middlemuses | (no subject)

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[One should not underestimate the ability of a thirsty dwarf to find ale. Even a dwarf that may not have the best sense of direction, and that has been thrown into completely unfamiliar territory. By whatever luck or good grace of higher powers, it turns out that Thorin and Bilbo do not have to travel far in order to find a tavern that looks rather like The Prancing Pony in Bree. The cobblestone road outside of it is cleaner, and the people - mostly humans - milling about this town seem less furtive and hurried than Thorin remembers. This place seems generally less perilous for the average traveler.

The warm glow from within the tavern shines through the slightly dingy windows, and the muffled sound of a merry crowd carries out into the night in brief snippets as patrons come and go.

Good enough.

Shouldering the pack that somehow managed to accompany him, and dropping a hand to the sword at his side, Thorin pulls the door open and heads inside without hesitation, knowing that Bilbo won't be far behind.]

((From over here, cause... reasons.))

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[ Thorin sinks back onto the bench with a heavy sigh. He could say something about the fact that expecting everyone to make it through this journey alive was foolishness to begin with, but he doesn't actually want to destroy all sense of hope. They never would have made it this far without it.

It would be difficult to see the victory in it all if one had not seen the dragon burst forth from Erebor, never to return, or the piles of gold and treasure within the mountain itself. Bilbo has not yet seen the legions of orcs laid low by an army of dwarves, rallying to their king. Or the eagles, returning to pick off those tried to flee.

Bilbo may know what it is to have a home, but he couldn't be expected to fathom exactly how it felt for Thorin to reclaim his, after fighting so long and so hard, against all odds. When even his own people, save for twelve, would not follow him.

He regards Bilbo silently for a moment, solemnly, then he nods. ]

Aye. I will not abandon my home, my people, or my honor. Or my friends.

[ He slides off the bench and stands, tugging his armor and tunic back into place. ]

I tire of this filth. I've arranged for a room upstairs, which supposedly has an adequate bath.

[ Better. Not perfect. But better. Bilbo likes to think himself clever when it suits him and he hopes, perhaps, with some time and effort, he can devise a way to fix this mess. … Who is he fooling? He's naught but a small hobbit, out of place and out of element, what can he possibly do? Still, he wants to try, however little he can, to figure this out. So he logs it away for another time, promising himself to revisit it when the shock ebbs away.

For now, he glances up to Thorin and then back to his mug, offering a minuscule nod. Okay. Yes, all right.

… Oh. Wait. Is he meant to—?

He hasn't moved. Still seated, he hasn't fallen into the typical routine of rushing to follow said leader. Instead, he stalls for the moment and glances upward once more. ] Do you mean… for me to go, ah, with you? [ He supposes there's little sense in him sitting here, alone, amongst a crowd of uncertain intent. And he has to admit, quietly to himself, that he'd rather not let Thorin wander too far away when they've just found one another. But with all that said, Bilbo is never confident in what Thorin expects of him.

~~And he hasn't even finished his drink either, pfffft.~~ ]

[ There may yet be a way home, even for him. It's not as if sitting around lamenting his continued existence is going to accomplish anything, and Thorin is quite possibly physically incapable of being genuinely idle. ~~It's hard to believe that he is still alive, in every sense, but he will not simply accept death without a fight.~~ He will find something. Especially with Bilbo at his side, he could ask for no truer friend, or more clever ally. ]

Unless you'd rather sit here alone with your drink. [ There's almost a sense of good humor to his tone as he once again shoulders his pack, rather than anything particularly demanding. He can't imagine Bilbo not following him. Perhaps not always tripping on his heels, but sooner or later. ] Bring it with you.

