Sixteen years earlier...

"Ten silver pieces each."

A meaty fist pounded the wooden counter of the trader's shop. The dwarf, beads tinkling against the other as his great beard shook from anger, scowled and shook his head. The Man on the other side of the counter had his arms crossed, bored and unfazed by the dwarf's temper. The bottles of ink rolled about from the force of the dwarf's fist.

"Now, see here!" The dwarf argued. "We acquired these bottles of ink ten leagues from the south east! The finest ink from a clan of Men, and rich enough to not get washed away by water! They're at least thirty pieces each!"

"Just plain, ol' bottles of ink if you ask me," the vendor rotated a bottle in his hand.

"Do you doubt my word?" The dwarf asked furiously. "This is of the highest quality-"

Before the dwarf could argue any further and curse or insult the vendor, a delicate hand touched his shoulder and he turned around, his face softening by the smallest of fractions. "I thought you were staying with the ponies, Essie," the dwarf said.

"Gimdar is watching them," the dwarrowdam informed him. She had a slight frown as her gaze flicked between the dwarf and the vendor. "What is happening here?"

"Nothing," the dwarf shot a glare at the vendor, plucking the bottle of ink out of his hand and stuffing the rest into the satchel the dwarf had brought. "We'll just take our business elsewhere."

The dwarrowdam shook her head, taking the satchel from his hands and standing tall before the vendor. The counter had just reached her throat, and she strained to pull the satchel back onto the top. She retrieved a bottle and pulled the cork out of its neck.

"Sir," she asked politely with a soft smile on her face. "If I may request a scrap of parchment and a quill."

The vendor raised an unkempt brow, his large still crossed against his large chest. "What for?"

"A small demonstration," the young woman smiled.

The vendor looked down at the dwarrowdam with mild curiosity mingled with the smallest hint of amusement. He bent down to the shelves set beneath the counter, coming back up with a piece of parchment and an old, well-worn quill. She quickly thanked him, dipping the quill into the ink and began to quickly scrawl a word onto the parchment. It was beautiful hand writing, something that looked more like a delicate calligraphy in old textbooks.

The dwarrowdam set the quill down before reaching down to the sheepskin purse hanging over her shoulders. A waterskin was pulled out and she pulled its cork out, pouring water over the parchment. The vendor grumbled, moving to retreive a rag to wipe the wooden counter. He watched as the girl held the parchment between her thumb and forefinger, turning it to show the front and back of it; miraculously, the ink was untouched.

"The ink does not bleed," the dwarrowdam said as she set the parchment back down. "It is water-resistant, very good for bookkeeping. It will not fade and will be as vibrant as the day it was used. I should also add that it dries rather quickly."

The vendor narrowed his eyes, rubbing the hairs on his chin with his palm as his eyes shifted between the girl, the parchment, and the ink.

"It truly is that of the highest quality," the dwarrowdam said.

After a moment, he let out a great sigh, shaking his head. "I'll give you twenty silver pieces each."

"Thirty," she bargained.

"Twenty-five."

The dwarrowdam thought for a moment, before smiling and nodding. "A fair deal."

Whilst the vendor pulled out his collection box to count out the coins for the eighty bottles, the old dwarf sighed and dragged a rough hand down his face.

"I should just keep you at my side for such dealings," he muttered.

The dwarrowdam laughed, shaking her head and kissing the dwarf on the cheek. "There, there, Uncle Borin. One must be calm, is all. Demonstrations are needed as well if we are to feed ourselves."

The two dwarves were handed a pouch heavy with silver coins as the vendor took the satchel of ink. The market in Bree was still heavy with activity, through it was mid-afternoon. The town of Men, hobbits, and a dwarf or two stopped and observed the stalls, purchasing a bag of apples or having their blades sharpened at the town's blacksmith. Yes, it was a very busy day in the market of Bree.

The dwarrowdam and her uncle crossed over the border of the market and outside the town's walls where their caravan waited. Five gray ponies with manes of fresh cream, waited with two dwarves and two large carts. One cart held all the belongings, food stuff, and necessities of the caravan; the other held all goods for trading or sales.

The dwarrowdam and her uncle greeted their caravan, climbing onto a cart and taking the reins of the two ponies. Her uncle snapped the reins, and off the caravan went in the directions of the Greenfields.

