#tolkienocweek

Tînaear (black hair) is in charge of all of Rivendell's washerwomen. She is efficiency incarnate which is a blessing as Rivendell produces a lot of dirty laundry for its size because of the whole homely house thing. She is a Noldo born in early Second Age from a hardcore Feanorian family. (she doesn't really gets the hype)

Mothlóriel (ginger) is specialized in mending clothes and makes the loveliest embroidery ever. Her dream is to go to the Shire to learn how to make lace because Hobbits make some of the best fiber arts. She is Silvan also born in the Second Age.

The chains of Thorin’s armor scraped along the skin of his neck, nicking a chafed spot, as he shrugged off his travel clothes. He draped his richly furred and filthy coat across one of the plush armchairs decorating the room. Carved ivy and stone faces sprouted from every corner in this elvish chamber. Dim firelight flickered from marble sconces and cast strange shadows across the vaulted ceiling.

Members of his party unloaded their bags and weapons to the stone floor around the room. Clatters of axes and swords and clubs were accompanied by weary sighs escaping from between the dwarves’ teeth. Chatter seemed to be kept to a minimum, the group desperate to rid themselves of their armor and to find their places at the dinner table.

Thorin was long overdue for a bath. Dirt had caked under his broad fingernails from long nights fighting trolls and running from orcs, and the roots of his long hair were growing clumped and greasy. A wide, shallow bowl of water sat on a dresser of rich mahogany. His bootsteps bounced off the stone walls around him as he approached the bowl. It smelled faintly of rosemary and lilies.

Cool water dripped through his beard while Thorin rid his face of the road’s evidence. He breathed out a sigh, scrubbing his fingers through the coarse hair coating his jaw and neck. His beard wasn’t admirable by any stretch of the imagination. Dwarves and dyrgjar found thick, long beards adorned in jewels and golden rings far more attractive than the closely trimmed bristles Thorin kept. But, with the decades spent in front of a forge’s burning coals and searing metals, he found that shorter facial hair kept one’s beard from being set alight.

The bowl’s contents churned a darker hue as he met his own eyes in the polished mirror before him. Deep lines of exhaustion threaded beneath squinted, lapis irises. A small wound streaked across his cheekbone from the chase earlier in the day. Whether it was from the dash through the woods, the scurrying across the fields of Rhudȃur, or the vicious clash of blades between his kinsmen and the band of orcs, he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the cut was glaring against his weathered skin.

Maiklifî that tricksome wizard, for leading Thorin’s dwarven company through the Wilderland to this elven capital. When, in the history of Middle Earth, have elves concerned themselves with the welfare of dwarves? The pointy-eared pricks were far too focused on the studying of stars and the enchanting of rivers to care for the starved or the homeless.

“I must say, she was rather peculiar looking for an elf,” said the polite voice of Ori, the younger dwarf folding his padded armor and laying it next to a knitted bag.

“She’s not an elf,” Bilbo replied with a light chuckle. Thorin glanced at the hobbit’s reflection in the mirror, finding a much more comfortable looking individual in the place of where a terrified halfling had been when faced by the orc pack not hours before.

“What makes ya say tha’?” Bofur asked as he pulled his long-flapped cap over his braided hair. A bright smile split the toy maker’s groomed beard, “She’s got the look of one of ‘em. All dressed in leathers and carryin’ those curved swords of theirs.”

“Did you happen to see her ears? They’re nearly as rounded as yours,” the halfling explained while folding his arms across his vest and jacket, “Besides, have you ever seen an elf with scales poking out of their faces?”

Bofur shrugged, “Can’ say tha’ I have.”

“What difference does it make? She’s similar enough. Bury your curiosities until we’re back on the road,” Thorin ordered over his shoulder. He couldn’t have his company lost in the fantasies of elves. For all he knew, this “Nadja” woman could have cast an illusion over herself to hypnotize the dwarves. She could bare resemblance to the White Witch of Lothlórien forest, whose fox-like cunning and radiant image enthrall any who dare cross her path.

