Pov narrator

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Continuing from the last chap

You stirred to consciousness as the sound of something being placed on the wooden table beside you grew louder. As your eyes gradually focused, you observed that the room was bathed in the soft glow of early dawn. You discerned the form of Bard standing there, gently placing an assortment of objects before you. You sat up and looked around, noticing that Bilbo, your companion in this grand adventure, was already alert and watching the scene unfold. You stretched out your legs and took in the sight of the dwarves, who were still abed, oblivious to the activity around them.

With a sense of urgency, you approached the gathering where Bard was laying out an assortment of makeshift weapons. As you drew near, you could see the disdain etched on the faces of the dwarves as they stirred from their slumber to scrutinize the offerings.

"What are these?" Thorin inquired, his tone conveying skepticism as he held up a peculiarly shaped metal tool.

Bard, the man who had so recently come to your aid, replied calmly, "This, my lord, is a pike-hook. It was forged from the remnants of an ancient harpoon that once pierced the hearts of the great sea beasts that roamed these waters." He paused for a moment to let the significance of his words sink in before continuing, "And this," he said, pointing to the heavy, curved weapon in Kili's hand, "is a crow bill. Although it may seem an unorthodox choice, it has been crafted from a blacksmith's hammer and is more than capable of serving its purpose when wielded with valor."

As you surveyed the scene, a compulsion to interject took hold. The tension in the room was palpable, and the dwarves' displeasure with their temporary circumstances was evident. You stepped forward and announced, "We should accept what's been given to us and prepare to leave. Time is of the essence, and we can't linger here indefinitely."

Before you could elaborate, Bard's firm voice filled the room, halting any further protest. "I must insist that you remain here," he stated, his words carrying an unspoken gravity that caused the dwarves to exchange furtive glances. "There are eyes upon this place, and every dock and pier in the town is likely being observed." His expression grew grim. "You must wait until the cloak of nightfall conceals your escape."

The impact of his revelation was profound, and understanding dawned on the faces of Dwalin and Thorin. You sighed deeply and lowered yourself into a nearby chair, gesturing for Bilbo to join you. The hobbit looked at you with concern, sensing the tension coiled within you like a tightly wound spring.

Your gaze then fell upon Kili, who was leaning heavily on a wooden staff. The pain etched upon his features was unmistakable. His injury, which appeared to be festering, brought a frown to your brow. You knew that something had to be done, but the use of your elven healing magic would drain you both to the point of exhaustion. Kili caught your concerned look and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, silently communicating that he would bear his pain for now.

"What's troubling you?" Bilbo inquired gently, his voice filled with empathy.

"It's nothing," you assured him with a forced smile, not wishing to burden the group with your fears for Kili. "Just a touch of fatigue."

Bilbo nodded, though his eyes searched yours as if trying to discern the truth. You redirected your attention to the immediate problem at hand. The need to procure better weapons was pressing, and you knew that you would have to venture into the town's armory under the cover of darkness. The thought of such a daring endeavor sent a thrill of apprehension through you, but you pushed it aside for the moment.

You allowed yourself to lean back and let out a weary sigh. The events of the past few days had taken their toll, and your mind was racing with plans and contingencies. "What will happen tonight?" you wondered silently. The unknown loomed ahead, shrouded in the shadows of the impending nightfall.

As your eyelids grew heavy with the weight of your thoughts, you let yourself drift into a light doze, the gentle rhythm of your breathing the only sound in the tense room.

Your dreams were filled with flickers of past adventures, moments of laughter shared with your companions, and the weight of the journey ahead. Each scene played out like a distant memory, yet the urgency of the present pulled you back as you stirred again, this time with a renewed sense of determination.

You opened your eyes to find the room still quiet, save for the soft whispers of Bilbo conversing with Bard. The first light of dawn began to brighten the edges of the room, casting a warm glow over the gathered weapons and your companions.

Bard turned toward you, his expression thoughtful. "We will need to be strategic," he said, his voice low. "The armory is well-guarded, and we will need more than mere weapons to escape unnoticed."

You nodded, feeling the weight of the day's tasks pressing upon your shoulders. The dwarves began to rouse fully, stretching and shaking off the remnants of sleep as they prepared for the challenges ahead. You could sense their growing resolve, mingling with the hope that Bard's offerings could provide.

As you all gathered around the table, Bard began to outline his plan for the night. "We'll need distractions," he explained, his tone becoming serious. "I have contacts in town who can help create a diversion while we make our move. But first, we must gather the supplies we need and learn the layout of the armory."

