Shadow didn't waste any time zipping over to where her squad was chilling by the shore, all soaked and looking like a hot mess.

But Kili was grabbing all the attention, sporting an arrow wound that was definitely not his best look.

Somehow, Shadow had totally missed it before, and she couldn't figure out how.

"Kili, don't even try to play the tough guy with me or your bros. I got this," Shadow insisted, her form shifting back to human as a hint of weariness flickered in her eyes.

Kili, keen as ever despite his tough-guy act, caught on that letting Shadow babysit his wounds might be a bit much. "I'm good," he asserted with a stubborn tilt to his voice, looking away. Still, the stain of poison was a stark contrast to his pale skin.

Shadow gave him the once-over, assessing the damage before reluctantly letting him be. But she couldn't resist—she reached out to his injured leg, her fingers sparking with a subtle wave of healing energy. The wounded flesh began to knit back together, albeit at a snail's pace.

And as Kili relaxed, the worry etched on his face smoothed out, replaced by a touch of relief. Shadow stepped back, her job done, giving the space back to Kili and allowing the group a moment to regroup.

A sigh escaped her lips, but soon after, Shadow's instincts kicked in hard. The distinct smell of man and the metallic scent of arrowheads hit her like a wave. Whirling around, darkness pulsed from her, shielding her dwarven friends from the bowman who had an arrow nocked and pointed straight at Ori.

The bowman faltered, his shot thrown off as he no longer had a clear line of sight on the young dwarf. He turned, his eyes widening in alarm at the sight of Shadow. Teeth bared in a feral snarl, she stepped forward, a tangible aura of threat cloaking her.

"How dare you aim an arrow at my friend?" she hissed with lethal calm. Her presence alone shifted the energy, the threat of her power an unspoken warning. It was clear that any harm directed at her friends would not be taken lightly.

"I don't know who he is to you, but what are you all doing here?" the bowman challenged, squinting his eyes distrustfully at the group huddled behind Shadow.

Shadow held her stance, a protective figure between the bowman's pointed arrow and her dwarf friends. She knew that now wasn't the time for threats, but for dialogue. Yet she had to stay sharp. Tensions were high, and misunderstandings easily turned dangerous. "We're just travelers, passing through," she answered, keeping her tone even and her posture relaxed to avoid escalating the situation. "No harm meant to you or your people."

Now it was up to the bowman to lower his weapon and talk—or not.

Bard hummed thoughtfully, his gaze shifting from Shadow to the bobbing barrels being nicked by the arrows of orcs. "And those barrels are my shipment, yet here you are climbing out of them. You shouldn't have been in them in the first place," he pointed out, though the edge in his voice softened as he secured his bow and began to stow his arrow.

Under Shadow's watchful presence, he started loading the barrels back onto his barge. "I don't know who you all are, but you clearly don't belong here," he stated firmly.

Shadow lifted her chin slightly, responding with a touch of candor. "You're right, we're just a group of dwarves journeying towards the Lonely Mountain for a reunion of sorts. And me? And Mr. Baggins here?" She cast a glance toward where Bilbo should have been, giving a small shrug. "We're simply tagging along—call us a merry band of travelers."

With Bard's acceptance, albeit grudging, opening a window of opportunity, the immediate risk of confrontation eased. Now, it was about figuring out their next move—likely to continue their journey under the less-than-enthusiastic escort of Bard.

Bard paused his labor on the barrels and pinned Shadow with his gaze, those clear eyes of his cutting through all pretenses, leaving her feeling slightly exposed. No question, the man had his own rugged charm.

"You're clearly not from these parts, and neither from the Elven kingdom, I'd bet. So, where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquired, tilting his head slightly as he addressed her.

Shadow inhaled deeply, contemplating her answer. "I hail from both over hill and under hill. You might say the mountains of Rivendell, to keep things simple," she replied with an easy shrug, her arms folding within the folds of her purple cloak. "But where I come from isn't really your concern, Bowman."

"Bard," corrected the man, straightening up with a hint of pride. "My name is Bard."

Shadow offered a wry smile and a curt nod. "Shadow, at your service, my good sir," she declared, her short hair falling playfully across her forehead as she bowed her head.

Bard returned the gesture with his own warm grin, and they shook hands—an exchange of mutual respect. Behind them, the dwarves were digging into their meal; some with enviable gluttony, others with heavy-hearted relief, but mostly with the shared fatigue that comes from being so close and yet so far from their goal. The Lonely Mountain was within reach, fate willing.

Still, fate wasn't exactly known for handing out favors. This journey on the lake, it loomed ahead, promising to be an even tougher test than any they'd faced before. Shadow cast a look over her shoulder at her motley crew, assessing their road-worn faces. Whatever came their way, they'd meet it together, as they always had.