Pov narrator

⚔︎

In the depths of the foreboding dungeon, where despair had gradually consumed the spirits of the imprisoned dwarves, the flicker of hope was dwindling. Their thoughts had been overtaken by the bleak reality of their prolonged confinement, and the light of optimism had all but faded away. Yet, in this nadir of their collective desperation, Bofur's voice pierced the oppressive silence, echoing off the cold, damp stones with surprising volume. His words bore a melancholic conviction, as if spoken by one who had accepted the inevitable. "I'd stake my last coin on it," he proclaimed solemnly, "the sun is surely ascending beyond those high walls. It must be approaching the break of dawn."

His somber assertion was met with the tentative yet equally despondent reply of Ori, the youngest of their band. "Does this mean we're destined never to set eyes upon the Lonely Mountain again?" Ori's voice trembled with the weight of his question, a poignant blend of doubt and resignation.

Yet, as if in defiance of their pervasive gloom, a sudden glimmer of hope emerged. With dramatic flair, Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit whose resourcefulness had become their beacon in the dark, made his presence known. He appeared before them, a grin etched upon his face, holding aloft the ring of keys they had so desperately sought. "Fear not, my dear dwarven friends!" he exclaimed with a twinkle in his eye. "You shall not remain entombed in this dreadful place!"

The dwarves' spirits soared at the sight of their impish savior, their cheers resonating through the ancient corridors. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to them, a silent observer lurked in the shadows, watching their jubilant escape unfold.

Elsewhere, she who had facilitated their escape waited with bated breath for their departure. Her intentions, a tapestry of conflicted loyalties and personal ambitions, had been set in motion. The fate of the dwarves was no longer her concern, as she had a more pressing journey to undertake. With the dwarves' shackles unlocked and their path to freedom clear, she knew she could now focus on navigating the labyrinthine tunnels that would lead her to the surface.

Once outside the confines of the palace, the guard at the gate nodded in recognition of your approach, his gaze lingering for a moment before allowing you to pass. The crisp air of the early morning greeted you, carrying with it the faint scent of the nearby river. Your eyes scanned the horizon, eager for any sign of the dwarven escapees.

It wasn't long before the distant clamor reached your ears, a cacophony of shouts and the unmistakable sound of battle. The elven guards had discovered their escape, and the air was charged with their pursuit. A smirk danced across your face as you transformed, shedding your former guise for the sleek, shadowy form of a black wolf with wings of midnight.

Taking to the skies, you surveyed the tumultuous scene below. The elves were a flurry of activity, their eyes peeled for any trace of the dwarves. You reveled in their obliviousness to your presence, using the distraction to your advantage. Your wings carried you swiftly over the treetops, following the serpentine rivers that twisted and turned like veins through the landscape.

As you circled, you noticed the unmistakable sound of orcs, their malicious snarls and guttural cries growing louder with each pass. The elves remained blissfully unaware of the new threat amassing, their attention consumed by the escaped prisoners.

The chaos grew as a sea of green-skinned, brutish figures spilled forth from the surrounding foliage, led by the formidable Bolg. His mere presence sent shivers down your spine, a stark reminder of the perils that awaited the dwarves.

Without warning, an arrow sliced through the air, narrowly missing you and embedding itself in the nearest elven guard. Your eyes narrowed, and your teeth bared in a silent snarl of fury. The orcs had arrived, and they meant to do harm.

The company of Thorin Oakenshield was now in grave peril, surrounded by the relentless horde. You dove into the fray, your powerful wings beating the air as you descended upon them. Your fangs tore into the flesh of your enemies, and your claws rent through armor as if it were mere cloth. The orcs fell before you, their lifeblood staining the once pristine earth.

Yet, amidst the chaos, you remained ever vigilant. Your eyes searched the melee for any sign of your true quarry, the one whose fate you had become entwined with. It was then that you spotted Bolg, the leader of the orcs, orchestrating the carnage from the safety of the shadows.

With a fierce battle cry that pierced the din, you hurtled towards him, intent on ending this nightmare. But fate had other plans, and before you could reach him, a net of ropes entangled you. Despite your valiant efforts to resist, you were swiftly overpowered by the sheer number of orcs.

Bolstered by the arrival of Legolas, whose eyes grew wide with shock and disbelief at the sight of you, you bellowed an order to the elves. "Take me to your king!" you demanded, the urgency in your voice as clear as the ringing of a silver bell.