No. Better to keep his head down, interact as little as possible with these self-righteous elves, get whatever information Gandalf believed he could from Lord Elrond, then head straight to the pass through the Misty Mountains. Balin knew the way well enough. The group could reach the other side of the mountains before next week’s end. As long as they didn’t linger in this valley for more than a few nights, they should continue to make good progress in their journey.

It’s after the dwarven prince broke away from his swirling thoughts that he noticed he was now alone in the stone chamber. Thorin sighed, rubbing at his heavy eyelids as he stepped away from the wash basin. He made sure to grab the elven longsword from its place with his belongings before straightening his tunic. If he managed to get through dinner without lashing out at his hosts or making a fool of himself, it would be a miracle granted by Durin himself.

The varnished door creaked on its hinges as Thorin pushed out into the halls of Rivendell. Fingers of tourmaline and rubellite weaved through the puffed clouds dotted along the evening sky. A flock of dark-bellied birds coasted past a rushing waterfall cresting over the lip of the valley. Carved windows set into the stone walls framed the picturesque scenery as the dwarf attempted to locate the dining room Gandalf had briefly described.

Oh, how the dwarven prince’s heart ached to be walking down the grand halls of Erebor rather than the delicate passageways of Rivendell. Would that he were surrounded by the streams of gold and silver running through deep and dark rock like winding rivers, bands of faceted gemstones catching the torchlight in flecks of reds and greens and blues. He much preferred the haunting echo of miles and miles of tunnels over the near musical tap of his boots on the paved floors he currently traveled across.

Familiar scuffs of feet on stone drew Thorin’s attention to the corridor stretched behind him. Gandalf the Grey, whose long hair and beard matched the smoke color of his robes, walked next to the now unarmored Lord Elrond Peredhel. (Even with Thorin’s notable disdain for elves, he knew how to properly address his hosts.) Silks of topaz and amber draped across the entirety of the elven lord’s height, flowing like a calm current of daylight with each silent step.

Trailing behind the pair was the strange woman from before. Her garnet-colored hair, previously tied back in a braid, was now draped across her broad shoulders in an elven styling similar to the paintings Thorin had noticed adorning the walls. She wore a simple dress the color of crackling embers, the hem coming to a stop just above her ankles.

“Ah, Thorin, you have impeccable timing,” Gandalf greeted with a warm smile. The dwarf gave the wizard a curt nod in return.

“My Lord Thorin,” Elrond began with a bow of his head, “Good to see you refreshed. Will you accompany us to the dining hall?”

Thorin glanced between the three standing afore him. He could hardly say no, as he was easily outmatched in strength by the immortal elven lord and wizened sorcerer. As for the woman, he wasn’t sure. Best to be safe and acquiesce. She could be hiding more silver blades under that dress of hers and Thorin didn’t want to find out.

“Very well. Lead on,” the dwarf simply said. Both Elrond and Gandalf offered him polite smiles as they passed, leaving Thorin to walk beside Nadja.

She seemed to be short compared to the other inhabitants of Rivendell. Her chin ended at the same height as the tip of Thorin’s nose. And it wasn’t due to how the woman carried herself, as she never slouched, and she walked with her shoulders squared like she was poised for an attack at any moment. Thorin noted the smooth glide of her footsteps and how similar they were in stride to the elf lord in front of him.

And yet, the ruby scales and rounded ears indicated she was not of elf breeding. She might have presented herself as elven, could have even been raised in their culture and customs, but that was not in her blood. The jasper hued irises and the thin pupils of her eyes further supported that thought.

There was also something familiar about her. Thorin couldn’t put a finger on why, whether it was her name or her associations or her appearance. She just garnered this odd sense that he had met her before. Tumbling through name after name, face after face, combing through his 195 years of life to try and match someone in his memory to the woman next to him, Thorin’s stare must have become rather obvious as he lost track of the seconds ticking away.

“You’re staring, master dwarf,” Nadja uttered no louder than a murmur, voice rich with timbre and amusement, the remark clearly meant for Thorin’s ears only. The corners of her blushed lips quirked as she met his gaze.

Thorin cleared his throat, quickly shifting his eyes to the stone floor littered with dried leaves. A light chuckle emanated from the woman beside him. Heat flushed the skin hiding beneath the crisp, dark hairs of his beard.

