had been a lesser being, she would have flinched beneath that icy stare. As it was, it only served to fuel her desire to speak. No, she was not responsible if these louts decided to risk their necks for a kingdom long lost to them, but she would not risk her own comfort to remain silent. Better to sleep lightly on the truth bared than deeply beneath the one left covered.

They may not deserve the warning, but she would ensure they understood the foe they had dared to face.

Culurien rose to her feet, her hands coming to rest on her hips as she fixed one booted foot against the stool she had vacated. She could hear the harsh breath Thorin exhaled as he braced his fists on the table.

"Speak your peace, dragon slayer," he rumbled in a tone that hinted at a dangerously thin kind of tolerance.

Inclining her head, she indicated her understanding and continued.

"What plan have you save reaching the mountain? Smaug will not idly sleep while thieving rats creep towards his hoard. A dragon has keener senses than any race or any being on the face of Middle Earth. So tell me how you propose to enter the lair of the beast? A drake will position itself, even in sleep, defensively. Every entrance, every crevice, will be not only within eyesight, but also upwind…and clear."

Her features became set in a grim expression, harshened by the firelight that played across the angles of her face.

"You will believe that you have been blessed with luck, a straight path towards riches beyond the dreams of your ken, only to crumble to ash before Death knows of your passing. Even if you avoid the flame, a dragon has more than one weapon with which to defend itself, as one of your company so aptly observed."

Her eyes had narrowed to silvery slits, her jaw tightening as silence stretched out. Thorin remained motionless, his gaze having found a portion of the table worthy of study. Only the taut stretch of the muscles of his arms indicated that he had heard her words at all.

It was the white-haired one, Balin, who broke the quiet.

"You also forget, the gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain."

Gandalf shifted forward in his chair, his hands resting on his knees.

"That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true."

His cupped palm lifted, a flash of dull iron playing across his fingers until the metal materialized at his fingertips.

It was a key.

Thorin's eyes fixed on it as he once more lowered himself down into his chair.

"How came you by this?"

The question seemed to leave him before he could will it to stop behind his teeth.

"It was given to me by your father…by Thrain," the wizard answered with a small, sad smile. "For safekeeping. T'is yours now."

He extended his hand, and the key, towards the dark haired dwarf, who reached out as if waiting for it to vanish in a puff of smoke. Gently, he ran his thumb across a surface that Culurien could tell was well worn, even from her distant vantage point.

Fili spoke the words that were on all minds in that tiny dining room.

"If there is a key…then there must be a door."

Gandalf nodded.

"These runes," he pointed with the bit of his pipe towards the map, "speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls."

"There's another way in," Kili, the one at Fili's elbow, observed with a grin and a nudge in his brother's side.

"Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed," Gandalf replied with a heavy sigh before he pointed down at the map once again. "The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But, there are others in Middle Earth who can."

Thorin glanced up from where he had been staring at the chart as the wizard looked towards him earnestly.

"The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage. But, if we are clever and careful, I believe it can be done."

His eyes fell on Bilbo and Culurien followed his gaze, sympathy rising in her chest for the hobbit who clearly did not suspect the subject of the wizard's meaning.

"That's why we need a burglar," the young one, Ori, exclaimed with a smile, seemingly pleased with his shrewdness.

"Hm, and a good one, too," Bilbo observed, still quite oblivious to his role in the discussion, "An expert, I'd imagine."

"And are you?" Gloin inquired, making the hobbit's head jerk up, his eyes searching behind him before turning back to the company gathered around his dining table.

"Am I what?"

"He said he's an expert," Oin stated with a jovial chuckle.

Master Baggins sputtered in protest, his hands coming up, palms outward in a defensive posture.

"Me? No. No, no, no, no, no! I am not a burglar! I've never stolen a thing in my life!"

Gandalf leaned forward, something flashing behind his eyes that if Culurien hadn't known better, she would have called exasperation.

"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mister Baggins. He's hardly burglar material," Balin observed in a dry tone.

Dwalin agreed.

"Aye, the wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."

