Hiatus

Bo-mun here again dropping by to apologise for vanishing. Again. Just as soon as it looked like everything was stable enough to warrant coming back, life decided it still had more stuff to throw on me. I’ve still got plenty of muse for Bofur but no time right now to get into multiple threads and it’s not fair on my partners to be so unreliable. In this case it’s best if I wait until I really know I can put the time in and come back when I know things are settled consistently.

I am formally putting Bofur on indefinite hiatus again. Massive apologies for not coming on here sooner.

If you wanna keep in touch OOC or for insta-rp on the fly (as I say, my muse is still v strong) my KiK is BurglarHobbit: just let me know who you are if you get in touch! Also feel free to message if you’d like my Skype! Otherwise you’re welcome to follow my personal blog though most of my content is trash =P

Thanks so much for your patience and love, guys! I miss you all and setting my obnoxious little ball of sunshine on your muses. Stay safe ‘till I see you again!

The Journey Ends at the Hidden Door // DOS AU

@bxfur

Thorin was shocked to see Bofur had been able to join them the following morning when they were sent off on the boat from Lake-town to the slopes of Erebor. It had been Bilbo who had asked after the miner, and he had told his hobbit - well - their hobbit - their burglar - that if Bofur was not awake then they would leave without him. Thorin knew he had drank way too much ale the night before, and the last he had seen of him, the miner was passed out beneath one of the table, snoring loudly.

So it was that he scowled when he saw that dreaded hat making its way through the crowds of men and women of Lake-town gathered around the docks, to see off Thorin and his company, and their hobbit. He had told Kili to stay behind, as his second nephew was wounded, and needed to recover from that wound. He was angry that Fili had fought with him and said he would stay behind, as well as Master Oin grumbling about staying behind as well, his duty was with the wounded.

Thorin was not happy at all when he looked up and saw Bofur running toward the boat, and the men had halted the boat for him to join them. He glared at the miner, and shook his head. “Hurry up now, Bofur! We do not have all day to wait for you to recover from your drinking bout! Get in the boat now! We have to be off!” he grumbled, and kept Bilbo close to him. They were both dressed in the ridiculous clothes, red tunics and tall hats the men had given them, and Thorin was reminded of a king and his consort. He would not let the miner sit beside his hobbit, he would fight him over that.

Near miss wasn’t nearly an accurate enough term to describe Bofur’s scramble to join the Company. His head spinning fit to burst and boots slipping on icy planks whenever he navigated a corner, it was a miracle that he had managed to make it to the dock, let alone found himself fortunate enough that when he called out he was listened to. The progress of the small group had been paused just long enough for the miner to make an undignified descent into the craft and, seeing no spaces nearer the front, he elected to take whatever space could be made between Nori and Dwalin.

He should probably have apologised - and a majority of times he would have happily acquiesced to blurting something - but for whatever reason he remained silent. Silent that was save for a single, expressive huff as he sat, leaving a clouded breath which visibly punctuated the conversation. Perhaps it was the hangover or frustration with himself, but for whichever reason Bofur seemed reticent to argue the point but instead allowed the boat to lapse into silence.For a short while, at least.

Silence was not often a common companion to the Dwarf who enjoyed so much conversation, and a swift glance about the boat was more than enough to make it clear what had happened. He case a backwards glance, immediately startled by the trio of figures slipping out of sight, and couldn’t help but speak. “Oh,” he ventured at last, oblivious to the more subtle signals of his kin as they encouraged him towards silence, “‘the lads aren’t coming with us? I thought they’d be first in like jumpin’ at the chance to see Erebor.” 

      A strain of madness runs deep in that family. His grandfather lost his mind, his father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall? It lingered. Words that had festered in his mind, pushed back to the deepest crevices of memory — and had he not, for the longest time, believed he could keep them there? Now there were other voices. Darker, PAWING at the surface, seething below, sometimes quiet, then growing to a BOOMING in his head, that deafened his own voice. Thorin had long lost track of time. Lulled in and out of dreams of GREATNESS, dreams of home, he had spent days pacing. Waiting. Brooding in the emptiness of the throne room, his very own EXILE he had placed upon himself, for sometimes he forgot there were others, sometimes he considered them UNWORTHY of his company— and then, in the few moments of clarity, remembering what he had done, said to them, he was too ASHAMED to face any of them.