Desks littered with opened tomes and candelabras dripping with cooled wax occupied the open area to his right. Shelves lined with spine after spine of bound books, in a wide array of cotton and tanned leather bearing embossed titles, filled the expanse of the stone wall adjacent to the dining hall. The low hum of chatter and the gentle strum of stringed instruments greeted Thorin as the hallway opened into a grand atrium adorned in rusted sunlight. Pillars hewn from pale rock stretched impossibly high, with painted vines curling around the bases like leafed serpents. Places had been set out for dinner, it seemed, for a large number of dwarves sat around two long tables separated by a marble plinth. Spreads of fresh vegetables and toasted pastries on golden platters decorated the expansive table cloths.

“Kind of you to invite us,” Gandalf said as they approached the stone steps leading up to the dining area, “I’m, uh, not really dressed for dinner.”

Lord Elrond smirked at the wizard, leading their small group to the top of the stairs, and said in a playful tone, “You never are.”

That earned a hearty laugh from the wizard, his grey beard swaying as he shook his head in amusement. The path Elrond led them down ended at a round table with four place settings, positioned far enough from the long tables full of dwarves to warrant private conversations. Elrond took the grand seat made of elegantly whittled oak and cushioned with emerald velvet. Three simpler chairs surrounded the table, each carved of a similar wood and cushioned on the base of the seat.

Gandalf took his place to the right of Elrond, with Nadja taking her seat to the right of him. That left the chair between the two residents of Rivendell for Thorin. The dwarf swallowed a crass remark, thinking better than to insult his hosts at the first inconvenience, and reluctantly sat. He leaned the wood-carved hilt of his sword against the edge of the table.

Analyzing the plate of food set before him, what Thorin found wasn’t among what he considered to be appetizing. Rolled leaves of lettuce and cabbage encased shining tomatoes like blooms of jade flowers. Tarts filled with some kind of egg mixture sprouted amethyst petals, and a glass flute of sweet-smelling wine resided to his right.

A far cry from a dwarven feast, to be sure. Enormous, steaming, roast chickens and grass grouses would be laid out amongst a bed of creamed potatoes soaked in gravy. Dozens of fresh rolls slathered in garlic, juicy legs of mutton, and fragrant cheese wheels bigger than a cave troll’s head would rise in mountains across tables of dark stone. Jolly and rhythmic music would echo around the cavernous dining hall, jaunty enough to compel a grown-dwarf to rise from his chair and dance a jig.

The carved melons and glimmering apples shining in the setting sun drew Thorin back to the present. He was not amongst thousands of his kin, feasting to celebrate 175 years of reoccupying Erebor. Him and his kinsmen were reduced to a mere 13, many of whom hadn’t had the distinct pleasure of a true dwarven feast. This display of outlandishly verdant meals was nearly insulting when compared to the suppers the dwarven prince had enjoyed in his youth.

Thorin reluctantly scooped his fork from the table and set to cleaning his plate. Even if the dressed greens and dainty desserts were entirely unappetizing, it was still food. Food that didn’t run the risk of being stale or infested with worms or cooked too long in Bombur’s traveling pot.

“Nadja, my dear, I hear you’ve just returned from Gondor,” Gandalf said after clearing his throat. The wizard looked at the strange woman with a fondness one could associate with long-lasting friendship. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with one of the cotton napkins provided at each place setting.

She sighed, raising her own goblet to her lips and taking a sip, “That I have, min vän. With scars to prove it. Although I must admit, in my haste to dress for dinner, that I’ve forgotten your souvenir in my chambers.”

“Nonsense, you know that is not necessary,” Gandalf replied with a chuckle, “I’ve journeyed to the lands of Men more than enough to acquire my fair share of ‘souvenirs.’ Anything you have purchased on my behalf is a waste of gold.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing I did not buy it. I’ll bring it to your quarters tonight,” Nadja said with a friendly grin. The wizard raised an amused, bushy eyebrow at the now mischievous and playful air emanating from the woman next to him.

