LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

The abandoned settlement of Lake-town felt unnaturally still. The Mayor hauled himself out of a pile of refuse, sneezing violently as a bone-deep chill settled in.

"Everyone's gone, Mayor," came the familiar, overly patient voice of Alfrid. He sat on a nearby step, his usual bluster replaced by a calculating calm only displayed for his superior. "We should depart as well."

For Alfrid, this was the only relationship where he felt a flicker of intellectual superiority, a sensation he savored. Dealing with Bard required bluster and threats; dealing with the Mayor required only steering a fool.

The two men shared matching blackened eyes, though their minds were worlds apart.

"Depart? depart where?" the Mayor rasped, staggering towards his house.

"To the Mountain, of course," Alfrid replied smoothly. "Plenty of space, defenses... safety."

"Go to that Orc-infested hole?" the Master spat. Moments later, he emerged, dragging sacks overflowing with pilfered treasures. He dumped them unceremoniously into a longboat.

"Mayor? Where are you heading?" Alfrid called after him.

"Anywhere's better than here," came the dismissive reply.

With a splash and a grunt, the town master loaded his treasure onto a small boat and started paddling northwest.

"…That's just empty wasteland," Alfrid murmured, staring after the retreating figure. He opened his mouth to say more, then sighed and let it be. He gathered his own stash of valuables and turned his steps towards Erebor.

***

The ruins of Dale rose anew, crowned by imposing stone walls. Before them stood the host of the Woodland Realm, Thranduil upon his great elk, his expression one of profound confusion.

"Who commands here?" his clear voice rang out.

A head popped up over the parapet. "I do."

"Eric?" Thranduil's brow smoothed, surprise evident.

"Don't just loiter out there, come in already!" Eric called. "I saw you hours ago. Thought you'd never show. Oh, and ignore the iron golems. They're friendly."

Thranduil nodded curtly and gestured. His soldiers flowed into the city with uncanny grace, streams of silver and green parting smoothly around the hulking iron figures stationed within, their movements silent and precise.

Eric watched, impressed. "Now that's parade-worthy."

"Distribute the supplies," Thranduil commanded. Elves moved efficiently, handing out provisions – grains, vegetables, even casks of wine – to the grateful refugees from Lake-town.

As cheers rose from the relieved townsfolk, Thranduil dismounted and ascended the wall where Eric and Bard awaited.

Bard, observing the organized distribution below, spoke first. "Your generosity is… unexpected, Lord Thranduil. I… I truly don't know how to repay this kindness."

Thranduil waved a dismissive hand, his gaze fixed beyond the walls.

"Save your gratitude. I did not come solely for your sake. I came for what is mine." His tone was cool, regal, and utterly predictable.

'Ah, there it is', Eric mused, half-smiling. The old royal pride. Elves never just gave. There was always a side quest.

Bard, unaware of elven pride dynamics, simply nodded.

Thranduil's attention shifted to the stone beneath his feet. He drew his blade and tapped the wall.

"I heard no tales of Dale's walls being rebuilt. Certainly not in days. And this…" he tapped again, "…it feels like the earth itself was pulled upward." He paused, the unspoken question hanging heavy.

Power like that wasn't just uncommon in Middle-earth, it was forbidden.

"Yeah, that was me. Check it out." Eric cheerfully held up two stone blocks and clicked them together like toys.

"Ah," Thranduil murmured, understanding dawning. "The famed 'building craft'. Our ally proves more resourceful than rumored. I heard Gandalf was also here?"

Eric jerked a thumb towards the Lonely Mountain. "Up there, trying to talk sense into Thorin. Might be a while."

"Then I shall await his return," Thranduil stated, descending to oversee the setting of the elven camp. Bard followed, organizing his people.

With a soft whoosh, Eric stepped off the wall, instantly rising into the air and streaking towards Erebor.

***

Deep within Erebor's treasure vault, Thorin held out a glimmering coat of mail.

"Bilbo, take this." He helped the flustered Hobbit into the exquisite mithril shirt. "No blade can pierce this. It rivals even Eric's armor. You may have need of it."

"But I'm no warrior. I'm just a Hobbit," Bilbo protested, shifting uncomfortably.

"It is a gift. A token of our friendship," Thorin declared, his voice thick. Even with the sickness of greed curling inside him, even with his obsession over every coin, Thorin still handed over a treasure worth more than all of Hobbiton.

"Thorin." Gandalf's voice cut through the moment. He strode towards them, staff tapping on the gold-littered floor. "Have you summoned aid?"

