It was the year 2954 of the Third Age and the relationship between the Dwarves of the Erebor and the Northmen had never been better. Trade flowed freely between the Fishing community of Lake-town, the city of Dale and the Lonely Mountain. In exchange for a variety of fish, grains and other “surface grown” edibles the Dwarves were happy to provide toys, contraptions, tools and implements. Known for their outstanding craftsmanship, the tools and devices traded allowed for better and easier farming, which in turn allowed for greater yields. On and on the circle went, more food for better equipment and items to stock the markets with which in turn brought more people to the area. Times were prosperous, and songs were still sung of their King, Bard I, and his slaying of the dragon Smaug. The great annual feast was attended by the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and tales regaled of adventures old and not so. Caravans stocked with goods left Lake-town at the start of each week as part of their trade route. They would unload a percentage of their fish in Dale, in exchange for grains and vegetables to take to the Lonely Mountain. They would then offload the goods inside the Dwarven city, fill up with goods and head back to Dale, then ultimately Lake-town. This procedure was like clockwork and had been so since the re-founding of Dale in T.A. 2944. Children lined the streets to see what toys and trinkets would be brought back from the Dwarves and, just like clockwork, were shooed away from the goods. During a particularly regular trade-day Elfred Rawly, the weekly cart driver, was given a sealed letter addressed to the King of Dale. He was given strict instructions to deliver the letter, and failure to receive a response would be upon his head alone. With the letter firmly tucked into his jacket pocket, he plodded back to the city along the cobbled road feeling every bump, lump and mislaid rock. His mind raced with questions about the letter; “What was written?” “Why was it my responsibility to get a response?” “What did the dwarf mean with ‘it will be on your head alone’?”. As the sun began to set the gates of Dale creaked open and the cart rolled into town, with a noticeably smaller haul than usual. A few passers-by noted this out loud but were ignored. Master Rawly left the horse and cart at the regular drop off point, with the regular papers, and headed towards the Kings Hall. Showing the letter to the Kings’ Steward and explaining the instructions, he was brought in front of a crude wooden armchair. He had never been inside the hall before but expected a lot more given the title of the owner. He wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected, but it was certainly more than that with which he was viewing now. There were no glimmering chandeliers, no fancy throne lined with rare and exotic furs, not even a carpet leading from the throne. Noting his bewildered look, the King let out a small laugh and explained that he was not a man of objects. He was happier when his people were happier and could not achieve that by sitting inside a glamorous room laden with jewels. He denoted that he preferred the simple things and was happy with his hearth, his chair (the discomfort of it encouraged him to leave the hall more often) and his people. He beckoned the young carriage driver forward with the letter and upon receipt began to read it. “Grim news, very grim indeed.” he remarked. “Master-“ “Oh, Elfred sire. Elfred Rawly” “Thanks, Master Rawly, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about missing shipments, would you?” “Missing? No sire. I just get in the cart and drive it. Give the papers to the same people each week and drive back sire.” “I expected as much. Just one more question, if you will?” “Oh absolutely my lord, anything at all.” “Do you know who fills the carts?” “No sir, sorry sir. All I know is that they are stocked up the night before, then put inside the warehouse until the morning, then I come along and hitch the wagon to me horse, get the papers from the warehouse boss and off I go.”. “Alright Elfred, thank you. Could you stop by next week on your way to Erebor? I’ll have my letter of reply ready for you then.”. With a nervous bow, Elfred scurried out of the hall and down to the shipment yard to collect his horse and head home. This is just an excerpt from a piece that I have written over the past hour or two. I would like to gauge interest and potentially spit-ball some ideas if any are had. My intentions are to incorporate the now derelict  and the son of Bolg , yet to be named, with a potential plot to attempt to overthrow Erebor for the sake of avenging Bolg and Azog being combatted by a small party of Heroes. It's all up in the air right now, as this is just a means to practise my creative writing and thinking. Any and all interest/questions is/are welcomed  - There is no mention of the Iron Hills that I can find after the battle of the Five Armies, leading to my assumption that it isn't of importance. I have therefore decided that for the purpose of this Roleplay and any potential short stories that may come from it, the Iron Hills were abandoned in favour of Erebor.  - There is no mention that Bolg had a spawn, nor is there any mention that he didn't. If his father, Azog, did then I don't see why he couldn't.