[ He does not wait to see whether or not Bilbo does so, he's already on his way toward the stairs. After all, even if someone were to try anything behind him, they would be sorely pressed to accomplish something before having an unhappy, well-armed dwarven king in very close proximity. ]

Edited 2016-02-28 14:21 (UTC)

[ No, he does not want to sit here alone with his drink, thank you. The tavern, before, felt too loud and too crowded; now it's near overwhelming when he has no steady presence to focus on across the table. So he stares mournfully at his soon to be abandoned drink – he doubts very much they're allowed to disappear elsewhere with their cups, Thorin – and then stands. Turn, step, pause. Well, on second thought. It's not as though he's burglaring it. It's only up to one of the rooms, all of which are within the same vicinity.

Indecisive, he taps his fingertips against his pant leg for longer than necessary, and there, mind made up, turns back around to take drink in hand. Akin to a fauntling with greedy fingers in the cookie jar, Bilbo sneaks a borderline guilty gaze toward the barkeep, as though he's doing something he's not meant to, but of course, his dalliances are of no concern to anyone. That is, except... – ah, where'd he go?

Oh, there.

Squaring his shoulders to regain his confidence, Bilbo soon follows, weaving here and sidestepping there. He closes in at the stairs, the hard creak of that bottom step being the first, real indication that Bilbo is back where he should be and it's with one, last backward glance, that Bilbo follows Thorin upstairs, tight-lipped and clutching his mug close. ]

[ Thorin has been watching Bilbo's dilemma from the middle of the stairs, only turning back once the hobbit finally makes up his mind. It never ceases to amuse him that his burglar is, quite frankly, terrible at actual burgling in most cases. He is more than adept at hiding things when he has a mind to, but actual theft is another matter entirely.

There are a line of numbered doors in a hallway, one side open to the large, open room below. It's close to what he's used to, but it just feels... off in a way he can't put words to. He steps up to the third one and unlocks it, pushing the door partially open, but he doesn't immediately barge into the dimly lit room. He's not that reckless.

Once Bilbo is within a conversational distance, he looks over, his shoulder still against the door frame. He's not about to admit that the exhaustion from the day is starting to creep up on him. It's nothing he hasn't faced before. ]

You can return that later, Master Burglar.

[ Minding his own business as it were, Bilbo falters in step when the other's attention is suddenly on him again. It's not as though Thorin makes him nervous – ha, all right, perhaps a little – and he's quite gotten over his need to stay out of Thorin's way whenever possible, but when one opens a door, one is meant to go through it, not stand about looking. The pause is short however and when he starts again, it's with a marginally quicker step until he's just within arm's length. ]

And I shall! [ Indignant, the words are spoken a touch more huffy than what's proper. Honestly, to even think he needs reminding. He's been contracted to burglar one thing and one thing alone; he shall not be adding other thievery to his conscious ~~aside from a certain ring in his pocket, ahem~~.

With that, he holds Thorin's gaze a moment longer and then, well, he looks to the room, leaning, slightly, with the motion for a better view. A shuffle closer. Gaze back to Thorin, curious and questioning. Back to the room, once more, and finally, he settles on Thorin and stays, look expectant and brows raised. Well? ]

[ It was not so long ago that Bilbo shuffled so nervously around Thorin on a constant basis, uneasy to begin with at being so far from his comfortable home. Doubly so under Thorin's direct, stern, disapproving stares, when he bothered to acknowledge the hobbit's presence at all. It has been some time, too, since he realized that he'd been very wrong in his presumptions, but clearly it has not been so for Bilbo.

But he knows now what courage his burglar is capable of, and that in time, so will Bilbo. He will eventually get used to Thorin actually having respect for what he has to say.

Eventually being, perhaps, the key word.

Good enough. Thorin pushes the door fully open and steps into the room without any further hesitation. There are no hidden assassins, orcs, or anything of the like in the room. It's far from luxurious, but there are four individual beds that look comfortable enough, a sturdy-looking wooden table, and a window in the back looking out onto the street. There's also a partition that all but closes off a bathing tub and a sink. Several oil lamps give the room a dim, but sufficient light. ]

This place reminds me of Bree.

[ He drops his things near one of the beds - he hasn't yet had the time to go through exactly what has come with him - and begins to shrug off weapons and outer layers. He pauses before laying Orcrist aside. ]

The last time I was there, I was made aware of the fact that there was a hefty price placed upon my head.