It was then that Thorin noticed Nadja’s plate having a distinct lack of, well, anything. The barren, golden platter reflected the waning sun’s rays onto the woman’s face and set the scales on her cheekbones alight in an agate glow.

Thorin chewed his mouthful of salad slowly, assessing the texture and taste, comparing it to previous meals he’d had. Could the produce be poisoned? Is it in the dressing? Nothing tasted awry, the greens that settled in his mouth after satisfying crunches weren’t ringing any alarm bells.

“Is something the matter, my Lord Thorin?” Elrond queried with an amused lilt. The elf had set his polished fork down and was looking to Thorin with an inquisitive brow raised above his crystalline eyes.

A charged storm cloud gathered like a summer squall in Thorin’s mind. How spineless are these elves to resort to poisoning their guests? Did these immortal beings not have the courage to face the dwarves in combat in order to carry out their dark desires? He knew elves were pompous, but he never knew they were cowardly. Should the food he and his company were consuming be poisoned, is this question a mockery of their eventual demise? Is this immortal being laughing in the faces of 13 doomed, dwarven souls?

“I must admit, the thought has crossed my mind that this food has been tampered with,” the dwarven prince said cooly, peering up at the elf through furrowed brows. He was met with ice-cold, unerring indifference.

Gandalf scoffed a noise reminiscent of an elven swear and leaned forward on his forearm, “And just what, in all of Arda, drew you to that ridiculous conclusion?”

“The woman,” Thorin began with a jut of his chin to Nadja, “She does not eat. Why should a resident of this ‘homely house’ refuse the meal set in front of her, if not because she is aware that it is poisoned?”

Lord Elrond and Nadja shared a look, one Thorin didn’t recognize at first glance and was growing more wary of by the second, until a surprised laugh burst from the woman’s carnelian lips. She clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent further noise from escaping.

Through a barely disguised chuckle, Elrond said, “That, my Lord Thorin, is due to Nadja’s inability to consume anything that isn’t flesh.”

As quick as the weather shifts from pouring rain to cloudless skies, the rage gathering in Thorin’s mind dissipated and was replaced with utter confusion. He couldn’t help but look bewilderedly to the woman for confirmation. She gave him a halfhearted shrug as she lowered her hand.

“Grains and leaves and such don’t sit right in my stomach. I get terribly sick if I eat anything other than meat,” Nadja explained with a patience underlined in platitudes.

That same heat returned to the skin of Thorin’s cheeks. Now he felt like an absolute fool. Had he truly grown so distrustful in his age to assume the worst in those who have offered food and shelter? How jaded must he be, to take someone’s dietary restrictions as a sign of malfeasance? The rage he’d felt coiling in his chest like an agitated snake was now replaced with a spotted toad that leaked embarrassment into his gut. So much for Durin’s miracle.

“I have my own storeroom, if you must know, full of meat I’ve caught and cured myself. Though I suspect it’s run low in my absence,” she continued as she leant forward on her elbows, goblet held aloft between dexterous fingers.

“We’ve grown accustomed enough to your frequent travels, mellon nîn, that Gal’laad and Lindir personally saw to the replenishment of your storeroom once we had received word of your departure from Belfalas,” Elrond said with a fond and kind smile. Nadja returned the expression with a playful glare.

“You have people watching me? I thought that after all of these years, my knowledge of the Wild would ward off your parental surveillance,” she admonished and jabbed the tip of her tongue in the elven lord’s direction.

The exchange settled like the dwindling coals of a well-used hearth deep in Thorin’s chest. It was surprising to see an elf of such immense power act so casually with a mortal, to watch as they joke and tease and play with pure compassion flooding every breath the lord exhaled. Conversation passed over Thorin’s head as he processed his swirling thoughts.

He could scarcely believe how gentle Elrond was, how readily willing the elf was to help those in need. When faced with a group of growling and armed dwarves, all fully prepared to kill as many elves as needed to earn their freedom, Elrond had invited them all to dinner instead of reacting with force. Not to mention how easily Thorin’s accusation of possible poisoning was brushed aside. He was met with laughter instead of violent retaliation. It was astonishing how different the elves of Rivendell and the elves of Mirkwood appeared.

