𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 17: 𝕺𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖊𝖑𝖉

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Of course, the next morning was no better and the old Man scurried off the moment Bilbo even opened his mouth for a morning pleasantries. (If this time, it was Bilbo who sulked and pouted like a faunt, well, only the Toymaker would know.) And, of course, of all the times, it had begun to rain.

"So," Bilbo began as he padded alongside Toymakers' pony. His Tookish curiosity was banging at the doors in his mind, and for the first time in what seemed like years, Bilbo was willing to indulge it. "Why go and claim the mountain now?"

In all honesty, he wasn't sure why he was asking. His feet were sliding about in the muck that the ponies were happily turning about and it took far too much effort to remain on his feet. His rain slick had become long since soaked, and even the twins' boisterous mood had become dampened. It wasn't even noon and he was just about ready to concede to a ride on one of the devils. He would never get the mud out of his hems, he thought a bit mournfully, but at least there wasn't any on his waist coat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw Toymaker's hand tighten on the reins and a pit, not unlike the one that had gnawed happily on his bones when Lobelia had come calling, opened in the bottom of his stomach. He didn't think he would forget the way Toymaker had told him about the failing colony filled with starving dwarrow. He didn't think he could forget that horrid day at all, but Bilbo wanted to know more.

He needed to know more.

Toymaker's answer was short and tense. "Because we have run out of time."

Bilbo didn't dare to ask him again, not when the jovial man had a jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth and a frown deep enough to mar his skin.

The rain continued to pour down and Bilbo wondered. He walked through the muck and trod along beside faunts and warriors, and wondered what could possibly be scarier than a dragon, if thirteen dwarrow were willing to march to their deaths without a thought. And, in the next few hours, if he wanders between dwarrow and asks pointed questions he has no business knowing, well...

No one seemed to care one way or another.

It is Golin who told him, between waxing poetry about his wife and spinning tales about his son, that the coffers are empty. Oin shouted about a distinct lack of medicinal herbs and supplies, made all the worse due to a lack of stability in the mines and food on their tables.

Nori whispers of broken guilds and the lack of masteries. He tells of nobles becoming fat on the labours of the poor and the poor falling into their graves in the mines. He whispers of becoming a thief because 'what else could be done?'

Dori, in contrast, says a lot and absolutely nothing at all. Bilbo learns of a life bent over and tucking a weft through a warp day in and day out. He hears of hours spent stitching impossible seams and working with cloth that was never meant to be seen by a dwarf of his station. And in between the lines, tucked away in a subtext of bitterness Bilbo had long since become numb against, he hears of long days and even longer nights with hardly anything to show of it.

At dinner, Baker compliments the faunts over their hunt and once again, Bilbo hears more than what was being spoken. A paltry meal by hobbit standards is good enough to warrant a feast on the road. A satchel of herbs that Bilbo would carelessly hand to a tween experimenting in the kitchen, is worth ten times its weight in gold to this cook.

The rain presses down on Bilbo's shoulders and just as the mud sticks to his feet and gurgles at the edge of his bed roll, so too does the torrent of thoughts in his mind.

And then, Bilbo speaks to Ori, and it is through Ori that he hears the name Toymaker had spat out all those days ago in Bilbo's kitchen. Azanulbizar

The war for Moria.

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