In LOTR with Harry Potter system

"Sylas!" Bilbo called out in delight the moment he spotted his friend returning. He ran out of the garden gate, waving cheerfully.

Sylas smiled warmly. "I'm back."

With a simple flick of his wand, the items in the cart behind him floated gently to the ground. He rummaged through them, then picked out a finely crafted dagger with Dwarven markings and handed it to Bilbo.

"For me?" Bilbo blinked in surprise.

Sylas nodded. "Forged by Dwarven smiths. It's not enchanted, but it'll serve you well."

Bilbo's eyes widened as he turned the dagger over in his hands, admiring the intricate patterns on the hilt. "Thank you! I love it!" He hugged it to his chest like a child receiving a treasured toy.

"I'm glad," Sylas chuckled. "Also… could you prepare a room for me? Somewhere dark, very dark."

Bilbo tilted his head, puzzled, but didn't question it. "The cellar is probably your best bet. It's down at the far end of the burrow. Bit dusty. Mostly wine and cobwebs. But no windows."

"Perfect."

After thanking him, Sylas took the petrified Mandrake, encased in a layered glass dome, and placed it carefully in a soundproof greenhouse. Then, taking another matured Mandrake along with a pot of graveyard soil, thirteen caged bats, a sack of sea salt, and a sealed clay jar, he descended into the cellar.

The room was chilly and silent. Light filtered weakly through a tiny skylight, but Sylas quickly covered it, plunging the cellar into darkness.

He began the ritual.

First, he gently removed the Mandrake from its original pot and replanted it in the damp, black soil he had brought. The dirt came from a forgotten graveyard, dug up under a full moon—something Sylas didn't like to dwell on. It didn't quite match the romantic image of a noble wizard.

Next came the bloodwork. From the cage, he removed a bat and, with practiced hands, made a clean incision. He extracted the still-warm heart, letting a few drops of blood fall onto the Mandrake's crown. Then, he buried the bat in the grave-soil beside it.

The entire scene was eerily macabre, bat hearts, grave dirt, and a plant known for killing with its screams. If anyone had stumbled upon him, they might have mistaken Sylas for a practitioner of the Dark Arts.

Over the following days, Sylas repeated the ritual. One bat each day. A drop of blood. A burial. No words, no spells, just patience and intent.

Bilbo noticed the pattern, of course. Each day Sylas would descend to the cellar, and each day he'd emerge smelling faintly of iron and herbs. Though deeply curious, Bilbo said nothing. He respected Sylas too much to pry.

Finally, on the thirteenth day, Sylas drew the last bat. The process was the same, heart removed, blood dripped, burial complete.

Now the Mandrake sat in foul-smelling soil. Its leaves had grown darker, twisted, and the entire plant radiated an unsettling aura.

At the stroke of midnight on the thirteenth day, Sylas gently lifted the Mandrake from the graveyard-blackened soil.

Then, he half-filled a clay urn with coarse sea salt, carefully nestled the Mandrake inside, and covered it entirely with the remaining salt. He pressed it down firmly, making sure the root couldn't wriggle free from the salt's embrace.

Once sealed, he draped the urn with a heavy black cloth, blocking even the faintest ray of light.

Each night, when the moon rose high, Sylas would remove the cloth and open the cellar's skylight, allowing pale moonlight to bathe the salt inside the urn. 

Over the course of seven nights, the white sea salt slowly darkened, absorbing shadow and sorcery, until it had turned entirely black.

When Sylas finally uncovered the Mandrake, it was no longer alive. Its tiny features were grotesquely twisted, the eyes dull and black like onyx beads, its withered limbs contorted as if frozen mid-scream. An aura of foreboding radiated from its shriveled form.

A voodoo doll.

Dark Arts: A Guide to Self-Protection had warned:

"To craft a cursed object with Mandrake is to offer yourself the Reaper's scythe, its edge turns not only outward but inward, carving pain from both the enemy and the soul of the caster."

Sylas had taken the warning to heart, but not so deeply as to abandon the work.

Dark magic, especially curses, was undeniably dangerous. Repeated use could corrode one's character, chipping away at the spirit until little remained but bitterness and power. But their effectiveness was unparalleled.

Fortunately, Sylas had a safeguard.

He had learned Music Magic from Tom Bombadil—songs that radiated warmth, joy, and harmony. It wasn't combative, but it healed the heart, warded away despair, and preserved the soul like a song against the shadows.

He was deeply grateful to Tom for that.

With the voodoo doll complete, Sylas wrapped it securely in layers of dark cloth, then sealed it inside a polished wooden box. The cursed root was not to be touched casually; prolonged contact brought ill luck or worse.

After tidying up the remaining ritual materials, Sylas finally left the cellar.

He had spent more than half a month crafting the voodoo doll, and during that time, there had been no sign of Gandalf in Hobbiton. Sylas wasn't sure what the old Wizard was up to, but he had a strong feeling it wouldn't be long now. Sooner or later, the Grey Pilgrim would return, and with him, the Dwarves, and their great journey would begin.

In the meantime, Sylas spent his days immersed in his Dictionary of Runes, patiently waiting.

One evening, just as Sylas and Bilbo had sat down to dinner, roast mushrooms, warm bread, and tea still steaming*, —there was a sudden knock at the door.

Bilbo blinked in surprise and looked at Sylas. "Who could be knocking at this hour?"

Sylas had a guess or two, either Gandalf had finally arrived, or perhaps the first of Thorin's kin.

But instead of saying it aloud, he simply stood up and said, "Let's go and find out."

Bilbo nodded and shuffled to the door. As it creaked open, a broad, bald-headed Dwarf stood on the doorstep.

"I am Dwalin, at your service," he announced with a polite bow.

Bilbo barely had time to respond before the Dwarf strode boldly into the house. He made straight for a carved wooden chest near the door and lifted one muddy boot.

"That's—my mother's dowry chest—!" Bilbo exclaimed, alarmed.

But before Dwalin could smear it with filth, the chest suddenly slid away of its own accord. His boot swung through empty air, and he nearly toppled over.

Startled, Dwalin looked down at the shifting chest, then toward the living room. There sat Sylas, calm and composed at the table, robes still slightly smudged from his recent time underground.

"Magic, eh?" Dwalin grinned, recovering quickly. "You must be the black-robed Wizard Thorin spoke of, Sylas, is it? A pleasure to meet you!"

Before either host could say more, Dwalin caught sight of the food. Without hesitation, he marched to the table, dropped heavily into Bilbo's seat, and declared, "I've been on the road for days, I'm starving!"

Then, without the slightest hint of formality, he began grabbing food with both hands, stuffing mushrooms and buttered bread into his mouth. His beard quickly filled with crumbs, and the table, once neatly arranged, looked like a battlefield of plates and empty mugs.

...

Stones PLZZ

"Seems like many of you aren't too happy with the name I gave the sword. Drop your name suggestions below, I'll pick one and update it."