Could the displaced inhabitants of Erebor have sought refuge in Rivendell? Would the homely house have accepted hundreds of starving, injured, penniless dwarves? Was there a possible outcome in which more of Thorin’s kin survived? In which his father might still be…

“And what is this blade that you’ve brought to my table?” the elf lord in question asked. Thorin looked up from his nearly-empty platter to meet Lord Elrond’s eyes, which were directed to the longsword on Thorin’s right.

“I, uh. I’m not sure,” Thorin answered slowly as he set his fork down. With a quick glance for permission, Elrond wrapped his long fingers around the leather sheath and held the sword aloft before him.

A shnnk heralded the curved blade’s partial reveal. Only a few inches of antiquated, forged steel were revealed to the summer air while Elrond inspected the blade. Silver metal flowed like a molten stream through the sword, thousands of years of history embedded in each beautifully carved detail. The last of the sun’s rays caught along the sharpened edge in ribbons of gossamer-thin citrine.

“This is Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver. A famous blade,” the elf explained, giving the metal one last cursory look before sliding the sheath back to its original position, “Forged by the high elves of the west. My kin.”

Elrond held the hilt to Thorin who, with a thankful bow of his head, retrieved the longsword and felt the carved wood settle back inside his fist like it were an extension of his arm.

“May it serve you well,” Elrond concluded as he gave a nod in return.

While the elf and the wizard discussed the lineage of Gandalf’s own sword, Glamdring, and Nadja asked prodding questions like a student of history, Thorin ran a calloused finger across the ever-polished hilt of Orcrist. Dwarvish runes with the barest hint of dust settled into their crevices followed the swirling filigree, dictating in Khuzdûl that the blade was “the tooth of a drake.” A sudden feeling of ice crackled in his periphery like the beginnings of winter.

The grip was not, in fact, carved from any tree on Middle Earth, nor any other tree that had ever sprouted from natural ground as Thorin had previously believed. It was a fang taken directly from a dragon. Scores set into the bone indicated as much, as well as the point, rounded with age, protruding from the sword’s pommel. Thorin swore he could see rusted flakes of blood gathered on the tooth. Was that all that remained of this dragon’s last victim, or was it from his encounter with the orc pack earlier that day? His thumb brushed along the splash of color and it was gone in a blink. Like a mirage in the desert, like a ghost haunting a ruined home. He checked the pad of his thumb for any evidence that the blood stain had been there, but found nothing other than his own fingerprint. The crackling of a thousand ice shards nearly drowned out the slow harmony of the elvish instruments around him.

“How did you come by these?” Elrond asked in astonishment, pulling Thorin from his thoughts before he continued spiraling. The black-leather grip of Glamdring was still clutched in the elven lord’s fist.

“We found them in a troll hoard on the Great East Road!” Gandalf exclaimed with an undeniable air of perplexity, “Shortly before we were ambushed by orcs.”

Elrond inhaled a tentative breath and met the wizard’s questioning stare, “And what were you doing on the Great East Road?”

Alarm bells tolled in Thorin’s head. Should the elven lord discover the truth of their quest, they would have traveled all this way for nothing. The mission of reclaiming Erebor would seem foolhardy at best and terribly idiotic at worst to any outsider curious enough to bend their ear. For elves would not understand what it is to lose their homeland, their birthright, thousands of their kin in a single day. They would not comprehend the utter need that permeated every dwarf’s blood to see the great kingdom restored. Elrond would demand the quest for Erebor end right there in Rivendell.

And Thorin could not allow that.

“Excuse me,” he said with the rasp of gravel, using the floor as leverage to push his chair out from the table. He threw the woman a final glance, who met the look with one awash in concern, then left the table’s inhabitants to stand near his company.

These bloody mebelkhȃgs could not stand in the way of the dwarves’ birthright. Whether they had permission or not, Thorin and his party would reach Erebor. Even if he had to climb the snowy peaks with his bare fists, even if he had to slay Smaug the Calamity with naught but a whittling knife, even if he needed to round up the seven dwarf kingdoms with a singular grapple-hook, he would see it done.

