dear_mun | hesitantly voicetesting

[ Bard does not think, does not dare to breathe, only stretches back the bowstring taught, and sights the small gap in the scales near Smaug's breast. Exhale.

'Arrow!’ said the bowman. ‘Black Arrow! I have saved you to the last. You have never failed me and always I have recovered you. I had you from my father and he from of old. If ever you came from the forges of the true king under the Mountain, go now and speed well!’

He pauses. He breathes. He lets the arrow fly. ]

[It is the barest of hints, the sharp rush of air that escapes Bard before that cursed black arrow is arching through the air to the bared skin beneath Smaug's armored vest of gold and diamond. Once upon a lifetime, the man before him was lucky and downed the great firedrake. But now, now Smaug is wide awake despite the lazy-limbed state, and he rears up with a snarl, sparks chasing the bite of his teeth.

The arrow finds purchase -- but it is between gleaming diamond-plated scales instead of bared skin. The ground shudders as one clawed hand bears the dragon's weight, luminous, gold eyes settled upon Bard with an intensity few could match. Smoke seeps from between teeth, inner flame lighting the gold at Smaug's breast with a radiant light.]

Seek you to kill a dragon? [His voice is low and sibilant, burrowing into the marrow of bones and settling there like poison. Smaug moves with sinuous grace, golden coins falling from his broad back and the delicate membrane of his wings to fall with melodic sounds.] Seek you fame? 'Tis not yours to claim, Dragonslayer; not while my flame still lingers in my bones, not while this mountain is still mine.

Fame and glory do not feed a people.

[ Bard rolls out of Smaug's direct firing range on instinct, eyes tracing to where the shaft is wedged between scales. If something could force it through further, or even it it would fall loose, for him to retrieve it and shoot again. ]

I would see you dead, ere you cause yet more harm.

[ Evil, vile and cruel. Bard moves again, changing cover even as he speaks his words, trying to leave little trail or indication where he darts to. If he prepares to take another shot, he might make the softness of the Dragon's eye, but he will have to be careful, and quiet, to do so. ]

[He laughs as the flame dies, flickering upon the melted gold where Bard once stood. The man is smart, and he hides well despite the shifting ground beneath them. But Smaug has spent decades upon decades in this mountain, atop this gold, he knows where each gold coin is and he can scent the fear in Bard even though he might hide it under determination. It coats his tongue, settles heavily upon the air like perfume.

Gold scatters beneath Smaug's weight as he slinks forward, his head tipping as he scans the ground. Sooner or later he will find Bard among the gold he seeks, and then Smaug will feast upon his flesh and crack his bones between his teeth to sup upon the delicate marrow.]

Not a people perhaps, but certainly does the spoils of glory feed a Dragon. [A quiet rumbling laugh, echoing through his belly and the gold beneath him in a way that shakes the ground.] I shall devour your home once more, bowman, and there is naught you can do about it.

This mountain hasn't belonged to you in years, wyrm. [He stands tall, the Lord of Silver Fountains, bedecked in finery and wearing wildness and ferocity like a coat.]

I suggest you leave, before another arrow finds its mark.

[He might stand tall, but this little Lord is nothing when compared to the dragon before him. Smaug stretches, tail flicking, wings spreading in a great display before they fold against his body with an innate grace. There is a wildness to this dwarfling, he can scent it upon the cloth he wears, and yet there is little of his threat that resonates within Smaug's molten blood.

His nostrils flare, great golden eyes slitted with slumber.]

And who are you to threaten me? [Laughter then, low and rumbling, sending golden coins slip sliding from their piles.] Do your arrows crave the taste of Dragon's blood they shall not partake in?

[He doesn't flinch, just stares him down with a determined sort of fierceness in his eyes. He rests his hand deliberately on the hilt of the gilded sword at his waist.]

I am the Lord of Silver Fountains, who the prophecies have spoken of. The King of Carven Stone and King Under the Mountain are my kin, as is the Barrel-Rider.

[Of a sort, anyway.]

Prophecies? [And there, contempt -- Smaug tosses his head, laughter building in the back of his throat with the flickering light of dragon flame.] I care not the titles you carry -- I've no use for such things, not when it will take but one snap of my teeth to feast upon your flesh.

[But still, Smaug shifts closer, slinking through gold like a great snake until his nose is scant yards from where the Lord of Silver Fountains stands. His breath is hot and heavy with the scent of flame and death.]