[ Bilbo offers nothing beyond a hum, acknowledging but lacking any experience to correlate the comparison. Bree, yes of course, he knows of it, but the furthest destination one of his walking holidays ever took him had been Frogmorton. Wandering, he bypasses the bed stationed next to Thorin's and chooses another, further away, setting his mug on a low-set bedside table before poking curiously at the mattress. Men, can they do nothing correctly? First their ale, now their beds. It's more welcome than a rocky or beaten path, that goes without saying, but suddenly, he sorely misses his bedding of Bag End.

Not that he'll breathe a word of complaint in his current company.

He glances to Thorin then. It's not surprising, yet it still jars his sheltered sensibilities; he hasn't been in Hobbiton in some time, he should start expecting less than polite conversation, especially between comrades in... arms? Hm. Still. A price on his head. That big, white orc had indeed traveled quite the distance to hunt Thorin down, so it's not a surprise, no, but he has to wonder if it's the same or if there's another price for such a thing to circle within the gossip lines of Men. ]

Lucky then, that this is not Bree. [ Not that he feels any safer for it, thank you Thorin, a fact made obvious by the way his gaze slides toward the door. They will be fine. No one gave them so much as a second glance. But he remains standing anyway, awkwardly so, neither shrugging off his coat nor unbuckling his weapon in favor of finding a comfortable perch upon the bed. Someone must play guard while Thorin bathes; Bilbo is an unfitted one, but, well... ]

[ Thorin does not know of that note's origin - it might have been in Black Speech, but it was presumably in the possession of a man, not an orc. It matters not. He will trust no strangers here, nor will he sleep too soundly, but he has made it through such perils before on his own.

The plate, chain mail and the tunic underneath it have soaked up the worst of the blood, and it takes some work to remove them. Once he's down to his trousers, it's obvious that he's not quite as unscathed as he first thought. The mortal wound has been closed - leaving a scar that looks older than it should - but there are still numerous other fresh wounds, some of them minor, others somewhat deeper. Nothing that will kill him, but probably enough to worry Bilbo. ]

Perhaps.

[ There's a clean robe and trousers at the top of his pack, he takes those with him as he crosses the room to the bath. He wasn't expecting running water, let alone hot water, but it is a welcome discovery. The soap smells more flowery than he would like, but it'll do. ]

If there are places here like Bree, then there may also be places like the Shire. And the Mountain.

Edited 2016-02-28 23:03 (UTC)

[ Initially, he doesn't mean to look, because any sort of undressing deserves some privacy, but even so, he's learned long ago that there isn't room for shy sensibilities when living practically on top of each other on a quest, so he does peek, eventually. … Probably enough? Ha. What a mess. The fact that he moves about nonetheless, as though unhampered by wounds that should be tended to... – is that a stubbornness all dwarves share or is this trait specific to Thorin?

Bilbo's very close to grumbling, but he waits for Thorin to disappear behind the partition and then, only then does he expel the worry, no, the frustration with a heavy-laden sigh.

Right. So.

He ought to leave it be but he ignores such warnings of self-preservation and crosses over to the dwarf's bed. He doesn't have much idea what to do with the plate or chainmail; however, he picks the tunic up. Sweat, blood and grim – he wrinkles his nose and frowns from one tear to the next, contemplating, before, slowly, bringing himself to fold it. Dwarves, always so inconsiderate of their surroundings, especially when they're within someone else's establishment. The clothing may be in need of disposing, but there's no sense in leaving the pieces scattered about, dirtying up the bed, the floor. Hmph, honestly, do they even possess manners? ]

It's not... terrible being here. [ Not always. He sets the tunic beside the pack and then begins on the next layer. ] There are pleasant places to visit. [ Softer now. ] Though, I'm afraid none feel quite like home.