The melancholic nature of the music surrounding him was doing the dwarven prince no favors in regards to his sour mood. He set his longsword against the stone wall closest to him and swiped a flute of wine from a passing tray held aloft by a serving elf. It mattered little what the elf looked like, for they were all the same in Thorin’s eyes. Judgemental and preening and full of themselves.

Sweet essences of grapes and pomegranates flowed past his lips as he drank from this new goblet. A pleasant burn accompanied the liquid, coasting down his throat and giving his stomach a comforting warmth. Thorin let a reserved and thoughtful hum resonate in his chest. Not half bad, this elvish wine. Still weaker than dwarvish rum or ale from Rohan. But, for now, it’ll do. Anything to ease the burden of worries and turmoil for the night.

“Change the tune, why don’t ya? I feel like I’m at a funeral!” Nori announced, jabbing a thumb at the slowly-strumming harpist behind him. His chestnut hair, braided in thick chunks, shook in time with the disapproving shake of his head.

“Did somebody die?” Oin, whose brass ear trumpet was now stuffed with a napkin, asked with a troubled look.

“Alrigh’, lads, there’s only one thing for it!” Bofur said in his typical merry fashion. The toy maker knocked all manner of dishware and vegetables from the table as he climbed atop the marble plinth, ignoring the elvish orders flung at him to get down.

Tension, thick as morning dew on a translucent flower petal, hung in the air. Dwarves and elves alike stared at Bofur, bated breaths held behind lips spread ajaw. The toy maker’s only provided clue as to what was about to occur was a quick smirk that steadily grew amongst his braided beard.

“Theeeeeere’s….. Aaaaaaaaan……. Inn, there’s an inn, there’s a merry old inn,” he began to sing. All of the dwarves soon joined in for the rest of the song, boisterous and booming were their voices and quick was the stomping of their boots.

“Beneath an old grey hill.

And there they brew a beer so brown

That the Man in the Moon himself came down

one night to drink his fill.

The ostler has a tipsy cat

that plays a five-stringed fiddle;

And up and down he saws his bow

Now squeaking high, now purring low,

now sawing in the middle.”

Thorin couldn’t help but bare his wide smile nor keep from freely tapping his toe at the jolly tune. Watching his company throwing bread rolls and laughing loudly and pounding the table stoked the bellows of the dwarven prince’s heart. This was how dwarves should spend their limited years. In friendly halls, surrounded by friendlier faces. Singing for hours and hours while the cups never run dry and the plates never sit empty.

“So the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,

a jig that would wake the dead:

He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,

While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:

‘It’s after three!’ he said.”

A casual look thrown towards the round table Thorin’d previously occupied truly showed the divide in cultures present in the dining hall. Lord Elrond, proper as ever, sat with a rigid back and a cocked eyebrow as he eyed the ruckus of the long tables. Serving elves and elf musicians stared at the dwarves like they were a band of rabble-rousing goblins. Gandalf kept an amused grin hidden behind his napkin while maintaining his polite appearance. And Nadja…

Why, the woman was laughing fiercely and clapping along with the dwarves. In the time that Thorin had been in Rivendell, he’d never seen her eyes alight in such a manner. Like the merriment of the dwarves was the first spring rain after a harsh and dry winter. He had half a mind to invite her to dance as Bofur started belting the next part of the song.

“They rolled the Man slowly up the hill

and bundled him into the Moon,

While the horses galloped up in rear,

And the cow came capering like a deer,

and a dish ran up with a spoon.

Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;

the dog began to roar,

The cow and the horses stood on their heads;

The guests all bounded from their beds

and danced upon the floor.”

Thorin grimaced, swallowing his goblet’s contents in one swig to make the gathering ideas fizzle like a campfire in a downpour. Don’t get distracted. There’s barely any time for breath, let alone for forming friendships with strange women. Keep your mind on the quest. A serving elf with a near-disgusted glare in her eyes topped off Thorin’s goblet. He gave her a polite nod and returned his sombering gaze to his kin.