I shall kill you all, you and your Kingly kin, and that thief will know my wrath.

[A shiver of fear runs down his spine, but he hides it well. He is a Lord now, proud and fierce, a warrior. He holds himself tall, unflinching.]

You ought to pay more mind to your own destiny, slug.

[It matters not if he hides that fear -- Smaug can scent it upon the air and it is glorious. His mouth draws into a wicked grin, teeth sharp and heated by the flicker of flame building in the back of his throat. Even the insult is petty and precocious, hardly a threat and though his pupils dilate to thin slits, Smaug merely tips his head, an acrid smoke seeping from between teeth and from nostrils.]

And you yours, Dwarf.

[The gold beneath him is melting from the heat of his flame lit belly, claws digging gouges in the floor.]

[He flinches at that comment, going a shade paler before he recovers himself, gritting his teeth and glaring.]

I escaped that fate.

[Barely. Only through Merry's help.]

[It matters not if this little Lord gathers his wits and recovers himself -- Smaug had seen the way he flinched, had seen the blood flee from his face, can even now hear the grit of his teeth and smell the fear that lingers upon him like perfume.

He breathes in, savoring the taste upon the air, and rests his head upon his claws, breath hot and smoky as he exhales purposefully in Kili's direction.]

Perhaps. [His mouth parts in a draconian grin, all sharp teeth and ill intent.]

What do you know of what is to come, wyrm?

[He draws himself up again, though he's still rather shaken by that.]

And what knowledge have you, dwarf? [He can smell it, the fear that lingers within that form before him. It makes him hungry, the heat of his fire licking up along ribs and spine and organs all.]

Do not think yourself so free of the fate once spared you.

Death comes to all dwarves in time. [His jaw sets, nostrils flaring.] I am not afraid of that.

Aren't you?

[Soft as a whisper, tongue sliding over parted teeth as the bitter scent of fear lingers in the air.]

I know my heart better than you.

[It's not a yes or no and there's definitely a note of uncertainty in his voice.]

[He hears that, and Smaug is smart enough to catch the deflection for what it is -- his lips draw back over his teeth, the needle points exposed in a terrible smile. He needn't reply, and so he doesn't, getting to his feet and stretching before turning with a great swell of displaced gold.

Smaug's tail whips gold about, piles trembling ans shuddering under immense weight of the hoard as he turns and climbs further back into the familiar heat of his golden throne.]

One thing is indeed true, Smaug, and that is that there are not many of you left. As to your greatness, you have yet to prove yourself greater than a handful of Dwarves.

[There is power yet, in the being before him. It is heady upon the air, slick and bittersweet upon his tongue and Smaug's eyes settle upon that innocuous form without blinking. Curiousity it is and fear, maybe, if he were more cognizant of his inner workings and all that falls before the arrogance within him.]

A handful? [A snort, smoke upon the air.] I chased them from their haven! I set hundreds aflame, feasted upon them as they screamed!

[ There is a fire in Sauron's eye that burns on high mountains a white hot flame that puts the fires of any Dragon still worthy of the title to shame. It is old, deep, hot and burning within the earth and it has been lying in wait. You know his name, Smaug, it is burned into your flesh like a brand, passed down from your ancestors through story and myth.

He sees your curiosity, unblinking, and raises it. ]

But did they fight? Or did they scurry in terror? To claim victory over men and elves, and not merely the half-formed creatures of mud and dirt who cower in their caves. That would indeed be a true sign of strength. One worthy of respect, worthy of all who came before you.

[He does know the name, knows it as if it is the very thread of his being and though Smaug has never been one to bow his head in deference, now he slinks forward. He scents the air, the scent of power and flame and death heady and intoxicating, and feels his lips curl back over the calcite row of teeth.

The words awake a hunger in him, a need for chaos and blood and the taste of charred flesh upon his tongue. Still, his pupils are blown wide, his iris a molten ring of gold, and he curls around Sauron like a cat winding around a person's legs.]

Do not doubt my strength, O' Giver of Gifts. [A rumbling laugh, throat lit with flame.] Do not doubt my reserve -- I have slept sixty long years but I am no weaker for it.

[Lielle has seen many dragons. Killed quite a few, too. But this one... this one, she's content to merely admire quietly. She smiles ever-so-slightly before dipping into a bow of respect.]

[Dang, dude, you're a big 'un.]

Not often dragons show their hides in these parts.

