#notevenaburglar

The morning air had a nip to it, evident in the winds when they picked up their strength. The Brandywine was getting shallower thanks to the recent lack of rainfall, and unless he transferred his respiratory system entirely to air sooner, Bruce would find himself forced onto a river bed downstream. Best to make the long transformation when he wasn’t in panic.

Bruce put one, massive taloned claw forward onto the slippery river rocks, forcing the rest of his enormous body out of the water. For a moment, he stayed there, letting the morning sun warm his body. Sure, his species was warmblooded, but the icy river and chilled morning air sent a shiver down his spine.

Until the river picked up its depth, Bruce would have to travel by land.

The twenty-foot long Cetus stumbled down the bank lethargically, almost bearlike in movement. It wasn’t until he had heard a twig snap that he realized another presence moved along the river. Bruce lay still, lowering his body; it was only luck if his slate-blue hide could blend in with the low rocks, but it was something worth trying.

With piercing blue eyes, he eyed the forest line warily.

“You feelin’ it too, darling,           not too welcoming, is it??” 

         It may seem to be just a broken down dive bar, smelling of stale          cigarette smoke and decades worth of spilt beer. But, to any with          slightly the slightest awareness of beings not of their kin, it’s a          thick, inescapable cloud. Marcus wagers its only worse upstairs. 

         He slips into the booth beside her, half-finished pint in hand.          His voice is quiet and low, though it really needn’t be, the place          is all but empty, save for the old girl behind the bar and two small          groups of less than favourable looking gentlemen. 

Viola didn’t know this land, it seemed so strange from the ones she’d visited prior. This place seemed so.. Quaint and charming.. The trees, the grass, the small streams, little rivers and the flowers that seemed to brighten up the land.

Whatever this place was, it seemed like a place untouched by the chaos and misery that laid beyond its borders.

“What do ye suppose this place is, Fluffy?” She asked the warg, of course the great beast seemed more focused on the birds in the trees than listening to what Viola said.

Continuing onward she stopped by a small hill, from where she stood she could just about see the top of someones head. Maybe if the chaotic world outside had little presence here she had some hope of peace.

“H-hay! Excuse me. Can ye tell me where I am? I’ve never been this far West before an’ we got a bit lost.. If ye don’t mind talkin to such strange folk that is..” She called, with bright eyes and a toothy smile she waited for a response. Hoping at least the warg wasn’t too much of a fright for people here.

Thorin huffed out an unimpressed scoff of a laugh as he adjusted the load of rations on the back of his pony. He tried to imagine what might not be so gentle about the Shire of all places. 

“Of course, forgive me,” he said, sarcastic. “One mustn’t overlook the injuries you must have sustained pruning the rose bush. A bee sting here and there, perhaps? The occasional nick of the butcher’s knife in the kitchen. The Shire truly is a treacherous place, it’s a wonder you’ve survived this long.”

There was only so much teasing he could manage before his bitterness overpowered him. That she could even pretend she knew what it was like to wander helpless, defenseless, homeless through the untold terrors of the untamed wild was insult enough. Balin would tell him she meant only to have the respect and faith of the company’s leader, but Thorin firmly believed both had to be earned through actions rather than words. 

It had also not been his decision to have her alongside them, but rather that of the wizard who was becoming less and less trustworthy. 

He’s tired. So           tired that his bloody

       weapon shakes within his grasp, and his back collapses against a         damp wall. The room is empty, he’s sure of it. Thorin lifts a hand to         his face, wiping at droplets of blood, leaving brazen orange streaks         across his cheek. He relaxes against the wall for a moment, allowing         himself to catch his breath, before he hears it. Breathing. 

        Immediately the hunter is upright and ready to fulfil his duties,         axe at the ready. Azure eyes, panicked at the implied impending         danger, search the room, until they land on a petite figure. Thorin         narrows his eyes at the little woman, for he has learned not every-         thing is always as it seems. Still, he finds the mercy not to bring his         weapon down upon her skull, and instead studies her with a         suspicious stare. 

@notevenaburglar

Send “Stitches” for an AU where my muse is a tailor/seamstress.

“Then don’t,” is Thorin’s reply, something that seems so offhanded and careless, particularly from the way he continues to focus on chopping wood. “No one’s putting a knife to your neck.”