"Lord Oakenshield." The richly-dressed dwarf in the parlor bowed deeply. "I am Gloin son of Groin, at your service."

Thorin merely grunted. "At yours and at your family's."

Gloin bowed deeply. "I bring greetings also from my brother, Oin, who also places himself at your service."

"Kindly return my greetings and place myself at his." Thorin returned, wearily. He knew both these dwarves; they both knew him. The Groinson brothers were probably more famous than the King-Under-the-Mountain, at least here in the North. Certainly they were richer. This whole exchange of courtesies was vastly unnecessary.

"Ah, but this is no mere courtesy!" Gloin wagged his finger and tapped it against his nose, as if anticipating Thorin's thought. "My brother and I truly wish to be at your service, to serve with you in a great enterprise!"

"Indeed?" Thorin raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And what great enterprise would this be?"

Gloin smiled enigmatically. "My lord, have you ever thought of the dwarf kingdom of our fathers?"

Thorin briefly contemplated throwing the inkwell on his desk at the man. "Do you speak of Moria or Erebor, my lord merchant?" He said, allowing some venom to seep into his voice. "Whichever it is, I can assure you I have ample cause to remember both."

Gloin had the grace to look abashed. "My apologies, my lord. I merely meant..."

"If you meant differently, then speak differently." Thorin cut him off impatiently. "Plain, and to the point. You clearly have a purpose in coming to see me; I would fain know what it is."

"…of course, my lord." Gloin said, bowing again. "I apologize, it is just… the affair is not plain, and the point is so…" He looked down for a moment and bit his lip, as if considering how to proceed. "To put it simply: My brother and I wish to be part of an expedition to retake the Lonely Mountain of your fathers, and seek your aid in this enterprise."

Thorin blinked. He blinked again. "And what," he said carefully, "Put this idea in your heads?" If that wizard had been spreading his ideas to others behind his back...

"I? My brother did. As for what put the idea in his head, you would have to ask him." Gloin smiled. "I do not pretend to understand the workings of the soothsayers."

Thorin grunted. Gloin's brother Oin was one of the open secrets of the Blue Mountains. Some said he was the secret behind Gloin's cunning investing, other said he was a senile dotard who Gloin kept around out of filial duty. Thorin himself had never put much thought into it. He had met the Oin in the war, and he had been strange then; Thorin doubted age had mellowed him much.

"However." Gloin spread his hands. "The idea being put in my head, I can see various… potentialities to the situation. The immediate monetary returns, to be sure, are obvious, but a business enterprise operating from the Mountain would command much more prestige. Products, naturally, 'from the Lonely Mountain' would be a much more reliable brand than those 'from the Blue Mountains. There would also be a readily available trade network in the lake. Could Dale be rebuilt…"

"But Dale is not rebuilt." Thorin interrupted him. "The only trade network is between the elves and Lake Town, and the only prestige you or any of us is likely to have will come from these foot-hill wyrm-holes we're groveling in."

Gloin blinked at him.

"Forgive me." Thorin regained control of himself. "I see little use in talking about what might happen when we regain our old kingdom, Lord Groinson, when it is not regained."

"You are, of course, correct, my lord." Gloin bowed. He seemed to do a lot of that. "Yet regaining the kingdom is not impossible. The road is dangerous, to be sure, but any caravan must be well-armed, and my brother and I are old campaigners. And—" his look grew crafty "—risky roads mean rich rewards."

"Not high enough to make up for the cost of getting there." Thorin was guessing, mercantile economics was not his strong suit.

Gloin waved his hand dismissively. "There will doubtless be other opportunities for business along the way. It matters little; the main intent is to get to the Mountain."

"And there?" Thorin raised his eyebrows.

Gloin shrugged. "We see what fate has in store."

Thorin waited, but it seemed that was all there was to say. "You have forgotten the dragon."

"No." Gloin shook his head. "Fate shall attend to the dragon."

"How do you see that?"

"My brother says so."

Again Thorin waited, but it seemed there were no additional reasons or logic to add to that point. Gloin just stood, looking at him, but now there was not the shade of craftiness or subterfuge about him. Just honest faith.

"Perhaps, Lord Gloin." Thorin said. "It would be best if I were to speak to your brother."

"Wagon? And why would a wagon be trouble in the first place, ye ken?" Oin Groinson peered at him from under a plume of foul-smelling smoke.

Thorin reconsidered his course of action. "Smaug." He said. "Smaug the terrible. Destroyed our home and killed our people. Chief calamity of our age. Probably sitting upon the mounded heaps of our people's treasure. Why don't you think he'll be a problem?"

"Oh, sure he's a problem all right." Oin nodded sagely. "Nae sure how that's goin' to work out. Nasty, terrible, dangerous business. Could lose a whole lot of people, trying to kill that beastie."

"Then why did you tell your brother to go do that?" Thorin asked.

"Did na tell Gloin to kill the dragon. Just to go to the Mountain. The dragon will be dead soon, sure enough." Oin moved aside a rack of bottles and began to root around near the back of the cases.