"Of course, Gandalf," Thorin replied, a touch too casually. "The very day the Arkenstone was recovered, I sent word to Dain. Fear not. He marches with the host of the Iron Hills. They will arrive today. With such strength before our gates, none shall wrest a single piece of gold from this mountain."

Gandalf's bushy brows drew together. "You have changed, Thorin."

"Have I?" Thorin tilted his chin, his gaze distant.

"Indeed. I am no longer a wandering lord. I am Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain." His voice held a brittle pride.

"You've caught the sickness," Gandalf said grimly. "The dragon-sickness. Just like your grandfather. Set aside the Arkenstone. There is still time."

"Set aside?" Thorin whipped around, his eyes blazing. "Set aside the heart of the mountain? The symbol of my birthright, won through hardship and blood? You ask me to forsake my kingship?" His hand tightened on Orcrist's hilt. "I shall consider that jest... once."

He turned sharply, dismissing the wizard. Gandalf, his face flushed with anger, hurried after him. "Where are you going?"

"To wait for Eric," Thorin stated without looking back. "Better the company of one who appreciates the value of this mountain's bounty than a wizard who counsels me to abandon the fruits of our quest."

"Wait? What are you two planning?"

"Eric claims the mountain's ore veins are depleted. He must have gotten lost. We agreed to meet; I shall guide him to the deeper lodes."

'Ore depleted?' Gandalf thought of the legion of Iron Guardians standing vigil in Dale.

'Well, that might actually be plausible.' He wisely kept silent.

Let Thorin discover that particular headache himself. He had no desire to speak further with the afflicted king just now. After a few quiet words of praise and encouragement for Bilbo, Gandalf took his leave.

***

Before the vast doors of the main ore repository, Thorin gestured grandly.

"Kili, open it. Eric cannot fathom the true measure of our wealth. He thinks a smithy's worth is abundance? Our hoard rivals the mountain itsel—"

His voice died. Thorin stumbled forward, gripping the railing as he stared into the cavernous space. It yawned, vast and... empty. Utterly, impossibly empty.

"I... I must be mistaken," Thorin gasped, shaking his head, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "Kili! Seal the doors! I need... air. The battlements."

"Aye, Uncle," Kili replied quickly, alarmed by the tremor in Thorin's voice. What horrors did he see in there?

The two dwarves ascended to the high ramparts overlooking the valley. Moments later, Eric spotted them as he approached. He landed with practiced ease before them.

"Hey, you two look like you've seen a ghost."

"Eric... regretfully, it seems the dragon consumed more than we knew. Our ore reserves are... vanished. I cannot honor further requests," Thorin growled, his face shadowed.

It was the politest refusal his fevered mind could muster. Had it been anyone else, Thorin might have ordered them flung from the ramparts.

'Fifteen percent, only fifteen percent...' The mantra warred with the possessive shriek in his mind: 'My gold! Why give it away?' The thought crystallized into cold refusal.

"Ah, shame," Eric said, genuine disappointment lacing his tone, though not critical. The Golems were numerous enough. "Saw Gandalf heading down. What did he say?"

"The Grey Fool spoke out of turn. His departure shows some wisdom," Thorin retorted bitterly.

Before Eric could probe further, movement drew their eyes below. The gates of Dale swung open. Columns of golden-armored elven soldiers marched forth, forming gleaming ranks.

"Elves!" Thorin bellowed. "Close the gates! To arms!"

The great bell of Erebor clanged, its mournful toll echoing through the halls. Dwarves scrambled, arming themselves in haste.

"The Elven-king's host!" Dwalin reported, his voice tight, joining them on the wall. "What do they intend?"

"Intent?" Gloin spat, arriving moments later. "See the dragon's dead, don't they? Come to pick the bones clean! Knew we couldn't trust 'em!"

A chorus of angry agreement rose from the dwarves assembling on the battlements.

Below, the elven host halted before Erebor's sealed gate. Thranduil rode forward, his gaze sweeping the battlements.

"Thorin, son of Thrain," he called, his voice carrying clearly. "Word reaches us that Erebor is reclaimed."

"Your news travels slow," Thorin shouted down, his face a mask of stone.

"Have you come to offer congratulations? They are accepted. If that is all... you may return to your forest." His final words were a dismissal laced with venom. Dwarves roared and shook their fists.