Though you struggled with all your might against your captors, the form of the wolf offered little in the way of escape. Resigned to your temporary fate, you allowed yourself to be led away, your thoughts racing with determination to assist the dwarves once more.

Once before the regal elven monarch, you met his gaze with an intensity that belied your animalistic guise. Yet, the king remained unfazed, his eyes reflecting a wisdom and understanding that went beyond the superficial.

Though captured, your spirit remained unbroken. The bond you had formed with the company of dwarves fueled your resolve. Your intentions were clear; you would not rest until you had played your part in their quest for redemption and the reclaiming of their lost homeland.

As Thranduil majestically perched on his intricately carved wooden throne, adorned with delicate elven engravings that gleamed under the soft light of the moonlit cavern, his eyes fell upon the creature before him. It was bound with strong, yet supple, ropes that were interwoven with threads of mithril to ensure that even the most cunning of adversaries could not escape. Despite the constraints, the creature's mouth remained open, allowing it to speak with a surprising level of audacity.

"Who are you?" Thranduil inquired with a tone that suggested he was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. The creature's eyes, which gleamed with a fiery defiance, met the king's gaze without a hint of subservience.

"I thought I had already made my identity clear to you, your Royal Highness," the creature spat out the words as if they were acid on its tongue. The lack of respect was palpable in the tense silence that followed.

Thranduil, known for his patience and wisdom, felt his temper begin to fray. He had caught this creature multiple times, yet it remained as elusive as the shadows it seemed to command. "What gives you the audacity to speak to me in such a way?" he thundered, his voice echoing through the vast chamber, causing the very stones to vibrate with his indignation.

The creature, seemingly unfazed by the king's wrath, replied with a smug smirk, "I am a shifter, elf king. One whose very essence is that of change and unpredictability. And as you have so frequently found, even your finest warriors are no match for me."

As the creature spoke, Thranduil's curiosity grew. The legend of shifters was one that had been passed down through the ages, whispers of beings that could alter their form at will. Yet, never before had he encountered one in his long reign.

Leaning forward, his gaze intense and unyielding, the elf king demanded, "What is your purpose here? What do you seek in my kingdom?"

The shifter's eyes flashed with an unsettling mix of amusement and challenge. "My purpose, Thranduil, is my own," it said, the use of the king's name a deliberate affront to his authority. "But rest assured, your anger is misplaced. For every time you imprison me, for every time you think you've bested me, you only bring yourself closer to a fate you would do well to fear."

The creature's words hung in the air, charged with a sinister undertone that sent a shiver down the spines of the elven guards who held it captive. They tightened their grips, but the shifter paid them no heed.

Taking a deep breath, Thranduil struggled to maintain his composure. "If you wish to speak in riddles, then perhaps it is time for you to return to the solitude of your cell," he said, his voice cold as the stone walls that surrounded them.

With a sudden, surprising burst of strength, the creature broke free from the guards' grasp and stood before the king. The room fell silent, the very air seeming to hold its breath. "Do as you will," the shifter spoke calmly, its voice now carrying a hint of resignation. "Lock me away or take my life. But heed my warning: cross a shifter, and you invite your own downfall."

The shifter's eyes, once filled with anger, now bore into the king's soul with a fierce determination that seemed almost otherworldly. The guards stepped back, their fear palpable as the creature continued, "Only she knows what I truly am."

With a shrug that seemed to dismiss the entire encounter, the shifter turned and began to walk away, leaving the stunned king and his guards in a whirlwind of confusion and apprehension.

Thranduil watched as the creature disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, its form fading into the darkness like mist before dawn. The elf king was left alone with his thoughts, his mind racing with questions that had no answers. Who was this being that dared to challenge him so? What was its true nature? And who was this mysterious "she" that the shifter had mentioned?

Shaking off his bewilderment, Thranduil called out to his guards, his voice a mix of command and concern. "Find this shifter and bring it back to me. I wish to speak with it further."

But the creature had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving no trace of its presence behind. The king was left with a feeling of unease that settled in the pit of his stomach like a heavy stone. He knew that he had not seen the last of the shifter, and that when they did cross paths again, the encounter would be far from pleasant.

For now, however, the creature was free to roam the lands, driven by a purpose that only it understood. As it took to the air, the wind rushing through its hair, it felt a strange sense of kinship with the dwarves it had been following. They, too, were outsiders in a world that did not fully understand them.

The scent of the dwarves grew stronger as the shifter approached Lake-town. It had picked up their trail once more and found them in the company of a man. This human, the shifter knew, was somehow linked to the fate that awaited it all.