"How?" asked Thorin.

"I do na know that." Oin shrugged. "Only that he will."

Thorin sighed. Soothsayers were enigmatic at the best of times, and Oin Groinson was deaf and half-senile to boot. He had once been brilliant—his medical salves had given his brother much business over the years—might even be so still, but no easier to understand for that.

"What makes you so sure?" He said.

"The portents." Oin gave up whatever he was looking for. "Ah, I can't find me bones. Ne'er mind." He knelt down under the bench and brought out a small cage. Thorin saw the heads and tails of rats poking out at various intervals. "Out you come, my dearie." He said, reaching in with a gloved hand and pulling out a snarling rodent. He carried it over to a stone table at the end of the workshop.

Thorin followed with slight interest. He did not put much more stock in portents than the next dwarf, but the ceremony itself had a certain fascination.

Oin put the rat down in the middle of the altar, leaving it trapped with his hand. His other hand reached for a small silver hammer, cunningly decorated with runes and images. It was truly tiny—barely large enough for hammering in small tacks, but the perfect size for crushing rat's skulls.

Oin raised the hammer to eye level, muttering words of the secret Dwarven tongue. Thorin leaned in closer; this was always interesting. If the rat escaped, or the blow did not kill the animal instantly, than the reading was no good.

Oin let go of the rat, and there was a blur of furry grey…

RAP.

The rat lay dead a few inches from the altar's edge, blood pooling in the cracks of his stoved-in brain. Oin lowered his hammer and gave a small nod of satisfaction. Thorin was impressed; for all his age, Oin had speed and accuracy.

"Ye may have heard," Oin said, conversationally, as he reached for the ritual dagger, "that thrushes and ravens have been flocking to the mountain of late. Merchants on the road have seen them flying east; brothers in the northern marches say their rookeries are empty; a cousin of mine who does business with Lake Town tells me that the eaves hang thick with their droppings."

"So?" Thorin said.

"Such was foretold." Oin said, slicing open the rat's belly. "The prophecy of Grizinlur reads: 'when wings of feather fly back to the stone, the wings of flame shall fly no more. The lake shall smoke and burn, and the Mountain glow like gold at Sunset, and the King Under the Mountain shall rise anew."

Despite himself, Thorin could not help feeling a glow, a thrill, at the Soothsayer's words. King Under the Mountain. "All this from birdwatching?" He said.

"Och, nay." Oin was pulling out small bits of rat intestine now, livers, heart. He laid them out on the altar in careful order of how he had laid them. "But I have taken the portents. I have read the portents. And they are good. Behold." He indicated the organs, as if their meaning should be obvious. "The heart: the quest cannot help but fail. The kidney: Small and powerful shall the company be. Three-quarters of the intestine, then the rest: A quarter of the company shall fall, yet ultimately shall it achieve its end. And the stomach… ah!" Oin smiled as the stomach split open of its own accord, spilling its contents over the altar. "Behold the beast."

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "A dragonfly, Sir Soothsayer?"

"Och, believe what you like." Oin waved his hand. "I dinnae find dragonflies in rat's guts very often, ye ken. Yet every time I take the portents, there they are."

"And the ring." Thorin pointed to the other item that'd fallen out of the rats stomach. "What does that mean?"

"Great wealth and success shall result from the quest." Oin said. "That, too, has appeared in every portent."

"And what makes you so certain this successful quest, this dangerous quest, where a beast is slain and will result in wealth—what makes you certain that this is of the Lonely Mountain?"

Oin smiled, and with his right finger, tapped the altar meaningfully.

For a moment Thorin did not understand him. Then he looked at what Oin was pointing to.

The blood, still seeping from the rat's crushed skull, had pooled in a remarkably distinct form—a remarkably distinct silouhette.

The Lonely Mountain, etched in blood.

"Seldom be the portents so clear. The time is right." Oin spoke softly. "The mountain will be retaken, the dragon will die, and the king will rise anew."

"If they are so clear." Thorin said, struggling to retain his skepticism. "Then how are you the only one to see it?"

"Perhaps Mahal has his own reasons for showing me." Oin shrugged. "But I dinnae know, Lord Thorin, that I am the only one to read these signs."

Thorin frowned. "No one else has approached me."

"Oh ay?" Oin looked uncomfortable. "Dinnae take this the wrong way, m'lord, but… the quest does not say who t'will be the king what arises."

Thorin's eyes grew wide.

"Me brother and I… we would like to serve beside you, in this enterprise, to help the true king reclaim his kingdom. But if ye dinnae wish to go…" Oin shrugged. "…then we w'go anyways, for the path of fate is clear."

Thorin stared at him. "You would die before you even reach the mountain." He didn't even feel that was a prediction, that was a fact.

"Fate moves its own courses." Oin shrugged, beginning to clean off his altar with the ritual rag. "All we ken do is move with it, or fall behind."