Thranduil raised a hand. Instantly, a thousand elven bows creaked as one, arrows pointed unerringly at the ramparts. The dwarves ducked behind the stone, the cheers silenced. Thranduil lowered his hand, and the bows snapped back to vertical position, the movement fluid and terrifyingly precise.

He glanced towards Eric, high on the wall. Eric gave a single, firm nod. Reassured, Thranduil addressed Thorin again. "I come not for war, but for justice. Return the White Gems of Lasgalen, and my host departs."

"YOU WILL HAVE NOTHING!" Thorin roared, spittle flying. "NOT A SINGLE COIN!"

"Thorin, we cannot win this!" Balin hissed, tugging at his kinsman's sleeve, his face pale with dread.

Gandalf pushed through the elven ranks, his staff held high. "Thorin! The gold poisons you! Those gems are theirs by right!" he bellowed.

"Indeed," Eric added calmly from the parapet.

Thorin's face contorted, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth might crack. He drew breath for another furious denial when another figure emerged.

Bard. He stepped forward, his voice strong but carrying a plea. "Thorin Oakenshield! King Under the Mountain! Do you recall the promise you made to me? A King's Promise?"

"You invoke it now?" Thorin snarled.

"I do. I claim it now. Return the Elven-king's gems."

"NEVER!"

Silence fell, heavy and cold. Even Balin stepped back, defeated.

Thranduil's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "Are these your final words? Choose now: Peace? Or War?"

Thorin hesitated. A thrush alighted on his shoulder, chirped softly in his ear, and flew off.

"I see your answer," Thranduil said, his voice icy steel. "Reinforcements bypass Dale." He raised his sword.

"They come!" Thorin cried, pointing towards the eastern ridge.

Just as Thranduil seemed poised to order the assault, a deep, brassy horn blast shattered the tension. From the ridgeline behind Dale, a phalanx of heavily armored dwarves crested the hill. War chariots formed a front line, and behind them, heavy crossbows – the dreaded Dwarven Axes – were leveled. The host of the Iron Hills had arrived.

The men of Dale, unaware of the deep animosity, cheered. Bard's initial call for refuge in Erebor had painted the dwarves as allies. Seeing the banner of the Iron Hills, the guards stationed at Dale's hastily repaired gates swung them open, welcoming the reinforcements.

Seeing his cousin Dain waving fiercely from the vanguard, Thorin's face lit with savage triumph. He drew a deep breath, chest swelling.

"I CHOOSE W—"

THWUMP!

A boot connected squarely with Thorin's jaw, sending him sprawling onto the cold stone, his declaration cut short.

"War? Seriously? Lie down already," Eric stated flatly, standing over the fallen king.

Chaos erupted among the dwarves. Protests died unspoken as Eric's hand went to his sword hilt. The dwarves collectively flinched, several stumbling backwards. The sudden, shocking betrayal by their most powerful ally froze their courage solid. This single kick silenced the entire battlefield.

"THORIN! OI!" Dain's bellow echoed from the ridge, unanswered. "ARE YE THERE?!"

No one paid the distant dwarf-lord any heed. All eyes, elven, human, and dwarf, were fixed on Eric and the prone king.

Below, Thranduil's eyes widened in astonishment. 'Well, that's one approach.'

Gandalf nearly choked, stifling a cheer. "Good footwork!"

Bard simply stared, speechless.

After a stunned moment, the dwarves on the ramparts began inching forward, a hesitant, fearful mass.

"E-E-Eric? Wha... what are ye doin'?" stammered Bofur.

"Easy now, lad! Easy! Put the blade away, eh?" Balin pleaded, hands raised. "If Thorin offended ye, we all beg yer pardon!"

"Aye! All of us! Name yer price!" Dori added desperately.

Bilbo, though startled, showed no fear. He pushed past the nervous dwarves. "Eric? You won't... hurt him, will you?"

Eric slid his sword back into its sheath. "Of course not. Look at you lot, quaking like leaves."

"Uhh…"

At that moment, Thorin groaned and stirred.

Holding his head and leaning against the stone wall, he slowly stood up, eyes blazing with fury as he stared at Eric, ready to spit fire---

BOOM!!

The mountains trembled as the earth cracked open in the distance. From deep beneath the peaks, massive burrowing worms erupted, shattering the rock. Through the tunnels they left behind, waves of orcs and beasts began to pour forth, an overwhelming tide that made every dwarf break out in a cold sweat.

"Main force, forward! Form the lines!" Dain's voice boomed across the suddenly chaotic field. "Fight to the last!"