With every word, your heart raced. There was much to do, and you felt the weight of your companions' expectations resting heavily on you. You looked around at the gathered dwarves, their expressions reflecting a mixture of determination and trepidation.

Kili, still leaning on his staff, met your gaze. "We will find a way," he said, his voice firm despite the pain etched across his features. The others nodded in agreement, a silent pact forming among you all.

Bard turned to you, a glimmer of confidence in his eyes. "Are you ready to help lead this endeavor? Your strength will be crucial tonight."

Taking a deep breath, you straightened up in your chair. "Yes, I'm ready. Together, we will succeed."

With that, the day unfolded before you, filled with tasks that required every ounce of cunning and strength you possessed. You and Bard would scout the area for any weaknesses in the guards' patrols, while the dwarves would prepare the makeshift weapons and discuss tactics for the escape.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, you knew that nightfall would soon arrive, bringing with it the shadows you needed to slip away unnoticed. The anticipation hung in the air, thick with the promise of adventure, danger, and the hope of freedom.

With each passing moment, you felt the bond among your group strengthen, a fierce unity emerging from the uncertainty of your situation. Whatever challenges awaited you, you would face them together.

As Bard stands on the elevated platform of his porch, the name "Thorin" reverberates in his mind, piecing together fragments of his past. He recalls the whispers of those who had visited him, the way they spoke of the dwarven leader, and the stories that surrounded him. The realization strikes him like a lightning bolt—Thorin Oakenshield, heir to the throne under the Lonely Mountain.

His gaze drifts toward the majestic silhouette of the mountain, rising starkly against the horizon. The name now carries a weight of history and responsibility, igniting an urgency within him. Just then, Bain emerges from the house, his youthful voice breaking Bard's reverie.

"Da?" Bain calls out cautiously.

Bard's heart swells with pride and concern. He approaches his son, resting a reassuring hand on Bain's shoulder, and imparts a message heavy with meaning: "Bain, do not permit them to leave." Without waiting for a response, he hurries away, his footsteps echoing against the wooden planks, leaving his son to ponder the cryptic command.

In a different part of the realm, Tauriel is relentlessly tracking the orcs, the path before her leading to a rocky promontory that juts out into the shimmering lake. The distant view of Laketown, tranquil and serene, contrasts sharply with the gruesome sight before her: the remains of a deer, brutally dismembered by the marauding orcs. Her instincts sharpen, and she draws an arrow from her quiver, her senses heightened.

A moment later, Legolas steps onto the scene, mirroring her combat-ready stance.

"I could have sworn you were an orc," Tauriel teases lightly, a smirk playing on her lips.

Legolas counters with a knowing smile. "If I had been an orc, you would not be standing here." They both gradually lower their weapons, acknowledging the camaraderie they share in this battle against darkness.

"Tauriel," Legolas says, concern etching his features, "you cannot face thirty orcs by yourself."

"But I am not alone," she replies, her smile unwavering as she prepares for the impending conflict.

Legolas shakes his head, his tone turning serious. "The king will not be pleased, Tauriel. For six centuries, my father has safeguarded our realm and granted you his protection and favor. Yet, you have disobeyed his commandments and compromised his trust." His expression holds both affection and caution, reflecting the depth of their bond.

Tauriel's smile fades, replaced by a fierce determination. "I understand his anger, but if I return now, I could never forgive myself." She pauses, her eyes flashing with conviction. "The king has always expelled orcs from our lands. Yet he allows this pack to roam free, poised to slaughter our captives. Is this not our battle to fight?"

Legolas's gaze is thoughtful, reflecting the turmoil within. "It is not our fight," he replies, but Tauriel is not deterred.

"If we stand idly by, if we allow evil to flourish, then when will we be strong enough to combat it?" Her words hang heavily in the air, a challenge to Legolas's convictions. "Tell me, Legolas, when did we decide that our strength was insufficient to conquer the dark forces that threaten Middle-earth?"

Legolas remains silent, his expression a tapestry of conflict, caught between loyalty to his father and the undeniable pull of justice that Tauriel embodies. The tension between them thickens, underscoring the depth of their commitment to their respective roles in this unfolding saga.

As the sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the land, both Bard and the elves find themselves at crossroads of choice and consequence. Each must navigate their own path through the darkness, aware that the decisions they make today could alter the fate of Middle-earth forever. The journey ahead is fraught with peril, but their resolve remains unyielding, fueled by hope and a shared desire for justice.