      It was no such moment Bofur found him in. Calm he was, yet frightening; the massive frame made larger with fur and IRON, Thorin sat slumped upon the throne, blue eyes staring at nothing, while he relentlessly kept on turning the RING displaying his family’s sigil upon his finger with a thumb. A nervous tick, possibly; the sign of a crazed mind for sure. The greeting remained unheard, a KINDNESS that found no response, and it wasn’t until Bofur uttered the word Arkenstone, that Thorin’s gaze but for a moment and unexpectedly DARTED to the toymaker – lingered for no more than a few seconds, and just as abruptly was averted once more.

      ❝Still looking—❞ the baritone of his voice once had sounded KIND. Countless tales he had told, songs sung, a rare but humming laughter by the campfire. What remained was HOARSE, a voice used too often and too loud, or never at all, and Thorin for a moment knitted his brows as if speaking hurt his throat. Forgetting Bofur standing before him, he briefly began to mutter under his breath; a low RUMBLE emerging from the broad chest. ❝We must bring the treasure to the lower levels. Bring it to SAFETY. They may be here soon, they may demand of me– demand. Of ME. It is not safe where it lies. It–❞ 

     Quite suddenly clouded blue eyes flitted to Bofur’s form once more, a look of SURPRISE settling on Thorin’s features but for a moment, as if the dwarvenking only now had realized the company, but the expression faded as fast as it had come.

      ❝If someone had TAKEN it– if someone were hiding it from me, you would tell me. Wouldn’t you?❞

Dwarves are not best known for being of a stoic disposition: their emotions often run close to the surface and there is little cultural shame in expressing honest feeling. As it was, Bofur exhibited no anger or evident sorrow but his emotions were still easily readable at a single glance. Concern, blended though it was with a healthy dose of fear, settled on his often-friendly countenance as he watched the king he had so often admired sit muttering to himself as though he were a creature gone mad. Now he truly understood the little idiosyncrasies of the Company. Why Bilbo was so quiet; why Balin often took himself away to privacy after meetings with their leader and returned red-eyed from crying; why everyone in the Mountain had not yet confronted the biggest issue they faced.

There was something of the wild animal about Thorin. The jerky movements, the timbre of his voice, it was all resonant of a creature who communicated through body language alone. Bofur rather fancied himself as talking to a bear more than a Dwarf - ready to lunge and snap at any given moment - and it felt a betrayal in itself to even consider that likeness. Admitting to himself that the king’s mind was unstable was something that was swift becoming a necessity, though he resisted with the true stubbornness of Dwarves. It’s a trying time. He knows what he’s doing.

His own pained gaze refocused in an instant when Thorin addressed him directly, and though his heart ached to hear such a query he knew better than to challenge it as a paranoid claim. In some small part he supposed he was better prepared for this sort of unpredictability in contrast to other members of the Company. The adjustment period required for his cousin had lent itself to outbursts in a multitude of fashions and, growing up with him, Bofur had always seen himself as a mediator of sorts. Where Bifur was hard to gauge and Bombur often silent, he had spent years acting to bridge the gap between them and the rest of the world. Perhaps, if he took things very carefully, he could coax Thorin to let him do the same.

“Aye, of course I would,” he replied, as gently as possible, “we all would. Nobody wants to help you find it more than us. After all, we followed you this far, so it stands to reason that we’d not keep somethin’ so precious from you, now would we? All we need is time t’find it - it must be somewhere in here. Tell you what, why don’t you get yourself out’ve this room for a while and I’ll do another shift.”

“Are you honestly still blamin’ me for this?!” In spite of all breathlessness after their initial panicked scramble for safety, Bofur still found room for indignation when he spoke. Indeed, were it not for the particularly dire circumstances the pair had found themselves in he might have pursued the matter further - perhaps even instigated yet another petty bickering session between the two. As it was he deigned to waste no time: the baying of those distant beasts Legolas had spoken of were swiftly increasing in volume and he had no intention of leaving Bombur to hear such an embarrassing news of his fate.

