It began long ago in a land far away to the east, the like of which you will not find in the world today. There was the city of Dale, its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of vine and vale, peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth; Erebor, stronghold of Thrór, King under the Mountain and mightiest of the Dwarf-lords. Thrór ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson. Ah, Frodo, Erebor! Built deep within the mountain itself, the beauty of this fortress city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the Dwarves was unequaled, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Ever they delved deep, down into the dark and that is where they found it, the Heart of the Mountain! The Arkenstone. Thrór named it the King's Jewel. He took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even the great Elven King, Thranduil. But the years of peace and plenty was not to last. Slowly, the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in. Thrór's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. It was a sickness of the mind. And where sickness thrives, bad things will follow. The first they heard was a noise like a hurricane coming down from the North; the pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. He was a fire-drake from the North. Smaug had come! Such wanton death was dealt that day, for this city of Men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another prize. For dragons covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. Erebor was lost - for a dragon will guard his plunder as long as he lives. Thranduil would not risk the lives of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the Elves that day... or any day since. Robbed of their homeland, the Dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness. A once mighty people brought low. The young Dwarf prince took work where he could find it, laboring in the villages of Men. But always he remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright, for he had seen dragon-fire in the sky and a city turned to ash. And he never forgave... and he never forgot.
It began long ago in a land far away to the east, the like of which you will not find in the world today. There was the city of Dale, its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of vine and vale, peaceful and prosperous. For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth; Erebor, stronghold of Thrór, King under the Mountain and mightiest of the Dwarf-lords. Thrór ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and grandson. Ah, Frodo, Erebor! Built deep within the mountain itself, the beauty of this fortress city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone. The skill of the Dwarves was unequaled, fashioning objects of great beauty out of diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Ever they delved deep, down into the dark and that is where they found it, the Heart of the Mountain! The Arkenstone. Thrór named it the King's Jewel. He took it as a sign, a sign that his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even the great Elven King, Thranduil. But the years of peace and plenty was not to last. Slowly, the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in. Thrór's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. It was a sickness of the mind. And where sickness thrives, bad things will follow. The first they heard was a noise like a hurricane coming down from the North; the pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. He was a fire-drake from the North. Smaug had come! Such wanton death was dealt that day, for this city of Men was nothing to Smaug. His eye was set on another prize. For dragons covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. Erebor was lost - for a dragon will guard his plunder as long as he lives. Thranduil would not risk the lives of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the Elves that day... or any day since. Robbed of their homeland, the Dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness. A once mighty people brought low. The young Dwarf prince took work where he could find it, laboring in the villages of Men. But always he remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright, for he had seen dragon-fire in the sky and a city turned to ash. And he never forgave... and he never forgot.
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