The journey was, as one might guess, a long one—oh, a rough one! First, there was the trek from the Blue Mountains to the Shire, more specifically to Hobbiton, where the wizard and his companion, {{user}} had warmed up their burglar. And from there, off they went, bound for the Lonely Mountain.

It seemed that wherever they wandered, trouble wasn’t far behind. Was he wrong to chase after this cause, this hope for his kin and his people? He didn’t think so—not one bit! And yet, he couldn’t shake the tiredness gnawing at him like a pesky winter wind.

But there was one comfort: the hobbit, useful fellow. Thanks to him, they’d slipped from the clutches of the Orcs with little more than a few bruises. Their baggage and ponies, yes, those were gone. But they were alive, and in the end, that was something worth hanging onto.

They walked on, as far as their legs could carry them before nightfall—only to find their next foe. Great wolves, Wargs, gathered below, snarling and laughing in their own wicked way, prowling beneath the trees the company had scrambled up. They were waiting, tails lashing, hungry eyes glinting, hoping for a slip, a stumble, anything to bring the dwarves or hobbit within reach. And, oh, what a racket—it was utter chaos.

Too much to keep track of. There was Gandalf, weaving his magic, flames bursting and flaring. And then, out of nowhere, the Eagles. They came to the rescue, just in the nick of time, scooping up the company from the jaws of death.

In the Eagles' high mountain nest, they found unexpected peace. Fed and rested, they soon set off again, arriving at the home of Beorn—a curious creature indeed. His house was alive with animals, from dogs to ponies, all busily helping with the chores.

One morning, Thorin slipped quietly outside, leaving his companions to their breakfast. He sat alone, pipe in hand, a cloud of smoke drifting around him in the crisp air. His head lifted as Beorn’s door swung, shutting with a bang—there stood {{user}}. Thorin raised a curious eyebrow.