Book One: Little River | Thorin Oakenshield

Chapter Five

~ | The Quest | ~

Thorin followed behind Narelle, his footsteps echoing softly as he entered the dining room. The lively chatter of the dwarves ceased immediately, a respectful silence filling the room as their leader took his seat. Gandalf, with a quiet nod, placed a warm bowl of soup and a cup of ale in front of Thorin.

Balin leaned forward and broke the silence. "What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?"

Thorin Oakenshield nodded solemnly. "Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms."

Dwalin, always direct, pressed further. "And what did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?"

Thorin's expression darkened slightly as he responded, "They will not come. They say this quest is ours, and ours alone."

Bilbo, his curiosity piqued, asked, "You're doing a quest?"

Gandalf turned to Bilbo with a reassuring smile. "Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light." From the depths of his old, tattered cloak, the wizard produced an ancient map, worn at the edges and clearly well-used. He carefully unfolded it, spreading it out across the table for all to see.

The dwarves leaned in, their eyes fixed on the map with a mix of reverence and anticipation. Bilbo, eager to get a better look, hurried to grab a few more candles. He lit them quickly, placing them around the table to illuminate the faded ink and intricate markings on the map.Gandalf began to speak, his voice carrying a sense of gravity and purpose. "Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak."

Bilbo's eyes widened with recognition as he softly murmured, "The Lonely Mountain."

Glóin nodded firmly, his expression resolute. "Aye, Óin has read the portents, and the portents say: it is time."

Óin, standing nearby, added with a grave tone, "Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, just as it was foretold. When the birds of old return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end."

Bilbo hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. "Uh... what beast?"

Bofur leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks—extremely fond of precious metals."

Bilbo, regaining his composure, quickly interjected, "Yes, I know what a dragon is."

Narelle playfully nudged Bofur on the arm, her touch firm enough to make him wince slightly and shoot a mock glare her way. "Quit trying to rattle him, Bofur. He's already overwhelmed as it is," she chided with a teasing smile.

Ori stood up from his chair, puffing out his chest as he declared loudly, "I'm not afraid! I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksy!"

"Good lad, Ori!" Glóin cheered, raising his mug in celebration of the youngest dwarf's bravery.

The rest of the company joined in, their cheers echoing around the room.

Dori, however, pulled Ori back down into his seat. "Sit down!" he barked, his tone half scolding, half amused.

The room fell silent as Balin's voice cut through the noise, his tone somber. "The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us, but we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor the brightest."

A wave of protest rippled through the company as the dwarves began speaking over each other, clearly offended by Balin's remark.

Ori piped up indignantly, "Hey! Who are you calling dim?"