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“Balin, are you certain? Maybe a less formal approach today might be in order? Bard need not know.”
Ori’s worries fell on deaf ears. “No, no, these will do quite nicely. Gloin found these deep in the archives, and I would hardly deprive him of the joy that effort brought him and Thorin in finding them.”
Ori stuffed his hands into his pockets, in awe of what Balin held and in terror of disturbing this cloth-bound bit of history. “But they are ancient! And likely worth more than I care to contemplate! Dori would have my hide if I returned it in less than pristine condition!”
Balin handed the royal scribe’s jeweled and embroidered capelet to Ori, the older dwarf exuding the very picture of confidence.
“We want to look our best for this diplomatic visit with our neighbors, eh? Do not fret, Ori, wearing these will be fine and you will now look the part you have come to play for Thorin. Besides, these capes are sturdy, like us. They have survived centuries of use and abuse by the house of Durin. A few more hours in the hands of the living will be of no consequence.”
Ori struggled to calm his nerves. “Yes? I mean, yes.”
The scribe and the advisor helped each other into the antique regalia of their respective offices, and Balin had just finished clasping his own gem-encrusted capelet closed when Thorin rounded the corner.
“Ready? Excellent. Bard awaits us.”
As Balin strode down the street just behind his king, nodding to either side at the men from Dale and his fellow dwarrow as they approached where Bard awaited them, his beard brushing against the clasp of the capelet slowly edged the two halves apart. In the excitement of the moment, Balin didn’t notice his capelet escaping during a particularly enthusiastic greeting, until a squawk from Ori brought him up short. As he paused, Ori’s outburst became frantic; Balin turned just in time to see the scribe tripping over the escaped capelet, his ceremonial tray of scribal supplies now askew and airborne.
Muttering several epithets, the white-haired dwarf snatched the ink bottles from toppling onto the antiquity on the ground as Ori grabbed the pens and sheets of parchment while one of the bystanders grabbed Ori. All but tossing the ink bottles to another onlooker and snatching up the recalcitrant capelet, Balin flung it back about his shoulders with a flourish and spun about to face a bewildered Bard and bemused Thorin as though it had all been a well-choreographed dance. Ori’s quick and only slightly flustered appearance at his elbow cemented the illusion.
Thorin turned to Bard, extending a hand towards the two dwarves as his eyes betrayed his mirth. “I present my advisor and my scribe, whose skills apparently extend into the improvisational and acrobatic as well as the diplomatic.”