Bard sprinted through the bustling streets of Lake-town, the urgency in his stride palpable to all who glanced his way. The morning sun illuminated the faces of the townsfolk, their cheerful conversations ringing in his ears, yet his mind was consumed by thoughts of the tapestry he sought. As he approached a quaint but well-stocked shop, the familiar chime of the door signaled his entrance.

The storekeeper, a portly man with a long, graying beard, looked up from his counter with a curious smile. "Welcome back, Bard," he greeted, the warmth of his tone in stark contrast to Bard's frenzied energy. "What can I help you find today?"

Ignoring the greeting, Bard's eyes darted around the cluttered space, searching for something specific. His gaze fell upon a mound of tapestries stacked high in a corner, their vibrant colors and intricate patterns whispering stories of old. With determined strides, he approached the pile and began to sift through it, his hands moving purposefully.

"Bard," the storekeeper said, mild exasperation creeping into his voice, "you know you can just tell me what you're looking for."

But Bard's only response was to continue his search, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized each tapestry. It wasn't until he reached the bottom of the pile that he spoke, urgency threading through his voice. "There was an old tapestry here, a very special one. It had the lineage of Durin on it. What happened to it?"

The storekeeper furrowed his brow, puzzled by Bard's sudden interest in something so seemingly innocuous. "I'm not sure which tapestry you mean," he replied, curiosity piqued. "But we have many that depict the history of the Lonely Mountain and its inhabitants. They're quite popular with travelers."

Undeterred, Bard pressed on, eyes scanning the room as if expecting the tapestry to materialize before him. Then, as if by fate, his hand brushed against a familiar edge. He pulled it from the pile with a gasp of recognition. "This is it," he murmured, holding it aloft. "The one with the line of Durin."

As he examined the tapestry, a hushed conversation wafted from the back of the shop. A woman's voice, tinged with excitement, recounted tales of dwarves who had recently appeared in the area. "They came from nowhere," she exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder. "With full beards and eyes like fire. I've never seen their kind before."

The curiosity of the listeners was palpable as a fisherman, his weathered face lined with skepticism, asked the question on everyone's mind. "What could dwarves be doing around here?"

An older man, wise and bent with age, stepped forward, his voice carrying the authority of someone steeped in lore. "It's the prophecy," he declared, his tone solemn and commanding.

The fisherman's frown deepened. "What prophecy are you speaking of?"

"The prophecy of Durin's folk," the old man replied, his gaze drifting toward the tapestry in Bard's hands. "A sign that the days of yore may soon be upon us again."

The chatter in the shop hushed as the townsfolk murmured among themselves, the mention of the prophecy stirring whispers of ancient lore and long-forgotten kings. The woman, noticing Bard's intense scrutiny, added, "They say there's a woman with them, too. As fair as a spring dawn. What could she be doing in such company?"

The question hung in the air, but Bard seemed lost in thought, his finger tracing the last entry on the tapestry. The name 'Thorin' stood out clearly against the fabric. His heart quickened, and the words of the prophecy echoed in his mind.

"The lord of silver fountains," he murmured, eyes unfocused. "The king of carven stone, the king beneath the mountain shall come into his own."

With renewed clarity, Bard looked up, his eyes alight with understanding. The townsfolk leaned in, eager to hear more. "The prophecy," he said aloud, "the prophecy of Durin's folk."

Their curiosity sparked, the townsfolk exchanged glances, their whispers growing louder as they considered the possibility that the legendary heroes of old might indeed walk among them. The tapestry, once a relic of the past, now felt like a beacon of hope, a symbol of what could be in a world overshadowed by darkness.

Sensing the weight of the moment, the storekeeper leaned closer to Bard. "What do you know of this prophecy?" he asked in a low voice.

Bard, lost in thought, recited the words etched into his memory. "The lord of silver fountains, the king of carven stone, the king beneath the mountain shall come into his own," he said, his voice steady and clear. "And the bells shall ring in gladness at the mountain king's return, but all shall fail in sadness, and the lake will shine and burn."

The prophecy hung in the air like a storm cloud, a promise of both victory and despair. The townsfolk looked at one another, faces a mixture of wonder and fear, as the reality of the situation settled in. For the first time in many years, the name of Durin passed from their lips, bringing with it the hope of a world restored, and yet the shadow of the great dragon Smaug loomed large, waiting in the heart of the mountain, ready to unleash his fiery wrath upon any who dared disturb his treasure.

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Short yes.

-Saph