LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

Snow.

Ordinarily, you'd only find it high in the Misty Mountains or far up north on the frozen tundras. Anywhere else, you'd have to wait for winter to catch a glimpse of it.

Eric had never paid snow much attention. Pretty to look at, sure—but not particularly useful.

Ice, on the other hand? Ice was valuable.

Especially the dense, never-melting kind that could be refined into blue ice.

It was Eric's first winter in this world, and he wasn't going to waste it. Time to stockpile materials.

He'd just returned from a long expedition and was shoveling snow away from his gate when he spotted an old friend trudging toward the town.

"Come in, warm yourself up, and have something to eat," Eric called out.

Gandalf, his grey robes dusted with frost, accepted the invitation gratefully—but didn't linger.

"Thank you for the meal, but I must be on my way. If I don't hurry, I'll miss my promise to the children—and I'd rather not go down in legend as a lying wizard," he said with a chuckle, already wrapping his scarf.

"Fair enough," Eric said, giving him a knowing look. "May your new year be a good one."

With Gandalf gone, Eric turned his attention to the snow-covered mess his land had become. The white powder, though picturesque, was a menace to move through. So he did what any sane survival-minded builder would do—he shoveled.

And shoveled.

And shoveled.

He cleared the paths, the farmland, even dug out a few animals who didn't seem the least bit bothered by being half-buried in snow. Resilient little creatures, really.

The original herd—cows, sheep, horses—all domesticated stock—had been upgraded to proper barns now. With roofed shelters, heated by glowing stones and stocked with food and water, they were practically living in luxury.

The farm, however, wasn't doing so well.

The cold had frozen the nearby water sources solid, leaving the soil dry and useless. Crops had wilted and dropped back to seed. So Eric placed a few glowstones beneath the icy waters to thaw the streams and replanted the fields.

"A bit of snow can't beat my cold-resistant crops," he muttered, patting down the dirt with pride.

As evening fell and the sky turned a moody charcoal, Eric found himself thinking back to what Gandalf had said earlier. For once, he turned in early.

"Ahhh—now that's a good sleep."

He awoke the next morning feeling reborn. Not just energized like after a hearty meal—but refreshed. Rejuvenated. Like someone had hit the reset button on his entire soul.

"Time to work!"

Marching into his storage shed, Eric hauled out a pile of supplies and began planning the construction of a proper ice quarry.

See, to make blue ice, you first need packed ice, which takes nine ordinary ice blocks to craft. And then to make blue ice, you need nine packed ice. So yeah, doing the math, the road to a proper ice highway was long.

He grabbed his enchanted pickaxe and set to work, mining ice like his life depended on it.

Of course, the quarry needed time for the ice to reform between harvests, and Eric wasn't the type to just stand around waiting. Instead, he shifted focus to territory development.

After one snowy disaster too many, Eric was done with shoveling. But since he couldn't exactly control the weather, he figured he'd outsmart it.

Enter: Glowstones and Torches.

He lined the main roads and paths with warm, glowing lamps that not only lit the area but also melted falling snow, saving him hours of labor.

And once the lights were up, well—he couldn't just leave them floating over muddy dirt, could he?

So he built roads.

And then came the decorations. Landscape trees. Flowerbeds. Benches. Fences. Ponds. A few softly babbling brooks with wooden bridges thrown in for charm.

Before long, parts of his settlement were starting to look suspiciously like something out of Rivendell. He hadn't meant to, but the beauty of the Elven valleys had crept into his design.

Meanwhile, in the green hills of the Shire, Gandalf had just finished setting off a rather explosive fireworks show. A ring of giggling hobbit children surrounded him, eyes wide with wonder.

"Alright, alright," he chuckled, ruffling a curly head or two. "One last rocket, then off to bed, my little scamps!"

BOOM!

A brilliant burst of stars lit the night sky, drawing gasps from every hobbit in the village.

It was a perfect night—full of laughter, magic, and the kind of joy that makes you hope dreams might linger just a little longer.

The next morning, the children clustered around the wizard, reluctant to see him go.

"Gandalf! Will you come again next year?"

He smiled, eyes twinkling. "That, my dear ones, I can't say for certain. But I promise—this won't be the last time you see me. Farewell!"

With a wave of his staff and a rustle of grey robes, Gandalf turned down the road once more.

"I have a feeling this way will be interesting," he murmured, following a hunch as only wizards do.

Time passed quietly.

No battles. No omens. Just the gentle drift of life.

Until—

CRACK!

A lightning bolt tore across the heavens.

Thunder rumbled.

And with it came the rains of spring.

March 15, Third Age, 2941.

Bree.

Inside the Prancing Pony, Gandalf turned sharply.

Across the room, a figure caught his eye—a stocky, travel-worn dwarf with the unmistakable bearing of royalty... even if his cloak was frayed and boots muddied.

That face...

Yes. He knew that face.

Thrain's son. Thorin.

In a flash, Gandalf remembered the tortured dwarf prisoner he'd once found in Dol Guldur. The one whose mind had been shattered, whose body bore the signs of unspeakable cruelty. The one who had given him a map and a key—and a mission:

Find my son.

He'd never known that dwarf's name.

Until now.

Sitting right before him was none other than Thorin Oakenshield, heir of Durin's line.

But even as Gandalf put the pieces together, danger was closing in.

A pair of thuggish men rose from the far wall—clearly sizing up the dwarf with the kind of look that promised more than just trouble. Hired eyes, no doubt.

Thorin lowered his fork. One hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.

Tension thickened.

Then—

"Mind if I join you?"

The voice cut through the moment like sunlight through stormclouds.

Thorin looked up to see an old man in grey robes cheerfully plopping himself down across from him.

The two brutes hesitated. Exchanged a glance. Then slowly backed off into the shadows, wary now.

"I'm Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey," the old man said, smiling under his wide-brimmed hat.

"I know who you are."

Thorin's tone was cautious, but not unfriendly.

"Well, that makes things easier," Gandalf said brightly. "And what brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree, if I may ask?"

Thorin gave a tired sigh.

"I heard rumors that my father was seen wandering the wilds near the dark lands. I went looking. Found nothing."

"Ah, Thrain…"

Gandalf exhaled, his expression momentarily somber.

And so, without fanfare, the great wheel of fate began to turn once more.