Dori rose to stand atop his chair on wobbling feet, beginning the last verse as his gold beads caught the final bits of spinelle sunlight amidst his silver hair.

“With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke!

the cow jumped over the Moon,

And the little dog laughed to see such fun,

And the Saturday dish went off at a run

with the silver Sunday spoon.

The round Moon rolled behind the hill,

as the Sun raised up her head.

She hardly believed her fiery eyes:

For though it was day, to her surprise

they all went back to bed!”

Uproarious applause rang from the dwarves’ tables like the battle cry of an army 1,000 strong. Bofur and Dori linked arms and swallowed the contents of their goblets in one, simultaneous gulp. Kili took a boiled potato in his fist and flung it across the room, hitting a carved woman set into the wall behind Lord Elrond. That earned another round of cheer as Bifur clapped a congratulatory hand on the younger dwarf’s shoulder.

Watching his kin be merry and free, the dwarves getting further and further into their cups the more the sky darkened, Thorin’s morosity dwindled and he could feel his worries being washed away by the wine flowing past his lips. Why shouldn’t he celebrate making it this far? What harm could a few goblets of wine do on such a fine night as this? With the neekerbreekers just beginning their telltale chirps and the first stars twinkling against the purpurite-velvet sky, he could almost get lost in the revelry, almost forget about the dragon and the orcs and the quest, almost let himself slip into a state of blissful ignorance.

Almost.

Nadja, the woman practically carved of fire-opal, slipped into an empty chair between Nori and Bifur and started conversing with them. Talking with them like she’d known them for decades. Thorin bristled at this intruder amongst his people. He was too far away to hear what words slipped from her open smile, suspicion crawling up his throat like a feral beast, but suddenly the dwarves erupted in barks of laughter like she’d just whispered the funniest story in all of Rhudȃur. Dwalin spat out a mouthful of bread from his bisected, thick beard in amusement while Oin tore the napkin from his earhorn and asked for Nadja to repeat herself.

“She said… Shit, what did you say again?” Kili encouraged with a light slur to his voice. Thorin breathed a belabored sigh at his nephew’s inebriated state. Nadja leaned over the table to get closer to the mouth of Oin’s earhorn, then repeated the joke loud enough for all in the immediate area to hear.

“An elf, a human, and a dwarf walk into a bar, and each orders an ale. A fly lands in the elf’s cup and he groans and throws the ale away. A fly lands in the human’s cup and he groans and throws the ale away. A fly lands in the dwarf’s cup and he quickly grabs the fly by the wings and says ‘SPIT IT OUT YA BASTARD!’”

Nadja’s table burst into cackles, with Oin included in the guffaws this time around. Even Thorin couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. The woman took a victorious sip from her goblet, a playful glint in her eyes reflecting the dining room’s flickering candlelight.

Those heliodor irises shifted from her tablemates to Thorin. Her smile softened as she tilted her goblet in a gesture of acknowledgement, the glass reflecting warped candlelight across her scales. The dwarven prince immediately flushed, either from the motion or the alcohol settling in his stomach, and hesitantly returned the pseudo-toast with a polite nod. Nadja turned her attention back to the table when Dwalin started loudly telling his own joke.

The lingering heat bubbling under Thorin’s skin left him with more questions than answers. Who was this woman? Where in Middle Earth had she come from? What culture produces people with scales adorning their cheeks? And how, in Durin’s name, had she ingratiated herself so easily with the dwarves? Why, one joke was made at their expense and the company had wrapped themselves around her finger. Thorin downed the rest of his goblet and continued to try and piece this puzzle together, a feat now made more difficult with the wine blanketing every thought in a thin fog.

A good night’s sleep would help. Yes, that was it. Thorin needed some decent rest, rest that wouldn’t be interrupted by trolls or orcs, and he could figure things out in the morning. All this nonsense of elves and wizards and scaly women would somehow become perfectly clear when illuminated by the sun’s light.

Gandalf stood from his place at the round table and threw the dwarven prince a knowing look, a look that told Thorin he wouldn’t be getting that much-needed rest any time soon. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Thorin squared his shoulders as he came to know that the mystery of the Red Stranger would have to wait.