Another uproar started, many voices overlapping each other as dissent struggled to be expressed by all dwarves present. Wincing at the rising level of noise, Culurien cast her eyes towards the fire for a moment, willing the cacophony to cease and failing horribly. When she turned back, the din only increased in pitch and volume, many on their feet once again and shouting at one another.

Then a massive, booming voice overtook them all, shadows deepening around Gandalf as he struggled to his feet in his tight corner.

"Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar, he is!"

Culurien was as taken aback as the others, involuntarily recoiling from the rare display of temper from the wizard.

"Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet," he added in a much calmer tone, the shades that had risen around him fading as if struck by sunlight. "And they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage."

His clear blue eyes fastened on Culurien, who nodded, albeit reluctantly, her gaze sliding towards the hobbit in question, whose jaw had dropped. Gandalf then turned his attention to Thorin, who could not hold his gaze.

"You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company and I have chosen Mister Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest. And he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know…including himself."

The last words he aimed directly at Bilbo with a piercing look. Thorin was quiet for a long moment, and then finally nodded, the hobbits objections utterly ignored.

"Very well. We'll do it your way," he turned towards Balin, "Give him the contract."

Balin rose, digging in one of the many pouches that hung from his wide belt before pulling out a folded piece of parchment and handing it to Bilbo.

"We're off," grunted Bofur with a grin, lifting his pipe to his lips once again.

"It's just the usual summary of out of pocket expenses, time required, enumeration, funeral requirements, so forth," Balin explained as Bilbo began glancing over the document.

"Funeral arrangements?" Master Baggins mumbled in a voice that sounded numb to Culurien's ears.

He turned towards the hallway, muttering to himself as Gandalf looked after him for a moment. But then he was glancing back towards the woman still standing by the hearth. Culurien could not say that she liked the gleam in his gaze. He cleared his throat pointedly.

"I also think our dragon expert would be a useful addition."

Thorin's brows rose as his eyes flitted between the wizard and the fire-haired smith.

"You mean—"

"A fifteenth member, yes."

This time there were no protests, merely a stunned silence as the company turned their eyes towards Culurien, whose jaw was set so tight that she felt it crack. Her throat closed in anger, metallic orbs nearly bursting with a repressed fury.

"That was not our agreement, Pilgrim," she murmured, a threat lacing her words as her hands balled into fists where they hung over each side of the raised knee propped on the stool.

"And we do not have another contract," Balin interjected quietly.

"She'll not require one, I imagine," Gandalf assured the group. "Might I instead suggest that the smith accompany our little band…with the stipulation that she is free to walk away as she chooses, with no losses, financial or otherwise, to either party. Provided, of course, that is agreeable to all present?"

Thorin's eyes were harsh as they traveled over her slender frame, as if he would weigh her worth by glance alone. The sneering curve of his upper lip informed her that she had been found wanting.

"Whether she claims a stake in the treasure or not, one living burden interjecting themselves into our company is more than enough," he rumbled, his voice as rough as cavern walls.

If not for the anger bubbling at the base of her throat, she would have replied in kind, the words burning at the tip of her tongue. Gandalf, however, prevented her from speaking as his shaggy brows rose.

"I don't believe she has interjected herself into anything, save two valid points in our discussion."

His tone was light and held a note of innocence that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Power was crackling in the room, subtle yet threatening in its way. The sensation of it crawling over her skin made her belly churn unpleasantly and her eyes narrowed.

It seemed that the wizard was above neither bullying or manipulation to achieve his ends, for whatever greater good he alone saw.

Thorin perhaps knew this as well, his glance becoming shrewd and quite clearly unimpressed.

"And what do you gain from either of their presences in our quest? If you possess further information that could aid us, share it," he replied, sweeping his arm out over the table.

The crownless king also appeared to have at least some cunning in his tongue. She could admit that, if they were successful, it would serve him far better than a sword in his dealings with the denizens East of the Misty Mountains.

The room remained silent for several heartbeats. No one save Gandalf and the dwarf prince spoke. Culurien cast her eyes briefly over the others gathered, noting differing degrees of wariness and mistrust. Some of those expressions were aimed at her through sidelong glances, others challenging her with direct stares. Finally Gandalf parted his lips.

