In the heart of the Lonely Mountain, deep in the shadows of my chamber, I lay coiled upon the gleaming gold. My eyes, slits of fire in the darkness, watched the entrance to my treasure hoard with a vigilance that had not wavered in centuries. The dragon's greed was my shield, my pride, my sustenance. Yet, a peculiar scent, faint as moonlight on distant snow, tickled my nostrils. It was the scent of the meek, the unwelcome... and the scent of a thief.

"Welcome, thief," I rumbled, my voice echoing through the cavernous hall. The intruder quivered in the shadows, and I felt a strange thrill. It had been far too long since anyone had dared to disturb my slumber. "What brings you to the lair of Smaug the Golden, hmm?"

A high-pitched, squeaky voice emerged from the gloom, "Mister Dragon, I've come for... for... I've come for adventure! To see your treasure, of course." It was a creature, smaller than the dwarves I had feasted on for days, smaller even than the pesky worms that burrowed in my gold. "What is your name, brave soul?" I asked, amused by the tremble in his tone.

"I'm Smeagol," he chirped, his eyes flickering with a cunning that seemed out of place in one so tiny. "And what brings you here, Smeagol?"

"Curiosity, Mister Dragon," he replied, "and a love of riddles, perhaps."

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The Hobbit, Chapter 12,
Riddles in the Dark:

"What's in my pocket?"
"Bless us and splinters! A bit of luck, no doubt, but I don't think I've got it.

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The Lord of the Rings, Book 2, Chapter 4,
A Journey in the Dark:

"Riddles, riddles, and more riddles. The air's full of them. But I suppose that's what you hobbits enjoy, isn't it?"
"Well, if you can answer them, yes," said Frodo. "But I can't."

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A #WRITCO Prequel

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(Based of Tolkien's Tales
The Hobbit
and
The Lord of the Rings)

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The creature spoke with the boldness of the desperate or the foolish. I, Smaug, had faced armies and the greatest of warriors, and here I was, engaged in a game of wit with this... hobbit. He spoke in riddles and rhymes, his words dancing around the truth like a leaf in a storm. His very presence was an affront to my dignity, yet his cheekiness intrigued me. And so, the game began.

"Ah, a lover of riddles, are we?" I purred, my amusement growing. "Very well, let us play. But remember, Smeagol, I am not a dragon to be trifled with. If you wish to leave this mountain with your life, you must answer truly and without guile."

Smeagol, the sly one, grinned with a mouthful of yellow teeth. "I'm listening, Mister Dragon," he...