“Perhaps those ears’ve yours don’t work so well when you’re runnin’, but I thought there was a river not too far from where we started. I know they’re after us, but most animals aren’t desperate enough t’risk swimming. We could try crossin’ it.”

whismoriathedwarf:

Before Moria had even managed to conclude the request with suggestions for songs, Bofur had begun digging through his pack. Locating his whistle took a little longer than anticipated between the mess which had become his belongings on the road - at last discovering it wedged between a bundle of furs and Bifur’s old carving equipment - but once the instrument was in his hands it took mere moments for him to test it and find everything satisfactory.  Already he could tell by the general atmosphere that his music was going to have a mixed reception, but after a few pints and the knowledge that he was home..he could hardly care less.

“Are you jokin’? the amount of places I drink at, of course I know both. You just pick one, lass, and I’ll play.”

“A normal conversation?” Alu laughed at the idea. She didn’t think they were even capable of such. “Well, there’s a first for everything. I’d be delighted” She smiled and gave him a nod. “Go ahead and sit. What exactly would you like to talk about?”  

Ah. Well if she hadn’t very nearly boxed him into a corner with a question such as that...

Bofur took the seat he was offered after a deferential tug of his earring and stretched; it escaped his notice that his muddied boots were shedding dirt upon the boards beneath his feet. “I didn’t exactly plan anything,” he admitted, “it just felt like after everythin’ it stood to reason that we should get t’know one another better. Well, better’n just what your favourite drink is, at least.”

“Either you’re in trouble or drunk cause tha’s the only time we ever see each other” 

“And what if I was to tell you it was neither - unfortunate as that is on the drinkin’ front - but rather my attempt to remedy said problem?” In all honesty she was right: all prior interactions with the shapeshifter had resulted in either blood loss or memory loss; indeed it was a miracle that they both remembered one another. “I thought we could actually try a normal conversation, if it suits y'fancy.”

                       — “There is truth in what you say,” Legolas said, maybe to the surprise of the dwarf, honestly. “Although you err if you think yourself invincible. Many who made the same mistake reside now in the Halls of Mandos, and we who have survived, have learnt not to underestimate the spiders of Ungoliant. Though not as cunning as their mother, they are still vicious an they possess uncanny wits - or rather, a refined, predatory instinct.” When a branch snapped, Legolas immediately fell silent, his eyes flying towards the source of the noise. When minutes passed and nothing happened, he slowly relaxed again, and continued his story.

           — “However, you would indeed be a sop for them, and buy us some time. Unfortunately, I fear the Free People would not thank us for letting a visitor, even an unwanted one, be eaten by the spiders in our own forest - and thus I am accompanying you, dwarf. Trust me when I say it is not with pleasure. You could help me out though, by telling me who told you to take the Elven Road. I thought dwarves detested anything made by my kin?”

Although he should have made the assumption earlier (as Dwarves oft do when it comes to those they dislike) Bofur quickly gathered that his own particular brand of humour and that of Legolas - should he even possess one - were not going to mesh particularly well. He opted for such a reason to keep further discussion to a minimum (as much for his own sake as that of the woodland prince’s), only reacting as the Elf did when they heard a disturbance in the forest. Jovial though the miner was, he was by no means a stranger to the realities of conflict.

With no sign of trouble approaching, the pair had elected to continue. For the time being Bofur had been suspiciously content with the silence which existed between himself and the stranger, so much so that when another question was directed at him he pretended to take a moment to have heard. Calloused hands adjusted their grip on the mattock slung across his shoulder and the Dwarf at last answered. “Now it might surprise you, lad, but not everything a Dwarf does is based on others’ opinions. I chose the route myself sure enough, and at the end of the day...A road’s a road no matter who made it. Assumin’ your kin didn’t put more magic in the place than already exists, it’s just stone same’s any old road. It makes no odds t’me.”

Choosing an unpopular character as your favorite like