[ It's quite possible that all dwarves are stubborn to a fault, to some degree or another, but Thorin comes out on the more extreme end of that even by dwarvish standards. It's not that he doesn't feel pain, he simply has become accustomed to ignoring it since it would only slow him down or distract him from more important things. Once he's clean, then he may do something about it.

As Bilbo sets aside the tunic, the bulkier contents of the pack shift - most likely simply due to imbalance after Thorin went rifling through it - and a flash of a gleaming white light glitters through a gap between folded clothes. If the pack were to fall over, the source of that light could very well go tumbling out onto the floor all on its' own. ]

'Close' is not good enough. We will find a way back.

[ It feels downright glorious to have clean hair again, Thorin would have to admit. For as long as he will trudge through the rain, mud, and snow without complaint in pursuit of a goal, there is something to be said about being clean and dry. Well, he's clean now, at least, and soaking in the hot water momentarily before working on the dry part. ]

[ It's comforting in a way just to listen to such determination, however, Bilbo would have been happier to hear such an admission if it had come sooner. Instead, there's only faint awareness on his part. Good, great even... but more importantly, what's that? He pauses, hands still full of cloth, caught between setting it on the pile and letting go. Lips parting in silent wonder, he inches up on his toes and leans his weight on his hands, peering over, closer...

And he jerks back. No, he shouldn't. He shakes his head; hard. What's he thinking? Looking through Thorin's things; how, how rude.

He clears his throat and ducks his head, mentally berating and trying his very hardest to not let his gaze wander back toward the curious, very curious splendor of light. As much as hobbits swear by their desire to remain within their boxed in worlds, they have a nosiness to them, one that usually only feeds into a need to gossip and to know all about everyone within the Shire borders. Well, Bilbo's world has expanded greatly, with wider boarders and a larger assortment of faces, so he can't help it. Can't help being curious about Thorin too. ]

[ … But he really shouldn't.

Should he? ]

[ He glances to the partition, listening for anything beyond the occasional splash and then he hooks his fingertips on the edge of the pack, inching it back just so. The gap is small but it's nothing to diminish the light. Again, he tells himself not to, that the newfound trust between Thorin and himself is not something to trifle with…

But he pokes at the cloth anyway, nudging it away to widen the gap. Huh. ] … What's this? [ It's a question for himself but one he, absentmindedly, voices nonetheless. ]

[ If Thorin were at all aware of what he's been carrying with him, he would have known exactly what Bilbo is talking about. He also would certainly not leave it nestled so randomly in between other things. Whether or not he would have actually mentioned it... No. No, he would not have. Not to Bilbo. Not after what happened earlier this morning.

Was it really only hours ago? How much time has passed since then? He cannot say.

He is just wrenching himself out of the bath and reaching for a towel when he hears Bilbo's muttering, and is, for the moment, still completely unaware of what the hobbit has just come across. After all, the last time he had a pack of any sort, there was nothing in it that would have been worth getting worked up over. Is this some sort of commentary on his severely damaged armor? ]

What is what, Master Baggins?

[ This towel will need some serious cleaning if it's ever to be used again, but most of the bleeding has all but stopped now. Thorin is pulling on that pair of pants before he goes anywhere, so for the time being Bilbo is still alone to his musings. ]

[ Guiltily, he jumps a little and jerks his head toward the voice, only feeling marginally better to find... nothing. No one. No Thorin. Good. ] N-Nothing. [ His breath catches on the word and well, Bilbo's never boasted of ever being a good liar. In fact, he would be proud to admit that he's rather truthful. Usually. Right now he wouldn't mind a bit of skill though, because all he can do now is clench his eyes closed and scrunch his expression in tight; quite convincing there, Master Baggins. ]

It's only... [ He scrutinizes the pack, the bed and then down, observing his placement in the whole arrangement. Thinking better of it, he takes one, two, three steps away, broadening the distance between him and said pack, as though erasing any involvement in the affair. No. Nope. He hasn't been anywhere near it; certainly hasn't been riffling through any packs or clothes or jewels.

… Except, there's still that folded pile, so that might put a damper on his deniability.