"The usefulness of a burglar you can quite clearly see for yourself, master dwarf. A person who holds insights into the thoughts and behaviors of a dragon will prove equally valuable. Despite our planning prior to this gathering and to our current discussion, we will need to formualte further plans once we reach the moutain. Her advice could shift the balance between the completion of our quest and our deaths. Surely that fact alone merits at least consideration of my proposal?"

All eyes proceeded to follow his gaze as looked towards her. Thorin, for his part, leaned forward on his forearm, his fist clenched and his head tilted.

"What say you, dragon slayer?"

Culurien did not reply right away, jerking her head away from the table to stare back into the writhing flames. It would have been unfair to not give the proposal serious consideration. While Gandalf was violating her terms, it was an opportunity that she could not entirely turn aside. She had no need of a portion of their supposed treasure and, in truth, cared little for the fate of those gathered. It was not her concern, nor, she mused, did it have to be if she consented to accompany them.

Still, their chances nearly doubled with her presence amongst them on this journey. Her knowledge, what little she had to offer, would give them as much an edge as that provided by Master Baggins. But, she thought with a lurching pang in her chest, her beloved Green Wood would be farther along her path than she would have liked. Could she put off a return for another month, more likely for longer? Logically, her answer was affirmative, but could her heart stand being separated from that which she held closest?

She held no oath of loyalty, no binding of greed or desire of repute. Her life in relatively quiet solitude had suited her for more years than she had hairs on her head. What reason could she have to accept?

There was only one.

Culurien straightened, setting her foot down against the flame-warmed stone of the hearth. She faced the company, crossing her arms loosely as the bands in her braids clinked softly.

"I will agree to Gandalf's terms, provided they are, indeed, acceptable to all present."

There was a general murmur of acquiescence and nods all around, Thorin the last to incline his head in agreement, clearly dubious, but seemed willing to trust the wizard's judgment and her word. But she was not done. Her hard gaze flickered towards Gandalf.

"But I have a term of my own." She paused a moment before adding, "I will only travel as far as the Eastern edge of the Wood Elves Kingdom. I will go no further."

Her words were flat in the following silence as all present turned towards the two figures at the head of the hobbit's table. The wizard pursed his lips before glancing towards Thorin, whose brows rose skeptically.

"Then what purpose would you serve?"

Culurien leaned her shoulder against the mantle of the fireplace, unmindful of its heat.

"I can serve as a guide through that woodland, and provide you with more than enough information to slay a single dragon." Her eyes narrowed as her lips thinned, sweeping her eyes once more over the dwarven company. "If you make it that far."

Her tone was a clear indication of her doubt and as grumbling filled the air, Thorin held up his hand. Exchanging a disgruntled glance with Gandalf, he nodded slowly.

"That is...acceptable."

Bilbo's voice suddenly rose in panic from the hallway.

"Incineration?!"

Apparently, he had finished his reading of the contract. Bofur leaned back to gaze at him with a serious expression, although Culurien caught the mischievous twinkle in his glance.

"Oh, aye, he'll melt the flesh from your bones in the blink of an eye."

If the poor hobbit lost any more color, Culurien was certain he'd have blended perfectly into the paint on the walls. He let out a tremulous breath.

"Are you alright, laddie?" Balin asked with a concerned expression.

Bilbo bent over, nodding since he seemed unable to speak for a moment. He started to force out breaths in a series of stuttering whistles, his hands braced on his knees.

"I-I feel a bit faint," he admitted as he straightened again with a wobble.

Like a wolf with the scent of blood in its nostrils, Bofur leaned against the doorframe, that look in his spring-colored eyes deepening to an impish gleam.

"Think furnace…with wings."

"A-air, I n-ne-need air."

The hobbit was swaying, his eyes rapidly blinking as even the tips of his ears paled. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, then gripped his throat.

But Bofur was merciless.

"A flash of light, searing pain, then poof!" He gestured with his pipe, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "You're nothing more than a pile of ash."

Honestly, if she hadn't just been conned into a deal that she'd have rather avoided, she may very well have found the whole thing just as amusing. As it was, she could only let out a sigh and shake her head as the poor hobbit finally just collapsed in a heap on the carpeted floor of the corridor.

Bloody dwarvish humor.