LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

Buzz...

Far beneath the earth, hidden in the darkness, a single ring trembled faintly.

"My precious..."

A grimy hand stroked its surface with obsessive care, clutching it tightly as if to keep it from vanishing into thin air.

---

"Power... the stronger you are, the easier it is to fall under its spell. The truly mighty are often the most blind. But no matter how many try to possess it, there's only ever been one true master of that ring."

Gandalf's voice echoed across the base of the mountain range as he walked ahead, his grey cloak brushing against the misty grass. He was recounting tales from long ago, pointing toward distant landmarks as he spoke.

"Take Isildur, for instance. He fell to temptation right at the edge of the volcano. He could have ended it all—thrown the ring into the fire. But he didn't. He was slain further south, in the marshes of Golden Iris. That's where the ring was lost… maybe to the depths of the sea."

Eric followed silently behind him, listening with half a nod now and then.

"Wouldn't it have been easier if someone had just kicked him into the lava?" Eric muttered.

Gandalf gave him a sideways glance, half amused.

"Fate does not bend to simple logic, Eric. Even if you replayed that moment a hundred times, a thousand—he'd still make the same choice."

"Fine, I'll take your word for it."

They kept walking, swapping bits of commentary here and there, oddly relaxed considering they'd just escaped a battlefield.

Eric, of course, hadn't intended to fight a drawn-out war with the orcs. After helping Gandalf hold the cave entrance briefly, he'd opted for the more practical solution—smash through and run like hell. Surprisingly, the orcs hadn't chased them with much force. Perhaps they were spooked. Or perhaps they were just unprepared.

Gandalf, though, was beginning to notice something peculiar.

This Eric fellow... strange one. On one hand, he knew ancient secrets even most loremasters had long forgotten. On the other hand, he had no clue about the most basic events. Ask him about the foundation of the Dwarven strongholds? Silence. Ask him about a half-buried ruin nobody's ever heard of? He'd tell you what color the roof tiles were.

It was downright contradictory.

"Shh."

Gandalf suddenly stopped. They had crossed into the low plains, far from the Misty Mountains now, when he raised a hand and signaled Eric to be silent.

"Orcs."

A deep growl rolled over the plain, followed by a thunderous gallop. A pack of warg riders rushed past, kicking up dust, headed toward the east.

"There's either a camp or a fortress in that direction," Gandalf muttered, peeking through the tall grass.

"What do we do? Charge in and burn it down?" Eric asked with a grin.

"Oh, certainly not," Gandalf said with a faint frown. "There are only two of us. We'd be—"

Then he paused. Looking at Eric's perfectly calm, almost smug expression, Gandalf began to reconsider.

"…Actually, it might not be entirely impossible."

"Still, best to scout it first," he added quickly. "We don't know how many there are. Could be twenty. Could be two hundred."

"Agreed," said Eric, though the gleam in his eyes suggested he was hoping for the bigger number.

They crept along the same trail the orcs had taken, cloaked beneath their dusty robes. Before long, the two came upon a ramshackle camp built from the ruins of a half-collapsed fortress.

Calling it a "fortress" was generous.

It looked more like someone had tried to slap together a camp using whatever scraps were left of the stone walls. A few wargs gnawed bones by the fire, while over twenty orcs lounged about the camp, arguing, snoring, or shoving each other.

One of them—a particularly bulky orc with cracked tusks and a jagged axe; seemed to be the leader, barking orders and smacking others around.

"There," Gandalf said quietly, gesturing with his staff. "Seventeen orcs. Twelve wargs. And no discipline whatsoever."

Two orcs were already in the middle of a brawl, shrieking and swearing at each other while the rest watched like it was an arena match.

"Unity," Gandalf said with a smirk, "is not a trait the orcs possess. They'll fight over anything—food, weapons, even insults."

"Why not give them a little nudge?" he added, scooping up a small stone.

He gave it a quick puff of breath and plink—tossed it straight at the head of a dozing orc.

"Who hit me?!"

The startled orc shot up, glaring around with murder in his eyes.

"Shut up!" grunted the orc next to him.

"You throwin' rocks, you maggot?"

"What if I was?"

Thunk! The dozing orc grabbed a handful of stones and hurled them into the other one's face, sending him stumbling backward.

"Filthy swine!" the second orc roared, tackling him.

The two rolled across the camp, punching, biting, cursing.

None of the others even flinched.

This was normal.

One went down eventually, groaning and bruised. The other spat on him and strutted off like a champion.

Gandalf, crouched beside Eric, chuckled wickedly.

"I do this a lot. Helps thin the numbers without raising the alarm."

"Clever." Eric nodded.

"Thank you."

Just as Gandalf was lining up another stone for round two, Eric stood up.

"What are you—" Gandalf blinked.

Eric reached over his shoulder and unsheathed a sword glowing with blue fire.

"Eh, too slow. I say we just get it over with."

Shing!

"INTRUDERS!"

"RAAAAHH!"

Orcs leapt into action, scrambling to mount their wargs or snatch up weapons.

Gandalf sighed and stood up. "Reckless boy! Couldn't wait five more minutes…"

"Well, what do we have here?" the orc leader sneered. "A sword-waving manling and and a walking beard with a stick?"

"WHO GAVE YOU THE GUTS TO STEP INTO MY CAMP?!"

"Kill them!"

The warlord raised his cleaver high, and the horde surged forward.

Boom!

Eric charged straight in, sword flashing.

Three warg riders came at him. One sweep—whoosh—and their mounts caught fire, the flames crackling across dry fur, lighting up the night. The riders screamed and tumbled off.

Behind him, Gandalf glanced at the flames. In the blink of an eye, the fire—nearly smothered by rolling bodies—suddenly surged up again, roaring with new life. The blaze was so intense, it ignited several nearby orcs instantly.

Eric didn't look back. He knew Gandalf bore one of the Rings of Fire—a ring that could not only kindle flames, but also ignite hope.

Eric was a storm in steel. Dressed in black armor, he plowed into the orc horde, shrugging off arrows and axes. Wargs fell, orcs screamed, the air filled with the smell of burnt hair and blood.

Some of the orcs started backing away.

He was death with a glowing sword.

But of course, the smarter ones turned to the "weaker" target—the old man.

Bad idea.

One orc charged Gandalf with a spiked club.

The wizard barely shifted. With a twist of the staff, he jabbed the orc in the gut and flipped him flat.

Another orc lunged from the side.

Crack!

Gandalf's staff spun with surprising grace, smashing into the orc's helmet and leaving a dent deep enough to hold water.

He blinked.

"That… was a bit more effective than I expected."

More orcs circled him now, thinking they could overwhelm him.

Gandalf raised his staff high.

BOOM.

A blinding arc of lightning tore through the air above the camp, followed by the sharp tang of ozone.

Half a dozen orcs dropped like puppets with their strings cut.

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