With Thorin still not responding, Dáin had no time to wait. He quickly rallied the dwarves of the Iron Hills, forming shield walls and lowering spears to meet the emerging threat.

Standing at the front of the elven lines, Thranduil raised his sword. The elven warriors turned in unison, facing the incoming horde. This was the unspoken code of Middle-earth's free folk: no matter the grudges or rivalries, when the great enemy comes, you fight together. Or at the very least, don't make things worse.

Wummmm—

High atop the distant mountain, Azog the Defiler activated his war signal, triggering mechanical flags to flutter in the wind as he directed his troops.

"Damn it," he growled. The army had arrived on time, yes. The orcish forces were overwhelming, yes. The odds looked in their favor. And yet, Azog was fuming. "Where in the pit did all that lava come from?!" Several burrow-worms had been burned trying to surface too close to the mountain's core. Their exit points had to be moved much farther out. Considering how rare these colossal worms were, this lava detour had just wiped years off their deployment schedule. Still, in the grand scheme of the war, it was a minor hiccup. His legions now surged like a black wave, sweeping across the battlefield.

Inside Dale, Bard caught sight of the growing chaos and tapped the nearest dwarf on the shoulder. "I've got to rally the town guard!" He turned and sprinted back into the city.

On the high walls of Erebor, the dwarves watched the orcs' approach with rising urgency. Kíli was the first to speak, tearing his gaze from the fallen Thorin to the battle below. "I'm heading out there. Who's with me?!"

"Count me in!"

"Let's go!"

"We can't just stand here!"

A chorus of voices rose. The dwarves were fired up.

"Hold position." A discordant voice cut through the excitement. Thorin. He pushed himself fully upright, his eyes still dark but no longer solely fixed on Eric.

"What?" The dwarves blinked, wondering if they had misheard. "You're saying we just watch this happen?!"

"I said hold!" Thorin turned and walked slowly toward the great hall, vanishing into shadow.

Seeing Thorin retreat again, Eric moved to follow, intent on forcing a resolution.

"Eric, wait!" Bilbo called out. "Do you have a rope?"

"No, but I can spin one real quick," Eric replied, pausing.

"Perfect." Bilbo didn't question the strange answer. He was used to Eric saying things that didn't make complete sense. As long as it worked.

"What's it for?" Eric asked, swiftly crafting a sturdy rope from nearby materials.

"I can't just sit around and watch," Bilbo stated firmly. As soon as the rope was ready, he tied it to a rock, tossed the rest over the wall, and slid down without hesitation.

"Bilbo!" Gandalf rushed to meet him at the base. "You're joining the fight? Alright then, stick close."

Thranduil turned slightly, watching the hobbit approach the front. "For one of your kind, you are quite brave," he said, thoughtfully. "And unless I'm mistaken, you were the one who stole the prison keys right under my nose. Impressive."

Bilbo couldn't tell if the elven king was complimenting him or lodging a formal complaint. Elves always spoke in such maddening riddles. "…Thanks?"

Once Bilbo had landed safely, the dwarves on the wall grew restless again. "I'm going too!" Kíli made a move for the rope, only to be stopped by a firm hand. Balin. "No, Kíli. The King hasn't given the order." Kíli clenched his fists, frustration etched across his face, but he didn't move. Dwarves. Loyal to a fault. If the King had not spoken, their hands were tied.

CRASH.

At the front, the first wave of orc vanguard slammed into the dwarf shield line of the Iron Hills.

"Are the elves not going to help?" Bilbo whispered to Gandalf as they watched the dwarves strain under the impact.

The wizard said nothing.

Thranduil, however, looked out toward the field and spoke coldly. "Elves do not follow dwarves."

Shiiing—

A sudden shimmer of blades. Lines of elven warriors unsheathed their swords, darted up the dwarves' shield wall, and launched themselves into the orc front with uncanny grace.

Some danced along the dwarf spears without breaking formation, striking with precision. They were weightless as wind and sharp as winter. This was the gift of the elves: to fight like flowing snow on a mountain pass.

Once the elven assault began to waver under sheer numbers, Dáin bellowed from the rear.

"Charge!"

The dwarves surged forward to meet the orcs, forming a brutal relay with the elves. "No dwarf lets another take the first blow in battle! Lads, with me!"

Dáin was the first into the fray, swinging his warhammer with wild abandon.

"Welcome to the mountain!" He shouted as each swing flattened an orc skull.

Thranduil wasn't far behind, his blade flashing as he carved his way into the chaos.

