The Dwarves

The torches flicker upon the carved roots of the great hall as the guards drag their captives forward — a band of weary Dwarves, defiant even in chains. Behind them, half-hidden, stands a small figure with wide eyes and muddy feet.

Thranduil leans back upon his throne of living wood. His lips curve into something between amusement and disdain.

“So,” he murmurs, “the heirs of Durin come uninvited through my woods… and bring with them a creature of Men. How curious.”

His eyes narrow, glittering. “You seek shelter — yet offer no courtesy. Shall I welcome you, or remind you that my realm is not a tavern for wanderers?”

His hand lifts in a languid gesture. “Speak, Thorin son of Thráin. Why trespass beneath my leaves?”