The dusk was one of her favorite times of the day, when the Sun met the Moon and the air turned crisp and wonderful. The young dwarrowdam looked forward to watching the stars every night as she, her uncle and their caravan would make camp. For decades, this is what kept her at peace, through the stress of trading, of wandering the expanse between Ered Luin and the Misty Mountains.

"We'll camp here tonight," called her uncle as he stopped the wagon. The caravan came to a halt on the grassy land where a ravine was. The sound of a river rushing below welcomed them.

His niece hopped off, dark hair swinging down her back as she pulled the wooden blocks from the wagon and kicked them in under the wheels to keep it from rolling away. The other dwarves hopped off their ponies and began to pull out pots and pans and provisions for that night's supper. The young girl helped start a fire with one of her uncle's closest friends, whom she considered one of her uncles as well.

"Essie!" One of the dwarves called. "Help me with this soup, will you?"

She stopped tending to the fire and helped cut the potatoes that they had just traded a few rolls of fabric for when they had come from the Greenfields in the Shire. Gimdar, a heavy and cheery old dwarf, poured some water from one of the barrels into a small cauldron and threw in the bones of last night's veal. She watched the dwarf with a twinkle in her eye as she chopped the vegetables they had; it seemed that tonight they would have to make do with a vegetable soup. Her uncle would have a fit with the lack of meat, but the old dwarf would cheer up soon. He always did.

"What a lovely sunset," she sighed, pouring the potatoes and carrots into the cauldron and gazing up at the orange and pink hues of the sky.

"Yes," Gimdar smiled. "Very lovely, indeed."

She left Gimdar to finish the soup and helped one of the other dwarves, Bondor, feed the ponies. She fetched a small bucket of oats from the wagon and walked to the three ponies who neighed quietly. There was a beautiful chocolate pony, whom she named Bernard, swishing his tail about and whinnied. She fed him from the bucket, stroking his head and talking quietly to him. The dwarrowdam had a way with the animals, calming them and letting them know that she was a friend instead of a foe. From behind, a small, quick shout from Gimdar caught her attention. She turned around to see him holding his hand, shaking off whatever pain he inflicted.

"Oh, what happened, Gimdar?" She asked, setting the bucket back in the wagon and walking over to the fire.

"Don't worry, Essie," he sighed with a slight frown. "Just a burn, 'm afraid."

She shook her head and tutted, taking his hand to examine it; a small but harsh burn reddened his hand. She set two fingers over it gently and concentrated for a moment, a faint golden glow emitting from her fingertips. After a moment, she pulled away and the skin of Gimdar's hand looked as if nothing had happened.

The old dwarf smile and looked at his hand. "Thank you, lass. Now, if you could fetch the bowls for me; supper is almost ready."

She nodded and ran to the other wagon that Bondor rode on to do what the cook asked. At the wagon was where her uncle was, sorting through a list of materials that he tried to organize. The old dwarf, with his once golden hair going white, scratched his head and sighed; he never was very good at making lists and schedules.

"A bit of trouble, Uncle Borin?" His niece enquired as she fetched the bowls.

He sighed again. "I never was able to get these things right. Your mother, bless her, used to do these for me."

The girl cleaned the bowls of any remnants of dirt or food from the night before, and she smiled thoughtfully. "Mother was able to do a lot of things."

"Aye," Borin nodded. "That's because elves are a lot sharper than dwarves. How my brother managed to sweep her off her feet, I will never know. He was as smart as a hog. Your mother was always making these darn lists, always so organized. If I had a single shilling for every time she hounded me about getting these lists together properly, I'd… well, I'd have all the gold in Erebor."

The two laughed to themselves, and Borin's chuckles subsided as he took a good look at his niece's face. He cradled her bare cheek with affection, a far away gaze in his eyes.

"My, my," he sighed. "A spitting image of your mother, you are. You've grown up to be quiet the young woman now..."

"A woman?" She laughed. "I thought I was a bairn to you."

"You are still a bairn," he gave her a toothy grin before waving her off. "Now run along, Essie."

She nodded and carried the bowls back to the fire. Gimdar called for the caravan members to come and eat their supper, him ladling out the dinner into the bowls and Borin's niece handing them out. She ran to the wagon and back to the group, who sat about the fire, and sliced a loaf of bread she had bought for three silver pennies. After giving everyone a piece of the loaf, she sat down herself and ate. She listened quietly to the dwarves' conversations, laughing when they recollected stories of their youth and nodding to when they talked about where they were off to next. Her uncle wanted to head south to Stock, but Bondor wanted to go to Tuckborough. To her, it didn't matter where they went, as long as they would stop right near dusk and make camp, having a lovely dinner together.

