As all of the Dwarven people of the Lonely Mountain were driven from the homeland by the deadly Firedrake of the North, a winged feminine figure was elegantly crouched atop the mountain, watching the disaster before her. 

The ember of the fire reflected from her luminous yellow-green eyes, giving off a reflective, glowing effect on them, while her sharp, metal finger-cuffs dug into the rock below her. The Raven-black catsuit she wore, with a few feathers being embedded into the material, matched with the horned headdress, made her represent pure evil. She wasn't phased when she watched the destruction before her with a cold-eyed gaze. 

[i]Robbed of their homeland, the dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness; a once mighty people brought low.[/i]

Spreading her huge feathered wings, the feminine being took flight, away from the mountain. 

[i]The young dwarf prince took work where he could find it, laboring in the villages of men. But always, he remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright, where he had seen dragon fire in the sky, and a city turn to ash. And he never forgave, and he never forgot.[/i]

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Sixty years later, during the Third Age of the Shire, a Hobbit named Bilbo Baggins, was at peace, living comfortably within the spring-like realm of his surroundings. No threats. No restrictions. Just...living freely. What he didn't expect was an adventure that was, what you could say, [i]unexpected[/i].