A Hobbit of the Shire; running free with the winds of the North; I long to ride with the men of the Mark and to sing with the Elves of Rivendell.
on indefinite hiatus
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Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, king under the mountain.
Oh, but I’m forgetting, you don’t have a mountain, and you’re not a king, which makes you nobody, really.
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