On that thought, he crosses his arms and shuffles away some more, still eyeing the glow. ] There's a light. Coming from your pack.

[ Bilbo can't see it, but Thorin freezes at the mention of a light. For several seconds, that feel rather like an eternity to him, there is nothing but dead silence in response. He steps out with the robe settled across his shoulders, but not actually fastened, and moves across the room with what feels like a strange slowness. In actuality, he is moving rather swiftly, barely glancing at Bilbo as he kneels beside his pack. Clothes are rudely shoved aside to reveal precisely what he was expecting.

The Arkenstone.

Here. With him.

There's a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, something akin to dread, as he closes his fingers around it. The memories flood in all at once. How he coveted this. How close it was, for so long, unknown to him. For another long moment he is all but lost in the glow and the feel of that smooth surface in his hands.

But then... Bard. Holding it aloft. Bilbo, admitting that he had taken it...

... ]

This... is the Heart of the Mountain.

[ His voice is suddenly, unexpectedly hoarse. He is torn, utterly, between fierce desires to hold onto it, and to thrust it as far away from him as he can manage. Either way, he certainly seems to be entranced. ]

[ … This doesn't feel right. The way Thorin moves, how he kneels, the strain in his voice; something's wrong. But with memories not yet made and experiences yet to be lived, Bilbo only feels an unease toward the unfamiliar, rather than the sinking dread the stone will inevitably cause him. For now, he settles for a frown and lets his hands relax to his sides, waiting, hoping for some clarification on what to do next.

He just doesn't understand.

He remembers the troll hoard. How Nori, Gloin and Bofur emerged, mouths twisted in wide grins; long term deposit, indeed. Bilbo's yet to witness the infamous greed of dwarves firsthand but as he may forget from time to time, there's some very distinct differences between their races, one of which he's presently being made well aware of.

He steps closer then, slow and uncertain, peering at the stone, but soon finding his attention much more interested in the way Thorin watches it himself. He's so focused. So intent. Bilbo swallows and the uncertainty twists, just the barest bit more. ] … And what's that? [ Oddly, he almost wishes not to ask, but. Heart of the Mountain? Erebor? What is it? Or more importantly, what is it to Thorin? ]

[ It's hard to say how long that Thorin would have remained like that, simply staring, lost in thought, but he is abruptly jolted out of the reverie by the sound of Bilbo's voice. He swallows hard and takes a deep breath as he finds his voice once again. He cannot entirely banish the whispers, but they're not drowning out all reason as they were before. ]

This, Master Burlgar, is why you were hired. It is the Arkenstone. The King's Jewel. With it, I would finally unite the dwarven clans to march upon the mountain, to defeat Smaug.

[ Of course, things did not go as planned.

He slowly shakes his head and looks up, suddenly focused on Bilbo's face. Through the haze, the particular memory of Bilbo's face as he was nearly suffocated at the gate floats to the surface, and Thorin is once again clearly aware of how close he came to killing his most loyal friend. Before he can begin to have second thoughts, he forcefully thrusts the gem into the hobbit's hands. His voice is rough, heavy with grief and shame, but grim determination, still. ]

When you go back, you must never allow me to see it, not until I am myself again. Keep it hidden for now. Please.

[ P-Pardon? He's knocked back a step, partly from the force and the rest from the sheer surprise of suddenly having his hands full. Startled – and more so confused – he blinks down at the Arkenstone, altogether at a loss with the current turn of events. Never allow him to see it, until he is himself again? Does this have to do with the madness? Dragon sickness?

But...

But it's just one gem. A right pretty one, he'll say that much, but... doesn't Thorin need this to unite the clans and take back the mountain? Isn't that what he just said?

