[Quest: Successfully recruit the Skin-changer Beorn as a General of the Dragon Kingdom.]
[Reward: Upgraded Bronze Mystery Box.]
Keith felt a surge of satisfaction as the notification appeared. The pieces of his grand design were starting to fit together.
Beorn tilted his massive head, his eyes wary. "And why come to me for 'friendship'? A dragon has no need of companions."
"Friendship is merely a word for shared interests," Keith replied smoothly. "As I recall, the skin-changers once called the lands around the Lonely Mountain home. If you were so inclined, you could return. I would carve out a vast territory for your kin's memory—lands where no man or orc would dare set foot."
"I have no need of your charity," Beorn growled. He had no desire to be entangled with the dragon, the treacherous Wood-elves, or the greedy Dwarves. The Mountain was a lightning rod for chaos, and Beorn preferred his solitude.
"And if I offered you something better than land?" Keith leaned in, his voice a low, sulfurous rumble. "If I offered you the head of Azog the Defiler? I will help you take it."
The air went still.
Beorn did not immediately refuse. He stood in a long, pained silence. The skin-changers had once been many, until Azog slaughtered them for sport and tortured the survivors. As the last of his kind, Beorn's hatred for the Defiler and his orc-spawn was a fire that never went out.
But he was a pragmatist. "You are powerful, Smaug. But you are one dragon. Azog commands legions. I do not believe you have the strength to deliver his head to me."
Keith let out a toothy grin. "Beorn, you are mistaken on one crucial point."
"I am not the only dragon in Middle-earth," Keith lied, his voice thick with unearned confidence. "If I say I have the strength to unmake Azog, I have it. And I intend to prove it."
Beorn's eyes widened. Other dragons? Impossible. Where have they been hiding? He suspected a lie, yet the doubt was enough to keep him listening.
"And one more thing," Keith added, choosing to raise the stakes. "I fear your peace here is a dying thing. Not long ago, the Necromancer—Sauron himself—sought me out. He wished for an alliance to sweep across this world."
"I refused him. But he is a shadow that does not take 'no' for an answer. Soon, a war of a scale you cannot imagine will wash over these lands."
"Sauron..." Beorn whispered, his face pale. "Then he truly lives."
"He does," Keith sighed with theatrical weight. "Think on my offer, Beorn. I will return in a few days to hear your answer."
Keith prepared to shift forms, but Beorn stopped him. "Wait. If I move to the Mountain, does that mean I must fight your wars?"
"When Azog shows his face, I promise you shall be the one to deal the final blow," Keith countered. "You will kill more orcs than you can count. Is that not payment enough?"
Beorn remained silent, wrestling with the choice. Keith reached into his storage, manifested a pile of gold, and spat it out onto the grass. "Whether you come or stay, take this. Buy yourself some decent ale."
Before Beorn could protest the "charity," Keith shifted into a majestic eagle and took to the sky.
Beorn watched the bird disappear toward the west, then looked at the gold. They said the dragon of Erebor was so greedy he would count every coin in his sleep. Yet here he was, throwing wealth away like dross. Has the beast truly changed? Beorn needed time to think.
Keith, in his eagle form, flew south with the focus of a predator.
Nearly two weeks had passed since the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had left the Shire. They were currently traversing the rugged terrain near the Hidden Valley of Rivendell.
The weather was brilliant—a perfect spring day with a gentle breeze. Bilbo Baggins, bobbing along on his pony, found the journey surprisingly pleasant, blissfully unaware of the shadow looming over the world.
Gandalf, however, was not enjoying the view. He sat atop his horse, puffing on his pipe and obsessing over a looming diplomatic disaster. In a few days, they would reach Rivendell. They needed rest, supplies, and most importantly, they needed Lord Elrond to decipher the Moon-runes on Thorin's map. Without that, the quest was over before it reached the Mountain.
But Thorin was a wall of stubbornness. He blamed the Elves for the fall of his people and grew hostile at the mere mention of their kind. Gandalf was still trying to find a way to trick or persuade the Dwarf-prince into entering the Elven sanctuary.
As the days bled into one another, Keith finally spotted them from above.
From the sky, Rivendell looked like a masterpiece of high-mountain beauty—lush, green, and ethereal. Keith looked at the paradise, then thought of his own "balding" mountain. Dammit, he muttered. My mountain needs some serious landscaping.
He ignored the valley and focused on the trail below. By late afternoon, the Company came into view.
"Found you!" Keith chirped inwardly. Exhausted from days of flight, he banked his wings and began a steep descent.
Gandalf, despite the distance and the glare of the sun, sensed the disturbance immediately. He looked up, squinting against the light. Eagles were not uncommon in the Misty Mountains, but something about this bird felt... heavy.
The Wizard reined in his horse, gripped his staff, and watched the eagle plummet toward them. His instincts, honed by ages of existence, flared with a strange warning. He expected a messenger from Galadriel or Gwaihir, but the "weight" of the presence suggested something far more ancient.