#think queue with wings

Ever since their arrival and subsequent re-habitation of the Lonely Mountain, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had, upon request of their king, committed themselves in small groups to a tireless scouring of all halls, vaults and treasuries in an attempt to uncover the prized Arkenstone. Whilst there was work to be done on the Mountain itself to keep it secure from those outside, there were never fewer than two Dwarves still making their way through mountains of jewels. Exhaustive though these searches were, no soul had as of yet found the prized Arkenstone. Worse yet, every fruitless shift concluded with an often-brief report to the king.

This time the rotation for imparting the news had fallen to Bofur, and if rumour amongst the Company was to be believed it was not likely to be taken well. Every opportunity to procrastinate and distract himself was snatched with gleeful abandon on his way to the throne room, the miner often pausing for meandering conversation or offering his assistance with menial tasks. He hated himself for every wasted second. This was Thorin Oakenshield, the Dwarf he had sworn loyalty to; a king - his king - whom he would die for. He was not some tyrannical figurehead to simply be feared and avoided, he was a friend. He was kin.

And yet..it felt as though Erebor had exerted some unseen influence upon Thorin; altered him to such an extent that even the spacious confines of the Mountain itself had come to feel oppressive and heavy. Good humour had fallen by the wayside over the hours and spirits had wavered beyond the jolly miner’s ability to repair. It wounded him to see his kin so uneasy - or worse yet their false affectations of joviality - in such situations where he felt he should have been able to help. There was little he could do but weather the coming storms with them and help, in his own small ways, to try and bolster their moods where possible.

Now at the entrance to the vast throne room, Bofur could find no excuse nor means to hesitate any longer. Sturdy boots, which had seen him overcome all manner of obstacle since departing the Blue Mountains, carried him down the walkway with all apparent ease towards the figure seated on the throne. Beneath the bizarre hat his expression remained perfectly amiable and open, though there was something in his eyes which betrayed the underlying concern he held for Thorin. The more he observed of the king, the more he had heard of late, the more he could not help but recall their burglar’s earliest words when first he had reached Erebor:

“It’s this place. I think a sickness lies on it”. Now he understood.

The morning sun had not yet managed to spread its warmth across the barren expanse of wilderness and already there were stirrings of activity amongst the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. A majority had not yet deigned to awaken and prepare for the day ahead (for they were not due to depart for some small time), but a small gathering a short distance from the main camp suggested some were already up and active.

Bofur was one of these few Dwarves, but whilst the nature of this pre-dawn meeting made sense, he could not admit to being particularly excited by the prospect. It was training. Of course he had proven himself prior to the quest as more than able to take care of himself - much the same as his brother and cousin - but what had become evident very quickly was the discrepancy between their own methods of fighting and those in the Company who had been formally trained. With a majority hailing from higher-class backgrounds or descended from notable warriors, there was a distinct difference in how battle was not only approached but accomplished. For Bofur, who was rarely inclined to violence unless necessary, fighting had been more of an occasional necessity than anything else: everything he had learned had been an accumulation of years of various mischief coupled with the advice of Bifur prior to his own accident. He had undergone no formal combat training to speak of; had rarely found use for a bow and arrow; and seldom had he even considered bothering with swords or similar bladed weaponry. Perhaps with everything being as it was on this journey it was time to acquire new, potentially lifesaving, skills: he just wished it didn’t need to be done so early.

Hi guys! Just a heads up that I’m on vacation from the 9th - 18th of December and won’t be posting in that time! I should have access to wifi on and off via mobile for inbox and messaging system stuff but otherwise will be quiet.

Some posts are queued to go out between now and then but I wasn’t able to get through all of my drafts for which I can only apologise; time caught up with me x.x I’ll get to them as soon as possible but in the meantime I’ll catch you all soon! <3

Sat at one of the scarred old tables amongst a bundle of tattered, partially-damaged scrolls, the Dwarf chewed absently on his thumbnail and wished, not for the first time, that Ori were still here to lend a hand with all of this. Consultant work regarding mines Thorin had him on was all well and good, but this mess with checking archives and making sense of these maps (how in Durin they survived was anyone’s guess) was just frustrating.

Likely it was the battle. A painful reminder of the fleeting presence of all things, there was an air of finality surrounding the concept of Bilbo leaving Erebor. After everything they had been through, his departure marked a true end to the tale, and he very much feared (if the grief in his friend’s eyes was anything to go by) that he may well not be seeing much, if anything, of him again. Of course he wasn’t going to say a word to that effect. It wasn’t his place to start making such comments or worry about possibilities which hadn’t occurred.

[Halloween/horror/dark sentence starters]

The question startled Bofur out of his silence, having for some time lapsed into an uncharacteristic quiet as they walked. It wasn’t uncommon for any good Dwarf to feel somewhat ill at ease in a sprawling forest, though something about this particular one felt..wrong. Well and truly wrong.