In the Iron Hills, the council of the seven Dwarf-kings had devolved, as it inevitably does, into a marathon of drinking. Reasoning was not the natural state of a Dwarf; ale, however, was. As the kings roared and sang, the question of Smaug and the Elves was set aside for the moment. Only fate knew how long their stupor would last.
Meanwhile, at the Great Gates of Erebor.
CRASH! BOOM!
With two deafening roars of stone meeting earth, the twin statues of the ancient Dwarf-kings that flanked the entrance were brought down, reduced to jagged piles of rubble.
Smaug watched the demolition from a nearby height, a low rumble of amusement in his chest. He reached down, snatched up a roasted sheep with his teeth, and began to chew contentedly.
Suddenly, a notification flashed.
[Loyalty +49]
[Congratulations, Quest Complete.]
[Bronze Mystery Box (Upgraded) Issued to Storage.]
A streak of good luck, Smaug thought, swallowing the last of the sheep. He immediately accessed the system storage.
Open!
[You have opened an Upgraded Bronze Mystery Box.]
[Reward: Shapeshifting (Novice Level). You may transform into any beast whose mass does not exceed your original form.]
[This skill is Upgradeable.]
Smaug's pupils slitted into thin needles. This changed everything.
He no longer needed to rely on Bilbo Baggins to retrieve the One Ring; he could go to the dark places of the world himself. He could infiltrate the Orc legions as a warg, or move through the human realms as a common bear. The possibilities for "mischief" were endless.
There was no time to waste. Smaug polished off the remaining food and drained a massive vat of Elven vintage. Sated and fueled, he took to the skies.
"Make way, Elves! I'm heading back inside!" Smaug called out as he swept over the hundreds of craftsmen working at the gate. Even without the warning, the Elves were already scattering like leaves in a gale.
Inside the deeps, Smaug loaded a fresh hoard of gold into his storage and carefully secured the Frost Dragon Egg. He didn't know how long he would be gone, and leaving the egg behind was a risk he wasn't willing to take.
Fifteen minutes later, he emerged again. "Make way, Elves! I'm heading out!"
The Elves stood in stunned silence. "Is... is the dragon actually a lunatic?" one whispered. "He's like a restless hatchling."
"The King was right," another added. "He's slept himself into a madness."
"Look! He's heading for Mirkwood again!"
In the Mirkwood, Thranduil had been obsessing over the dragon's erratic behavior. Why the kingdom? Why the gold? Was it a trap? The ancient Elf-king's mind, unaccustomed to such rapid change after millennia of stillness, was beginning to fray.
His thoughts were interrupted by the piercing blare of the conch shell.
"Sire! He comes again! Smaug approaches!"
Thranduil felt a vein throb in his temple. "Prepare for battle!" he barked, racing to the parapet.
As Smaug crossed over the palace eaves, he looked down at the frantic Elven-king. "Don't worry, old neighbor! I'm not here for a visit today! We'll play another time!"
Smaug didn't slow down. He soared directly over the palace and kept flying west.
"..." Thranduil stared after him, his jaw tight. He felt a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to scream. Below him, the Elves who had scrambled into battle formations shared his sentiment. The fear of Smaug was being replaced by a much more exhausting feeling: the annoyance of being teased by a giant lizard.
Beyond the borders of Mirkwood lay a stretch of rugged hills and a vast, fertile plain. This was the domain of a skin-changer named Beorn. He was a creature of immense power, so formidable that even Azog the Defiler avoided a direct confrontation with him.
Smaug intended to make an ally of the bear-man.
Before crossing the final treeline, Smaug surged upward into the clouds, vanishing from sight. There, he activated his new skill.
Shapeshift.
The massive dragon form compressed and reshaped. Seconds later, a majestic eagle plummeted from the clouds. As it neared the ground at the edge of the plains, it shifted again. A colossal black bear—larger than any natural predator of Middle-earth—hit the grass in a dead run.
Smaug, in his bear-form, lumbered toward a large, sturdy timber house.
Beorn was outside, split-ax in hand, hewing wood with savage efficiency. He stopped as he saw the black bear approaching. He felt a shiver of wrongness; he knew every beast in these lands, and this bear was a stranger, and far too large.
Beorn gripped his massive ax, standing his ground.
Smaug stopped a respectful distance away, rising onto his hind legs. "Beorn. I mean no harm."
Beorn's thick eyebrows shot upward. "What manner of creature are you to speak with a man's tongue?"
Smaug gave a stiff, bear-like bow, his right paw crossing his chest. "Perhaps you have heard of me. I am Smaug."
"I have taken this shape as a gesture of respect to a fellow master of forms."
Beorn froze, his eyes widening in shock. "The Fire-drake? I have never heard that the worm of Erebor could wear the skin of a beast!"
"You are the first to know this secret," Smaug rumbled. "If it pleases you, I shall return to my true form. I find my own skin far more comfortable."
Beorn said nothing, watching with wary intensity. Smaug took that as consent.
Shift.
The ground groaned as the hundred-meter-long dragon manifested in the clearing, his golden-red scales shimmering in the sun. Beorn instinctively took two steps back, his breath catching. The sheer, mountain-crushing presence of the dragon was overwhelming.
"Why have you come?" Beorn asked once he found his voice. "I have no gold for you."
"A common misconception," Smaug replied with a dry chuckle. "I enjoy sleeping on gold, it holds the heat well, but I am not a slave to it. I have come to you for something much more valuable than coin."