𝐍𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ━ lord of the rings

Seventeen: Bared to the Bard

Heavy paws beat down upon the grassy knolls. Any passer-by strolling the busy routes of winding forest beside the river would have been in for quite the surprise if they dared peer across the raging waters towards the Mirkwood's dank mystique. Perhaps it would've started with a flash of brilliant gold between the gnarled trees, and the galloping sound of a creature of powerful enormity sprinting slalom through the overgrowth. But had that stranger taken greater care to keep their eyes on the unwavering creature charging through the woods, they might have seen it shrink and dispose itself of its beastliness. And then they would have been granted with a sight no less fascinating: A young man, hair of flaxen sunlight and eyes of warmth, a jaw sharp as the talons of his feline counterpart and every bit as noble.

Indeed, one man did witness this sight as he floated his barge down the waterside. But Nymmril paid him no heed.

The young man stumbled forth, his animal instincts raging. Blood thundered through his veins, rich and thick and marred with the black gunge of orcish weaponry. Between his shoulder blades, his naked body was hacked askew; a vicious and jarring wound festering on his back. It stung as he ran, free and bare. The salted winds caught on the fragile skin, and as the scent that he traced – the familiar stench of his dwarrow – grew stronger, so did the implication of fish and sweat and people. A labouring village – perhaps even a town.

Nymmril's heart, alleviated from it's dismal time within the Elven king's dungeons, skipped a beat. People! Oh, how he'd longed to be back around the constructs of humanity.

There was a difference between the strongholds of elves and dwarves, so barren and cold as they were, and the homes that humans forged for themselves. The shifter had fond memories of his times as a cub within the bustling cities of Kings and Dukes and Princesses. Had found his nomadic purpose, his pride, prowling the streets of the Havens of Umbar with groups of like-minded children in his youth, before the Corsairs had swept him away to the lands beyond Haradwaith... away from home.

He dashed through the swift pines, skidding to a halt as the land fell away. Brown clay and limestone tumbled at his feet, pebbles bouncing their way down to land in the tremulous waters below, drawing the attention of the shivering, wet-washed dwarrow that shivered on the rocky banks below. As they pulled themselves from the confines of rounded barrels, several of the company peered upwards, weapons drawn, only to be met with a brilliant smile and far more of the young man than many of them had wanted to ever see.

A small stone snapped the branch of a fir several strides from Nymmril, and the man laughed happily: "A poor shot, my dear Ori!"

"Nymmril! I- I could've killed you!" the young dwarf complained, voice rising tightly in relief and embarrassment.

"Aye, lad, thought ye might've been one of those filthy rusê!" Glóin agreed, lowering his axe in an almost sheepish manner. 

"It takes more than a pebble to down a lion, my friends," Nymmril chimed, standing bared and unabashed on the gently sloping cliffs above them. Bilbo, unused to such brazen nudity in his gentile hobbit state, turned away quickly, red-faced and stammering about the lack of propriety he had surrounded himself with.

"Cover your tackle, son! Yer givin' the ol' Baggins a heart attack."

Snickers arose from the ranks of dwarves below, and Nymmril felt his own cheeks flame as he picked his way down to the river banks to join them:

 "I'm afraid my clothes were torn during my transformation..." the shifter began, but though his words were sheepish he made no move to fix the supposed issue. "Then again, I do not see the problem. Don't you hobbits not have a -"