LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

"Haaaah—"

A yawn escaped Eric's lips as he stretched his arms over his head, the joints in his shoulders cracking audibly beneath the weight of a damp, bloodstained linen cloak. He dusted off a few stubborn gobbet stains, still dark from the last battle.

Below his boots, the orc he'd just killed spasmed once, then stilled. The blue glow along Eric's sword gradually faded as it slid cleanly from the creature's throat.

Fwoosh.

Flames curled across the corpse, lighting up the morning fog that lingered low over the marshes. Eric crouched by the fire, holding out his hands toward the rising heat.

It was getting cold. Bitter, biting cold.

It had been weeks since he'd split up with Gandalf. At first, Eric had tried to keep track of time—counting sunrises and moons, ticking off days in his head. But as the map filled in, the unknown blurred into familiar landmarks, and every path became just another track beneath his boots. His sword, once shining with novelty, was now dulled with routine and gore.

Each day followed the same script: march across unknown terrain, check the map, hunt down orcs, maybe rescue a refugee if luck allowed. Over and over, with barely a word spoken to another human being. Even the wildlife had started to vanish, as if the very land was holding its breath.

The only things that still made noise around here were orcs. And wargs.

Well—used to, anyway.

Now they were just burnt-out husks littering the swamps.

Eric chewed silently through two pieces of tough travel bread, more charcoal than wheat at this point—then unrolled his weathered map.

The region was known as Vales of Anduin, and by now, most of its fog had been lifted. His map showed its contours clearly. Any scattered orc camps had long since been wiped out. The remaining ones? Either too fast to catch, or hiding deep in the hills in clustered strongholds. Hundreds of them.

Eric sighed.

Those remaining orcs weren't your run-of-the-mill raiders anymore. They were the smart ones. The mean ones. The ones that learned how to huddle together when death started chasing them through the woods. And no matter how skilled he was, Eric knew that storming into a swamp packed with a few hundred armed orcs was a good way to get himself turned into stew.

It was time to call it.

Supplies were dwindling. The last of his proper food had vanished weeks ago. He'd been baking bread from foraged root powder and dried swamp grass for days. Even that was almost gone.

As he stood, intending to scout for any surviving critters to hunt, a voice cut through the chilly air like a pickaxe through stone.

"Finally found you, Eric—phew! Took me long enough."

A familiar gray figure bounded over soggy ground with surprising speed, bushy eyebrows bouncing with each step. Gandalf, robe askew and hair wilder than usual, looked half-exhausted, half-exasperated.

"I've been chasing your trail for two weeks! I was starting to think you'd wandered off and retired to a mountain cave."

Eric gave him a wry look. "There are still orcs in the area. I wasn't about to leave them unattended."

Hissss.

Gandalf winced like he'd just bitten into spoiled mutton. "Eric, no offense, but you've done plenty. I haven't seen a single living orc since I crossed into this region. Just trails of ash, the occasional still-smoking warg, and enough charred bones to build a fortress. Honestly, it's starting to look personal."

Eric raised an eyebrow and flicked open his status screen.

[Factions: Misty Mountain Orcs — Reputation: -1523 (Nemesis)]

"Yeah. I'd say it is."

Gandalf blinked, then chuckled. "Right. If you and Thorin were being chased by a horde of orcs, I'm fairly certain they'd go after you first. Assuming they could catch you."

Eric didn't deny it.

"But in any case," Gandalf said, settling onto a broken log and pulling out his long-stemmed pipe, "our mission here is complete. The human clans of the valley have begun migrating north. They're uniting—finding strength in numbers. Orcs won't be able to threaten them like before."

He lit the pipe with a flick of his finger. Smoke curled upward lazily, fading into the grey sky.

"Who knows," he added, "perhaps this is the start of a new kingdom."

The two sat in silence. The mist began to lift slightly, revealing more of the marsh beyond. Gandalf took a few slow drags, his face relaxing for the first time in days.

Eric sat beside him, not speaking, eyes distant.

The only sound was the faint crackling of burning flesh behind them and the whisper of a rising breeze.

Gandalf glanced sideways, watching him carefully. Then, after a long pause, he slapped his thigh.

"Ah! That reminds me!"

Eric blinked. "Reminds you of what?"

"The New Year, of course!"

"…New Year?"

Gandalf gave him a scandalized look. "Yes! The new calendar year! You know—snow, feasts, fireworks? I promised the little ones in the Shire I'd bring some sparks to ring it in."

Eric stared at the horizon for a moment.

"…Has it really been that long?"

The realization hit like a pickaxe to the gut. This expedition had outlasted every previous one. Even the time he fell into the Nether felt shorter.

"It's time we brought this chapter to a close," Gandalf said, rising to his feet and brushing the ash from his robe. He clapped Eric on the shoulder. "You've done enough."

A sharp breeze swept through the marsh.

Something soft and cold landed on Eric's cheek.

He looked up.

Snow.

Light, powdery flakes drifting from the sky.

"Most of the orcs have pulled back toward the mountains," Gandalf said, his voice softer now. "Something's keeping them there. Some… force."

He looked at Eric meaningfully.

Eric shrugged. "Must be the weather."

"…Right."

They started walking, taking the path back toward the hills, retracing the steps that had brought them through fire, blood, and solitude. This time, though, there was no resistance. No ambushes. Not even a glimpse of movement in the trees.

The wilderness had gone still.

At the foothills of the Misty Mountains, with snow crunching beneath their boots, Gandalf looked over his shoulder.

"I'm heading west," he said. "Thought I'd spend the season in the Shire. They make excellent mulled cider. What about you, Eric?"

Eric caught a falling flake in his palm. It melted instantly.

He gave a quiet nod. "I'm staying. There's still work to be done."

"…In winter?"

"Especially in winter."