Good sense tends to leave Bilbo at the worst of times and instead of scrambling to follow orders – and to heed that ever-present anxiety he's been weathering since Thorin walked into the room – Bilbo frowns, stalls, and worse, disobeys. Truthfully, the please should be more than enough to silence any disagreement – for that's not something to take lightly when Thorin is involved – but he just can't seem to clear the hurdle of misunderstanding, not when the conversation has taken such a swift about-face. ] Thorin. You're speaking in circles. Isn't this what you need? [ He doesn't offer it back, no, but still he stands as he is, unmoving to hide or conceal, palms barely enclosing the gem. ]

[ Thorin heaves himself back to his feet, staggering as unsteadily as a man that's had too much drink as he turns and takes a few steps to the opposite bed. His hands settle on the baseboard, it's the only thing keeping him on his feet as tries to stop the sickening tilt and spin of his thoughts, old anger threatening to bubble to the surface once more. No. He will not give into that. Never again.

Given space, small as it is, and enough time to take a deep breath, he finds it possible to clear his mind, but he is certainly not prepared to gaze upon it again. Not yet. Of course, neither is he capable of casting it aside, either, but he knows that it is as safe in Bilbo's hands as it would be anywhere else.

Thorin tries not to think too much about whether or not Bilbo would give it to him when he demands it. He will when it is necessary, that is all that matters.

That is the only thought he can allow himself on the matter. ]

I no longer need it to reclaim my homeland and reunite my people. It is an heirloom now, my birthright but also a piece of my past that has brought naught but ruin upon those I would call friends. In the midst of my madness, I could think of nothing else.

[ He is somewhat more in control of himself, though unsteady. Still, he knows he has to make Bilbo understand. ]

You had it, the entire time we were searching for it. You knew that it would stir nothing but more darkness in my heart, should you give it to me. You must have known that I would have gone to terrible lengths to avenge that loss, and yet you still returned. You tried to reason with me when there was none to be had.

At the time, it felt a stinging betrayal the likes of which I had not felt in a very long time. Now I see that it was loyalty, held fast even in the face of madness.

Edited (so many edits, sorry x.x) 2016-02-29 23:44 (UTC)

[ Is that what he'd done? What he will do? Watching Thorin carry himself about, both unsteady and uncertain, is a curious thing to observe and in some small way, it almost hurts for a reason Bilbo can't entirely name. In the end, he shies his gaze and drops it low, staring at the stone he supposedly took upon himself to burglar away. Keeping a precious, family heirloom from Thorin and knowingly opening himself up to his impending wrath, hm; it doesn't sound like something he would do. Right? A Baggins would follow his contract. A Baggins wouldn't stray from the grain. He's meant to be a burglar, true, but he likes to think he'll be an honest one. To do something so – in his current mind – unexpected, rash…

… Things must have truly deteriorated for him, of all people, to stand up to Thorin.

He still doesn't understand. Not really anyway. It's to be expected though; he won't know the full extent of circumstance and doubt that fueled the debacle, not until he's lived through it himself. Lovely. As though he hasn't already suffered enough dread for the end of their journey. The dragon is meant to be the worst part, but now he's beginning to wonder…

Sighing, he shakes his head and with only a hint of his earlier reluctance, shifts, intending to shove the Arkenstone in his pocket. However, he thinks better of it and he suddenly wants it a touch further away. So he silently finds his way over to his bed and peels back a corner of his pillow, plopping the Arkenstone down and under. There. Out of sight. Out of mind? No. He does have questions, of course he does, and maybe he'll ask another time, when Thorin is in a better state, because Bilbo thinks, maybe, it'll do him good to be more prepared for the disaster this stone brings. For now? He keeps his palm pressed into the pillow a moment longer and then dismisses the discussion with a simple— ] I suppose it shall make more sense when the time comes.

I'll keep it… safe. [ One, two, three, and there, he presses his hand back to his side and turns to Thorin. ] But that's enough of that. [ There's an emphasis to his voice now; a courage his wants to convey but doesn't fully feel. Not initially. Once he starts, the pent up exasperation lends itself easily to his words and really, perhaps it's not so difficult to turn the conversation away afterall. ] I know you dwarves are particularly keen about ignoring your well-being, but if you've had your fill of, of bleeding on things you shouldn't, I think we ought to wrap those. [ Well. There is one hitch. And that's when the ease slows, just a little, enough for a slight hesitance. ] … If you happen to have something of use within your pack, that is.