With both commanders charging side by side, the orcs were forced back. At least, for the moment. But soon, their overwhelming numbers began to tilt the balance once again.

"Where's Eric?" Gandalf muttered, scanning the sky and the walls of Erebor anxiously.

Their strongest weapon hadn't even entered the fight yet. And one more thing…

"Where's the rest of our reinforcements?" He looked towards the silent mountain.

***

In the hall of Erebor, before the throne, Dwalin stood trembling, tears in his eyes as he faced Thorin, who had sunk onto the stone seat. "You sit in this grand hall, wearing a crown, and yet you've never looked smaller."

"Out! Leave before I cut you down myself!" Thorin drew his sword and forced Dwalin out, but the words stuck in his mind like splinters.

Then came others:

"Don't become your grandfather," Bard had warned.

"The treasure will destroy you," Gandalf had said.

"There's madness in your blood," Elrond once muttered.

"Just another mad king," Thranduil had sighed.

"Must we stand by and do nothing?" Balin had pleaded.

"You should wake up, Thorin. Before it's too late." Eric's voice echoed last.

Eric…?

Thorin's eyes snapped open. In the shadows near the throne, a figure stood watching him – Eric.

"You dare--"

"This is for our friendship!"

Thud!

Before he could finish, Eric punched him square in the face, sending the King sprawling from the throne.

"You--!" Thorin sputtered, scrambling up.

"Shut up and drink your medicine," Eric ordered, clamping a hand on Thorin's shoulder.

From seemingly nowhere, Eric produced a large bucket brimming with fresh, cold milk. He tipped it over Thorin's face.

Gulp! Gurgle! Splutter!

"Enough!" Thorin gasped, wrenching his head away, a momentary clarity piercing the gold-haze. The struggle within – will against sickness – intensified. But now he also had to fight Eric.

"Not nearly enough!" Eric declared, repositioning the bucket.

Glug! Glug! Glug!

"STOP!" Thorin bellowed, mustering surprising strength to shove Eric and the bucket back.

"I SAID STOP! I SEE IT NOW!" He wiped milk from his beard, his voice raw but thunderous.

"LISTEN TO ME!" He ripped the simple gold circlet from his head and flung it clattering across the stone.

"I... AM NOT... MY GRANDFATHER!"

Clang!

The crown hit the stone floor with a finality that echoed. The King under the Mountain donned his war helm. His eyes burned with purpose once more. "We're going to fight."

***

From the walls of Erebor, the horn of war bellowed across the battlefield. The signal was clear.

BOOM!

The mountain's great bell rang out, stirring the hearts of all who heard it. Not with fear, but with fire.

With a creak and a groan, the gates of Erebor opened wide. From within stormed thirteen figures, armed and ready, led by Thorin Oakenshield.

"Ha! Thorin, I was beginning to worry!" Dáin roared with delight, charging to meet his cousin. Suddenly, he felt as if he could crush a hundred more Orcs without breaking a sweat.

The Dwarves were invigorated, fired by the sight of their true king returning to battle. The Orcs hesitated. Even the brutes could sense something had changed.

"Charge!" Thorin led the way, sword in one hand, oak shield in the other. He cut through the enemy like a blade through silk.

At his side, Kili and Fili fought fiercely, protecting their king and forging a path through the chaos.

The tide began to turn. Orcs were now the ones retreating, stumbling over their own dead.

At the front, Gandalf slashed down an Orc with a swing of Glamdring. Bilbo, beside him, stabbed clumsily but successfully through another's leg. Yet Gandalf kept glancing over his shoulder, waiting.

And finally, through the wide-open gate of Erebor, stepped a figure clad in black armor, wielding a gleaming Elven longsword.

Sunlight struck his blade. Orcs near him froze, some dropping their weapons outright.

Gandalf's grin broke wide. "Took you long enough, Eric."

---

[Battle Status]

Free Peoples:

- Men of Lake-town & Dale (Militia)

- Dwarves of Erebor & the Iron Hills

- Elves of the Woodland Realm

Commanders: Gandalf the Grey, Thranduil (Elvenking), Dain Ironfoot, Bard the Bowman (Commander of Men), Thorin II Oakenshield (King Under the Mountain), Eric Starfell (The Artificer).

Enemy Forces:

- Orcs and Wargs

Commanders: Azog the Defiler, Bolg

Troop Ratio (approx):

Free Peoples - 1 | Enemy Horde - 5

The Battle Has Begun.

---

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