"Perform that act of aggression once more, and I assure you, your existence will be swiftly terminated," the intimidating figure of a man warns, his voice a mix of anger and authority. Yet, without a moment's hesitation, you find yourself landing directly in front of him, your body acting as an unyielding shield to protect the dwarves huddled behind you. The suddenness of your appearance elicits gasps and cries of astonishment from the small, bearded figures, their eyes wide with fear as they take in the sight of you—a creature of the skies now standing firmly on the ground, ready to confront their assailant.

"I would be inclined to offer the same sentiment to you," you reply in a menacing whisper, your teeth bared in a silent snarl. Your powerful wings, once unfurled in a majestic display, now lay flat against your body, poised for combat. The man before you, a bargeman by trade if his attire is any indication, holds his weapon at bay, his gaze fixed upon your transformed figure. You remain steadfast, the tension in the air palpable as you stand in a battle-ready stance, daring him to make the next move.

Balin, ever the observant one, notices the barge drifting lazily on the river's current just behind the man. His eyes widen as a thought occurs to him, and he cautiously addresses the tension with a question that seems almost out of place amidst the standoff. "Pardon the intrusion, but might I inquire if, by any chance, that barge over there is available for hire?" His voice is tentative, hoping to defuse the situation with the practicality of their current needs.

The man's grip on his bow loosens slightly, his gaze shifting from you to the barge and back again. He seems to weigh the situation before responding, "Indeed, I am from Laketown, and that is my vessel." You let out a soft snort, the sound carrying a hint of amusement. Of course, the scent of fish that clings to his robes had already given him away.

Settling onto the ground, you begin to groom yourself in the manner of a feline, your movements deliberate and calming. Despite the fear that still lingers in the air, your actions seem to convey a sense of peace. Bilbo, the hobbit whose life you have recently saved, approaches with a mix of wonder and apprehension. His eyes lock with yours, searching for a sign of the friend he knows lies beneath the fur and fangs.

"Midnight?" he asks, his voice a mere whisper of disbelief. You offer a wolfish smile, a nod confirming your identity. "How is it that you possess the ability to shift your form?" he inquires, his curiosity piqued. You reply with a simple, "yes," acknowledging his question, and allow him to tentatively stroke your fur.

Thorin, the stoic leader of the group, watches the interaction with a look of trepidation, his eyes finally meeting yours. "Is it truly you?" he asks, stepping closer. Your tail wags with excitement, the fluffy appendage wrapping around Bilbo's leg, ensuring that you are not separated from your newfound companion. "I offered my assistance, didn't I?" you respond, reminding him of your valorous deeds.

Dwalin, ever the pragmatic one, grows impatient with the exchange. "What's the rush?" he asks, cutting through the air of amazement. "Who are you, and what business do you have bringing a creature such as this into our lands?" the bargeman questions, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

You answer with a yawn, stretching your muscles as you rise to your full height, which still leaves you slightly shorter than the dwarves. "I am merely a traveling companion to these esteemed individuals," you explain, your gaze unwavering as it meets the man's. "We are merchants from the Blue Mountains, en route to visit our kin in the Iron Hills," Balin adds, attempting to ease the tension with a diplomatic response.

The bargeman seems skeptical, raising a single eyebrow. "Merchants, you say?" he repeats, his eyes sweeping over the damaged barrels that serve as evidence of your recent ordeal. "We are in need of supplies, weapons, and sustenance," Thorin says firmly, his gaze now focused on the man. "Do you happen to have the means to assist us?"

The man takes a moment to consider, his eyes lingering on you before he speaks. "I am aware of the origins of those barrels," he states, hinting at his knowledge of your journey thus far. "If you wish to hire my barge, I will require compensation."

With a sigh, you curl up beside Bilbo, the warmth of his presence offering comfort amidst the tension. As the voices of the dwarves and the bargeman blend together, discussing the terms of their agreement, your thoughts drift to the question of the man's name. You decide to inquire about it later, once the immediate danger has passed.

For now, you allow yourself to succumb to the gentle embrace of sleep, the distant murmurs of the group acting as a lullaby as you rest, vigilant even in slumber, ready to protect your friends should the need arise. The events of the day swirl in your mind—the thrill of the battle, the warmth of camaraderie, and the mystery of your new identity. The night is young, and your adventure is only beginning, but for now, you are content to let the world continue without you, if only for a brief moment.

----------------------------

Short, I know, but it's better than nothing. 

-Saph