[Respect is not often something he gets, not in person at least. But Smaug does not care -- he is a great firedrake from the north, the last of his kind, powerful and intelligent and grand. He has been called greatest of calamities, and he knows it well. Still, the woman before him is naught bigger than one of his teeth, and Smaug doesn't even deign to greet her, one great eye opening with the step of feet upon His gold.]

No? Then they are cowards.

[And he's no time for cowardly dragons, not when he's a grand hoard to warm himself upon and a stolen mountain above head.]

[The Nords called her Dragonborn once, a woman's body with a dragon's soul in it. The Whitebeards called her Dovahkiin. She hunts them across the width and breath of Skyrim, claiming their power for her own. But this one is different from those. Ancient and clever and without any quarrel with her.]

Aye, they may be, Great One. [A little flattery goes a long way.] Or they know enough not to dare cross paths with one like you.

More like the Lazy, Oversized Squatter Under The Mountain.

[He was not sleeping, but Smaug emerges from his pile of gold like it is the sea. One clawed hand lands not to far away, sweeps across the gold until it is coated with the splattering of blood, thick and heavy and beautiful after centuries without. For all that he has gained, Smaug has little patience, and a temper that flickers and builds quickly like the flame within his bones.

With a snort, he settles once more.]

[In this case, there's no blood, just cotton-candy colored goo. And Slapstick manages to pull himself together enough to form eyes and a mouth in it.]

It's not like that doesn't hurt, ya know.

[People tend to stay dead once he's killed them, but to hear that voice after feeling the coating of blood -- though upon closer look, it is pink and vibrant and not like blood at all -- upon his claws. Smaug rears back and stares unblinkingly, confused but not deigning to show it.]

Good, then. [And a breath of flame, past the calcite daggers of his teeth to heat the gold beneath Slapstick's goo'd form. Partially curiosity, somewhat irritation. This time, Smaug waits to see if he will reform.]

The long years of your life have been spent in solitude, oh King. Does company displease you so? (Arwen is keeping a cautious distance, her head slightly bowed. He is a great being, after all.) You knew the Dwarves would return.

[He turns lazily, breath a great whoosh as Smaug scents the air, golden eyes unblinking as the fair elf comes into sight. How funny it is to see the play at respect upon her face, in the tip of her head, even though she stays out of distance in hope it will grant safety.

A silly thought, his flame could bridge the gap between them in seconds, his claws could reach out and pluck her from the gold upon which she stands between one breath and the next.]

Of course I did. They are foolish creatures, and I welcomed the chance to taste their flesh once more. [Flame builds in the back of his throat, a living light that lingers beneath his skin for her to see. Smaug might be preening.]

Dragon's can't be kings, silly. They're just dragons.

Oh, but aren't you lovely.

[Don't mind him, Arthur just happens to adore dragons.]

[He'd settled once more, and as England speaks Smaug lets one eye open to watch him lazily. The being before him smells odd, like Man but not somehow, and it rouses his curiosity enough that the great drake shifts to face the nation directly, mouth parting upon a breath that leaves the row of sharp teeth peeking out from behind his lip-less mouth.]

Well, one among you has taste at least.

[Arthur stayed in place, unafraid as the dragon shifted to face him. He smiled, holding himself back from going out to touch him. That would be rude.]

I haven't seen dragons in centuries, and none your size.

[There is no stink of fear upon the air. There is none of the usual reactions to which Smaug has known from all who are not dragonkin. It is -- odd. There is a shift of gold beneath him, the clatter of pieces of his horde giving way beneath his enormous weight.]

Then they are none so great as me. [A sniff, smoke seeping gently from his nostrils.] Fools they are to have been brought low and killed without grandeur.

All the more a pity. I remember when there were more of your. Many more.

[He shifted on his feet for a moment.]

Would you mind... Could I touch you?

[It strikes a spark of surprise within him, like the strike of flint to iron. There is some measure of disdain -- Could he touch him! As if he was some pony to be stroked! -- but Smaug has ever been one for the curiosities, the unknown. His great golden eyes blink slowly, catlike, and Smaug settles upon his haunches, one great paw settled easily before England.]

Tell me more of these dragons, and you may.

I knew them mostly as a lad, so it's been a while. They too had their hoards of treasure, though none so large as this.

[Taking that final step forward, he reached a hand out to lay on the dragon's paw, marveling at the texture of scale.]

Nor were they so well armored as this.

