General Disclaimer of Everything: I own nothing.
Conkers Or: Why you should never underestimate children's games.
"Ax or Sword?" Thorin had once asked him. "What's Your weapon of choice?"
"Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know."
The dwarves had thought it nothing more than a glib reply at the time. Or maybe that Bilbo hadn't really understood the question. In either case, they scoffed and mocked him for it. But they should have been paying better attention because Bilbo had been serious. Deadly serious; Bilbo was always serious when it came to conkers as most Hobbits were.
Now the thirteen dwarves and one wizard of Thorin's company watch in disbelief as the long string wraps round and round and round Azog's throat. His fellows are already knocked out and litter the ground like fallen leaves. The pale orc is turning purple now, and even as he reaches up to claw at the string at his throat, the nut on the end of it flies up and hits him in the head with a 'Conk'. His eyes roll up into the back of his head and he passes out. Azog falls off of the edge of the cliff.
"Bugger," Bilbo says, making the thirteen dwarves and one wizard jump. He sends a look of longing regret after the fallen orc. "That was my good 48-er. A few more solid hits like that and I could have beaten cousin Otho's record of 52. You know, he's been completely insufferable ever since he got a 52-er. Keeps making snide remarks and trying to move into my smial every time I spend longer than a weekend away."