Deep within the roots of the Lonely Mountain.
"Why did you wake me?" Smaug rumbled, his voice shaking the loose gold around his claws.
"Master Smaug!" Gollum grinned, a grotesque expression that only a mother (or a dragon) could tolerate. "An Elf-thing came to the gate. He says to tell you that the Dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield, has reached the Mirkwood."
"I know who Thorin is," Smaug interrupted, stretching his massive wings. "How long have I been asleep?"
"A month and more, Master," Gollum replied.
Right on schedule, Smaug thought. It took them long enough to cross the Wild. "I suppose it's time to check in on my neighbors," Smaug said, rising to his feet.
Gollum grew frantic, his eyes darting to Smaug's chest. "Exalted Master! Please... let us see the Precious. We has not seen it in a month! We is fading, precious!"
Smaug considered the request. It was a fair trade for the information. He reached into his system storage and pulled out the One Ring.
The moment Gollum's spindly finger brushed the gold, leagues away in Mordor, the eye of Sauron flared with agonizing recognition. For the third time, he felt the psychic "tug" of his soul. And for the third time, it vanished a second later as Smaug tucked the Ring back into the void.
"FXXK!!!!" Sauron bellowed in the shadow-tongue, his malice vibrating through the very stones of Barad-dûr. He felt personally insulted. He was being toyed with.
Smaug, blissfully unaware (though he would have enjoyed it immensely if he knew), took flight. He soared over Dale, crossed the Long Lake, and shifted into his Eagle form as he approached the Woodland Realm.
A Drink with the King
On the highest terrace of Thranduil's palace, the Elven-king was lounging by a carved wooden table, a carafe of deep red wine at his side. He seemed to be expecting company.
"You've arrived," Thranduil said as the Eagle landed. "Care for a glass?"
"I thought you'd never ask," Smaug replied. He shifted into his Miniature Troll form and took the seat opposite the King.
Thranduil poured. Smaug drained the goblet in one go, letting out a satisfied huff. "Elven vintage. There's nothing like it."
"So," Thranduil said, refilling the glass. "How do you intend to handle Oakenshield?"
"I'm going to talk sense into him," Smaug said, smacking his lips. "I need that fool to understand that my fire doesn't have a sense of humor."
Thranduil nodded sloy. "Perhaps that prophecy isn't a mere fairy tale after all. Good luck to you, Smaug."
"My luck has always been impeccable," Smaug grinned. He drained the third glass. "Where are they?"
Thranduil pointed toward the northwest eaves of the forest.
"Thanks. I'll buy the next round," Smaug chirped, shifting back into an Eagle and banking toward the trees. Thranduil watched him go, a rare smile playing on his lips. He didn't know Smaug had already "met" the Company multiple times; he just assumed the dragon was finally going to do some "pest control."
The Haunted Wood
Mirkwood was, by all accounts, a miserable place. The canopy was so thick that even at noon, the ground was draped in a sickly, grey twilight.
To find the Company, Smaug had to shift into a Raven and dive into the thicket. He hated the oppressive atmosphere—the air tasted of rot and stagnant magic. He was half-tempted to just incinerate a few miles of it to clear his head, but he didn't want to upset his business partner, Thranduil.
He didn't have to look long. Dwarves are many things, but "quiet" is not one of them.
"Gandalf! Are you sure this is the way? We've passed this gnarled root three times!" Thorin's voice echoed through the gloom.
Gandalf looked around, his brow sweating. Truth be told, it had been an Age since he had walked these paths, and the Shadow of Dol Guldur had twisted the very geography of the wood. The Elves hadn't maintained these trails in decades.
"The wood has changed," Gandalf admitted. "But as long as we stay on the path, we will find the exit. Do not leave the road. Avoid the water. Follow me."
Smaug, perched on a dead branch nearby, found the Wizard's predicament hilarious. The Great Gandalf is lost in the weeds, he thought.
He decided to spice things up. He needed a form that would truly unnerve them. He thought of the horror stories from his old world.
Shapeshift: Zombie Monkey.
The result was a masterpiece of gore. He manifested as a primate with half its ribcage exposed, skin like parched parchment, and milky, unblinking eyes. He scuttled through the high branches, his claws clicking on the wood.
"Heh-heh-heh..." Smaug rasped, pitching his voice into a low, terrifying croak. "Fresh meat... I smell fresh meat..."
Below, the Company froze.
"What was that?"
"What kind of beast talks like that?"
"Where is it?!"
Smaug stayed perfectly still. The forest returned to a deathly silence.
"Maybe we're just hearing things," Dori whispered, his hand shaking on his axe. "The air is thin here."
"Keep moving!" Thorin ordered. "Whatever lives in this place isn't natural!"
Gandalf increased the pace. The Company began to trot, then run.
"Heh-heh-heh..." Smaug chased them from the canopy, leaping from branch to branch. "I haven't smelled blood in so long... where are you hiding, little morsels?"
"It's following us! Don't look back!" Thorin yelled.
By the time the sun began to set (or what passed for sunset in the gloom), the Company was half-mad with terror. Their faces were pale, their breath ragged. They were exhausted, but too scared to stop.
Smaug, satisfied with the evening's entertainment, shifted back into a Raven and glided down to settle on Bilbo's shoulder.
"Eep!" Bilbo jumped a foot in the air. "Oh... it's just you. Thank goodness. Did you see it? The... the thing in the trees?"
Gandalf glanced at the Raven, then back at the dark woods. He looked suspicious, but he was too tired to argue. A dragon who plays ghost in the woods, Gandalf thought. I'm definitely going to need a long vacation after this.