[England's hand is minuscule against his paw, pink and cold against the hard red and gold heat of his own. It has been a very, very long since Smaug has seen such tiny beings in such close ranges, especially that is alive still. But there is no shortage of what a dragon might do when faced with such flattery and praise. He preens under the words, wings fanning out and folding back against him.]

You may continue.

[A pleased purr to his words, eyes mere golden slits as Smaug rests his muzzle upon his paws.]

They lived down in my brothers lands, mostly. He even put one on his flag. He would be so jealous if he knew I was speaking to a dragon as grand as you.

[A low humming sound filters past his teeth, enough to show he listens, enough to show he's no idea who England means and doesn't really care. But he doesn't pull away, breath gusting hot over his paws as Smaug preens under the praise.]

As he should be.

[Sitting down in the gold, Arthur leans just slightly against him.]

If his dragon had looked anything like you, we might have tried to capture your likeness on the union flag when our countries merged.

[ Under stone pillars and behind heaps of glittering treasure waits one small hobbit, barely daring to breathe, cursing the lucklessness which has him trapped deep in the dwarven caverns with a dragon quite awake. Perhaps if he is silent long enough, if he is very, very still, Smaug will forget his presence? Oh, yes, and probably fish will fly from the Lake and the sun will rise from the west. Bilbo curls up very tight, his back against a pillar, not daring to look around to see where the dragon has gone; he hugs his arms close to his body and feels the weight of the Arkenstone shift against his breast, in the hidden inner pocket of his jacket. Here, at least, is one treasure that Smaug can no longer call himself master of. ]

Edited 2014-04-01 01:48 (UTC)

[Smaug can smell him still, the scent of earth and sweat and fear that lingers cloyingly close to the golden floor beneath them. It's nothing like the scent of a dwarf, or a man, or even an elf -- and like the way the Thief hides from sight, it shirks all recognition, sending a tight disgruntled bundle of emotions in his belly.

But Smaug's senses are good, and he can hear the shift of coin and the quick sip-gasp for air, and the thumpthumpthumpthump of the Thief's heartbeat like a running rabbit. His flame builds in the back of his throat, thick and sulfuric and hungry -- for the knowledge of what this being is, for the crackling scent of flesh and fat cooking in the heat of his fire, for the taste of meat and blood upon his tongue. Beneath his claws gold shifts and moves, burying treasures and glinting in a way that might have distracted him were he not on a hunt. Instead, Smaug's mouth parts to scent the air, golden eyes flicking from stone pillar to stone rubble to piles of gold.

There is nothing to be seen, even if he can hear the quick thump of a heartbeat getting closer. His voice is low and rumbling like the crack of thunder in the heavens, breath hot upon the shifting gold he slinks across.]

You cannot hide forever, Thief.

[ The ominous drag of a heavy belly makes him want to cringe. The dragon crawls upon his piles of gold most horribly, slithering up one mountainous heap and down another, and Bilbo can picture the forked tongue slipping forth, too, tasting the air as all serpents do. He can smell the burning stink of his throat, the foul air he exhales from his nostrils; it fills the cavern so that the hobbit imagines how it might linger on the gold itself even if the beast were gone, linger so that it must all be melted down to shapeless rivers.

Oh yes, he is suitably impressed by Smaug's magnificence. Impressed enough to wish he were a thousand miles away, to wish very devoutly indeed that he were home beside his fire.

Bilbo clears his throat. ] Surely not. [ His own very small voice rings shrilly in the cavern, almost giddy with fear. ] Surely not, with so keen a hunter on my scent. Actually, what I would like most of all is to leave and trouble you no more. I don't suppose we could come to an agreement?

[The gold shifts and settles beneath his heavy frame, the membranes of his wings tucked against his back ere they get caught upon rubble and weapon and send more gold tumbling about him. Smaug has no fear of injury coming from his own horde, he has dwelt within these halls for a century and more; he knows it intrinsically.

Still. After such a long time with only his horde it is all a bit boring, and this is the most interesting thing to happen for decades at least.]

An agreement? [It draws a sharp laugh from Smaug, suitably amused in the quiet hope this foolish being clings to still.] You are not the first to plead for such, and 'tis nary a being living still with a dragon's agreement to be held. But come Thief, come closer still that I might hear speak of this agreement.

hesitantly voicetesting

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Feel free to have Smaug roast him. He'll just come back five seconds later.

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