The people of Lake-town quickly returned to their hos, gathering whatever belongings and food they could carry.
This ti, no one had died. No one was injured. Everything was orderly. They were preparing to evacuate to the safe haven that had been promised to them.
"This might be the start of a new life," soone said hopefully.
"Honestly? Doesn't feel like much of a change to ," another muttered.
One townsman grumbled, "Most of the wealth is still in the Master's hands. Other than the roof over our heads, what did we ever really have?"
"If Bard hadn't fought for us tooth and nail, so of us would still be going hungry," another chid in.
"Too right."
"I heard that near the Lonely Mountain lies the ruins of Dale, the city our ancestors once lived in—rich, happy, and thriving. I'd love to experience that kind of life for once."
Bard stood quietly, listening to the voices of his people.
He rembered Thorin's words—the promise of a king. Maybe, just maybe, that promise could be used to rebuild their ancient ho. To bring Dale back to its forr glory.
Truth be told, even without the looming threat of the Orc army, Lake-town wasn't the ideal place to live. It was a floating city built on stilts, planted in the center of a lake. Years of exposure, poor materials, and the absence of consistent maintenance had left it shrinking year by year. The population it could support was steadily dwindling. A major shift was inevitable—whether rebuilding or relocating. Either way, it wouldn't co easy.
Still, perhaps this crisis could be turned into opportunity. Moving so of the townsfolk onto solid ground might be the best thing for them.
While Lake-town bustled with preparations, deep within the Woodland Realm, an elven ssenger returned swiftly to the king's hall with urgent news.
"Gundabad..."
Thranduil muttered the na with a headache already forming.
Why on earth would anyone go poking around there? Didn't they know the place was crawling with Orcs?
He sighed like a weary father whose child just ran into a spider nest barefoot.
At least Legolas was still safe. That was the one relief. He was traveling with Tauriel, and both were capable warriors.
"Any other news?" he asked.
What ca next nearly made him spit out his wine.
The dragon had been slain—by Eric and another human no less. The Dwarves had retaken Erebor.
Thranduil's first instinct was to march north and claim back the elven treasures hoarded in the mountain.
But then ca the punchline: a massive Orc army was headed straight for them.
Thousands of them.
Thranduil frowned in silence. Gandalf had ntioned this too, begging the Woodland Realm to send aid.
Erebor and Lake-town weren't far from Thranduil's domain. Closer than Bree, and practically next-door neighbors. A day's walk if you didn't mind the spiders.
If those lands fell, the Woodland Realm would be completely cut off. Surrounded by Orcs and worse.
And then there was another problem: Legolas was still out there. Stubborn as ever, the prince would never retreat from a battle. He'd be front and center on the battlefield, without a doubt.
Absolutely not.
Thranduil rose to his feet and barked to his lieutenant, "Prepare the armor and weapons. Assemble our finest warriors. We ride to reclaim what's ours—and to aid our allies."
"Allies?" the lieutenant echoed, puzzled. "Aren't they... just Dwarves?"
Thranduil replied without missing a beat, "Eric, Gandalf, and the n of Lake-town. They will need our help."
"As for the Dwarves—if they return what belongs to us and ask nicely, perhaps we'll throw in a little help for them too."
And so, the Woodland Elves set out—disciplined, ard to the teeth, and hauling crates of supplies.
Far to the east, in the Iron Hills, Dain stood with a scowl carved into his face as the ravens brought their grim tidings.
"Looks like Thorin's gotten himself into a ss."
He turned and shouted, "Everyone whose shield has tasted Orc blood—get your gear! We're marching!"
The Iron Hills may have had fewer fighters than the Woodland Realm, but what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in grit.
The reason it was called the Iron Hills? That land was bursting with iron ore. But as for gold or silver? Practically nonexistent.
So they had axes, armor, siege engines, even goat-pulled chariots—but not a single coin to spare.
In short: they had everything... except money.
Still, the dwarves rallied. Their boots thundered against the stone as they marched toward Erebor.
Back at the Lonely Mountain, Eric stood on a rise overlooking the vast ruins of Dale. His eye twitched.
If they wanted a proper defense here, they'd need walls—big ones. Not just Minecraft cobblestone fences, either. We're talking fortifications worthy of the na. This wasn't so puny 100-thousand-block vanity project. No, this was deep vein mining and lava engineering kind of serious.
But Eric didn't mind. His liver might suffer, but his in-ga stamina was infinite.
Encircling the entire valley was a dream. But a proper wall around one city? Now that was doable.
It was ti to show the Orcs what it ant to hit The Wall of Sighs.
Sure, he couldn't finish a triple-layer ga wall in just a few days, but a solid outer defense? That was within reach.
He surveyed the ruins of Dale again and stepped forward, attempting to claim the area as his own.
[Claim Failed]
"What? Already taken?"
Land that had a legitimate owner couldn't be claid, much like all those towns and faction capitals he had encountered before.
And then it hit him.
Of course! Dale might be in ruins, but Bard—descendant of its royal bloodline—was still alive. And that made him the legitimate lord in the eyes of the world.
"Thank goodness it's Bard," Eric muttered with relief.
Convincing him would be easy. Just one well-tid plea of, "You don't want your people to suffer, do you?" and Bard would probably hand over the deed with a pat on the back.
Still, that would have to wait until Bard arrived.
For now, it was back to work. Eric rolled up his sleeves—left hand a lava bucket, right hand a water bucket, backpack loaded with supplies—and began constructing.
Occasionally, he sprinted back to Erebor to request more lava from the dwarves.
"What do you need all this lava for?" asked Dwalin, wiping sweat from his brow as he loaded carts of rubble into the massive furnace.
"Oh, just sothing you'll find very exciting in a few days," Eric grinned.
"Don't tell you're planning to roast the Orcs alive. Even those thick-skulled goblins aren't dumb enough to jump into a pit of lava."
"Relax. I have plans," Eric said with a wink. "By the way, where's your main ore storage? I'll need a bit."
"You'll want to talk to Balin or Thorin. They know the layout better."
At the throne, Thorin considered Eric's question.
"I can take you there. What are you planning to make?"
"So surprise tools for dealing with the Orcs."
Thorin nodded thoughtfully. "If you need help, I can offer so. I may have been a wanderer, but I never let my smithing skills rust."
"No need. I'll handle it. But… are you sure you've got enough ore? I'll need a lot of iron. And a good bit of black powder."
That made Thorin laugh.
"Eric, you've clearly never explored the depths of Erebor. It might've been abandoned for decades, but the stores of tal and ore? Untouched. You could forge armor for an army and still not make a dent."
"Take what you need. That's an order."
Generous words—but deep down, Thorin wasn't worried.
After all, what could one man possibly do in just a few days? Empty out the mountain?
Ha.
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