[ There are some questions that can be answered. Other things will not make sense until the time has come. The important thing here and now is that Bilbo understands enough, and Thorin suspects that he's gotten his point across sufficiently. It's not something he's going to worry about, at least, when he is otherwise preoccupied with fending off the doubt that still attempts to gnaw away at his resolve. Perhaps he should keep it. This is no mere gold token, after all, it is his birthright. Aside that, he's not afraid of a mere stone, is he?

It does not last long.

His jaw is set in a certain familiar stubborn fashion as he straightens once more, and strides over to rifle through his pack, a touch impatiently. It doesn't take too much searching to find a roll of clean fabric that will serve well enough. He slides the robe off of his shoulders and sits on the bed, inspecting his wounds with a detached sort of disdain. ]

This is nothing.

[ And yet, he knows that Bilbo will insist it isn't. But this is almost a routine sort of interaction between them. ]

[ Of course it isn't! Ridiculous. So utterly ridiculous. Though, of course, this is coming from the dwarf who charged down the trunk of a burning tree to face the white orc and his pack, so self-preservation isn't a trait that should be associated with Thorin. Ever.

Trying his best not to give into some less than polite urges and oh, perhaps roll his eyes, he pads over to the bed as Thorin pokes and prods himself. It's a touch taller than a bed should be and so Bilbo has to hop more than he'd like, a tad ungratefully too; soon he settles though and rearranges to sit comfortably.

He picks up the roll of cloth and then, hm. Is it simply because he's closer? Or is it the mere fact that he can actually look without feeling as though he shouldn't? Either way, the damage looks worse than he originally thought.

There it is, the up-swelling of exasperation again. This Bilbo may not be as bravely outspoken as Thorin's Bilbo, however, uncertainty can only detour the uptight nature of his carefully crafted sensibilities for so long. Order, logic, there's a routine to Bilbo, one that he falls back on whenever he encounters someone doing something particularly foolish. And he's been finding that dwarves, especially, do many, many foolish things.

So it can't be helped, the way his voice drawls, dry and unimpressed. ] If this is nothing, I wonder then, what something would be. [ He's seen Thorin nearly bitten in two, and judging by that nasty scar, this Thorin may have been close to being skewered; so what's the standard? Or are dwarves incapable of admitting pain? ]

[ Bilbo will likely be none too pleased when he discovers the matching scar on his back. Skewered is, perhaps, an accurate term to describe it. They are far from his only scars, though they may be the newest. A lifetime of battle and hard, back-breaking work has ways of leaving its' mark even on the hardiest of folk.

He may grimace from time to time, but that's more or less the extent of admitting that he could still be in pain. Now that the rush of battle has worn off, and the distraction of being thrust into an unfamiliar world has settled in, the pain from the stab wound through his right foot is starting to make itself known.

That makes him grit his teeth and clench a fist when touched, but his composition yet holds. He is not a babe, suffering from his first battle wounds, after all. Part of him is actually glad for the pain. Suffering such pain is a burden for the living and the victorious to bear.

It also takes his mind off of other things, at least temporarily. ]

What gain is there in lamenting flesh wounds? [ He inhales sharply, but holds it until he can exhale without a groan. ] They will heal, Master Baggins. It is a small price to pay for the opportunity to run my sword through the filth that killed so many of my kin.

[ There's rage and sorrrow cutting through the pain. Fili's death is still a very near loss. Fili and Kili were both much more like sons to him than nephews. ]

Edited 2016-03-01 14:24 (UTC)

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1/3 icoooons. it's a ridiculous habit but.

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naw, it's fine! I have done it myself at times x3

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LOL you editted like. 3, 4 times? i kept getting notifs while i was out. i laughed.

that is what happens when I look at anything too long ._.

/shields your eyes

*is blind now* ._.

is blind now ._.