The crackling warmth of the campfire flickers against the cool night air, casting golden light over the company as they settle in for the evening. The journey has only just begun, but already, the weight of the road presses against weary limbs. Boots scrape against the dirt as the dwarves find their places, some muttering about sore feet, others busy with meals or sharpening weapons.

But Fíli—Fíli is focused entirely on you.

He sits beside you, hands resting idly on his knees, eyes bright with curiosity as they flicker toward the strange, foreign objects you carry—your wand, your broom, the peculiar items tucked within your bag. He leans in slightly, voice laced with intrigue.

"Alright," he says, tone light, teasing, yet genuinely interested. "I’ve fought plenty, seen plenty—but I’ve never seen magic quite like yours."

Kíli lounges on the opposite side, legs stretched out as he tips his head toward you, adding with a grin. "We hear Gandalf’s spells muttering and flashing every now and then—but you? You do something else, don’t you?"

Ori, sitting close, listens intently, his wide-eyed fascination clear as he clutches his writing materials, no doubt eager to document every detail.

Fíli chuckles, nudging you slightly.

"Go on then—tell us. Where exactly did you come from, and what in Durin’s name can that little stick of yours actually do?"

The fire crackles, shadows dancing along the trees, the company’s quiet chatter humming in the background. But here, in this moment? The young dwarves hang onto your every word, eager to understand the strange new companion fate has thrown into their world.