She left her spot from the ground and collected the bowls, shushing the protests of the dwarves while she cleaned. She liked to help clean up; she didn't mind it, only liked to keep herself busy. The dwarves sat back, stuffing their pipes with herbs or pipe weed and lit them. As she cleaned the bowls, she listened to their stories, glancing up every now and then to see her uncle or another dwarf blow a circle of smoke into the orange and indigo sky.

A howl suddenly came from another hill, and all conversation and activity ceased. The howl was a cryptic, bone-chilling sound that made the hairs on their necks stand. The girl rose to her feet from the ground, looking out into the direction of where the howl came, eyes darting around the land while the others did the same. And then she saw it: a large, dark creature, larger than a wolf, stood at the top of the hill. With it was a rider from the likes she had never seen.

"It cannot be," Bondor breathed from behind. He looked towards the girl in front of them, an awful amount of dread running through him.

"What is that?" She asked with a frown. There came another terrible howl and suddenly more of its kind came to the hill with more creatures atop their backs.

"Orcs," Gimbar muttered.

"And Wargs," her uncle growled, and then he looked to his niece with a darkness in his eyes. "Get to the wagon, Essie… now!"

She swallowed, gathering the bowls around her and rushing to the wagon. Another howl rang through the air, and when she turned her head, she saw the Orcs rushing to them, weapons raised high and menacingly. The dwarves rushed about, trying to tie the ponies to the wagons and taking whatever they could. It wasn't until she heard growling and howling so close that she knew that they were upon them.

It happened so quickly. She looked up to see an Orc, his twisted face and awful grin, bring up his mangled bow and shoot an arrow. With a terrified scream, she saw Bondor fall to the ground, arrow sticking right out of his chest.

"No!" She and the two other dwarves screamed.

She hid behind the wagon, watching the Orcs lay waste to her camp and strike Gimbar down with one of their axes. She cried and wailed, watching the light leave the friendly, old dwarf's eyes. Her heart pounded in her ears and the fear ate away at her. A hand suddenly came to her shoulder, and she jumped, but was soon relieved to see her uncle.

"Run, Essie," he told her. "Run!"

"No, not without you-" she cried.

"Hush child," he took a hold of her shoulders. "They want you, lass."

She gave him a look of confusion. "Wh-what?"

A fearsome growl came from the side, and her eyes widened to see a Warg and its rider come towards them. She stood paralyzed from fear until her uncle pulled her along with him into a run. The Wargs came from all sides and the two dwarves found no means of escape; Borin dragged his niece along with him towards the ravine.

"What do they want from me?" she asked between breaths.

"A sibyl," her uncle said, coming to a stop. He unsheathed his sword and held it tightly in front of him and his niece. Borin had never used the sword that always hung at his belt; it was the first time it had been unsheathed in sixty years. "First your mother, and now you. I do not know how they know of you, but their only reason is to get you. You are want they want, Essie. They found you."

"Uncle, I don't-"

"Just don't let them take you," he said, facing his only niece with a pained sorrow in his eyes. "Run, Essie, run away! Run far from here and do not look back!"

With those words and an angry cry, he charged towards one of the advancing Orcs and clashed his sword against theirs. The dwarrowdam watched with fear and cried, looking around for an escape of any sorts, but she and her uncle were surrounded by Wargs. She couldn't leave, though, and was rooted to her spot, wishing for her uncle to follow. He kept yelling for her to run or to jump down into the river below, but she couldn't, not without him.

A pained gasp came from her uncle, and the girl watched with wide eyes as one of the Orcs, the leader she had assumed, pulled his twisted sword out from her uncle. The dwarf fell to his knees gasping, and she wailed, tears flowing down her cheeks. He fell face forward to the ground, and there was no sign of life coming from him. Her hands came to her mouth, stifling her wails and moans of shock and grief.

One of the Orcs turned on her without her notice, raising its bow and releasing an arrow. It cut through the air and she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen; her breath stopped and she looked down to see the dark wood embedded into her, feeling blood run beneath her dress. Her steps faltered, and she fell backwards, down into the ravine. Darkness took her before she hit the rushing water, and the Orcs watched as she was swept away with the current.