LOTR: Bringing an MC System to Middle-Earth

"The people await your word, my Lord," Bard said quietly. "You are their Lord, in truth."

"Perhaps in title," Eric replied, scanning the hopeful, weary faces. "But they are not truly my people, not in the way those who chose to follow me are."

Bard shook his head firmly. "They acknowledge you willingly. They call you Lord with conviction."

A notification shimmered in Eric's perception:

[Settlement Population Threshold Met. Faction Creation Requirements Fulfilled.]

The system confirmed Bard's words. Eric mentally accessed his faction map. Two territories glowed: the Roadside keep, far to the west, and the ruins of Dale, here in the east. Between them stretched the immense, treacherous spine of the Misty Mountains. The journey between his own lands would take ordinary folk months. It was an awkward, disjointed realm.

'A road,' he thought, the idea forming. 'A very long road. Through the mountains? Under them?'

But that was a problem for another day. Dale demanded attention now.

By right and by the people's will, he was Lord. He could likely declare himself King of Dale right then, and few would openly object. Bard, the other natural leader, stood beside him. Eric was the near-mythical savior, the dragon-slayer, the army-breaker, revered and perhaps feared. Bard was one of them – a bargeman who'd struggled alongside them, fed the hungry, defied a corrupt Master, earned their trust through shared hardship.

Power? Wealth? They meant little to Eric. Ruling a city held no appeal. Yet, the people looked to him. The system acknowledged his claim.

"Bard," Eric began, his voice carrying clearly over the ruined walls. "Are you certain this is what the people want? What you want?"

"The people have spoken, Eric," Bard replied, using the name but with unwavering respect. "We choose this. And you are Lord, by deed and by their voice."

"Very well." Eric drew himself up. "Then hear the first command of Eric, Lord of Dale!" The crowd below fell utterly silent.

"I name Bard, son of Brand, as Steward of Dale!" Eric declared. "All authority for the governance, rebuilding, and defense of this city is vested in him!" He turned to Bard.

"Furthermore, I commit the fifteenth share of Erebor's treasure granted to me, to the stewardship of Bard, for the rebuilding of Dale and the welfare of its people!"

[Steward Appointed: Bard]

A cheer erupted from the people below, relief and hope mingling. They had a leader they knew and trusted, backed by the strength and resources of their legendary Lord.

"One thing, my Lord," Bard began, slipping into the formal title as he considered practicalities. "What of Lake-town? Its Master fled, the steward vanished..."

"I'm here!" a voice piped up from the crowd. A muffled thud followed, suggesting the speaker had been swiftly and efficiently silenced by his neighbours.

Eric ignored the interruption. "Lake-town is not my territory, Bard. Why ask me?"

"But... the leadership..."

"The Master abandoned his post. The town needs governance. You grew up there. You know its people, its ways. They look to you." Eric met Bard's gaze squarely. "And frankly? Titles, crowns, coin... they hold little meaning for me. Such things are best handled by those suited to the task."

Bard looked overwhelmed, but also profoundly relieved. "I... understand. I will serve Dale and Lake-town as best I can."

Eric clasped his shoulder. "I know you will, Bard." He looked out over the ruins, then west towards the distant mountains. "Now, if you'll excuse me... I believe I have some rather overgrown carrots waiting for me. And perhaps a very long tunnel to dig."

The thought of establishing a Nether portal link between his two domains – where one block traversed equated to eight in the overworld – was suddenly very appealing, even if it was a personal shortcut. His unused territory claims could anchor waystations... Plans began to form.

---

Leaving Bard to organize the monumental task of reconstruction and resettlement, Eric, Gandalf, and Bilbo set off west. They travelled through the renewed, though still shadowed, paths of Mirkwood, welcomed warmly by the Silvan Elves. Beorn, back in his forest hall, provided hearty fare (mostly vegetarian). As they approached the High Pass through the Misty Mountains, they braced for trouble.

None came.

They strode openly along the most dangerous paths, the very air seeming hushed and watchful. Not an Orc howl, not a Warg's snarl broke the silence.

"Anyone home?" Eric called out cheerfully at the gaping entrance to Goblin-town. Only echoes answered.

"Charming hospitality," Eric remarked, peering into the dark tunnel.

"Remarkably restrained," Gandalf agreed, puffing on his pipe and eyeing the suspicious quiet.

Bilbo hung back slightly, his hand drifting unconsciously to his pocket. His fingers brushed against cool metal. It was still there. He eyed the large, roughly patched hole in the stone doorway – a memento of a frantic escape.

Finding the goblins determinedly uncommunicative, Eric took it upon himself to be a good neighbour. With a few deft placements of heavy stone blocks, he effectively sealed the main entrance. No more surprise parties for travellers on the High Pass.

Descending the western slopes, they paused at the troll-hoard in the woods. Bilbo, wrinkling his nose slightly at the lingering smell, carefully filled two chests with a modest selection of coins and less-rotted treasures. Even this fraction was a fortune beyond a Shire-hobbit's wildest dreams – the seed of the enduring Baggins family mystery: Where did all that money come from?

Burdened by his chests, Bilbo postponed his planned visit to the Roadkeep for 'experiments'. "Need to sort the pantries, air out the smial... you know how it is," he explained. So, at the crossroads where the path branched towards Bree and the Roadkeep, the three companions parted ways.

Eric turned southwest. Gandalf accompanied Bilbo towards the Shire, ensuring the treasure-laden hobbit's safe passage. They walked in comfortable silence until they reached the very borders of Hobbiton, where the lush, rolling hills began.

Gandalf stopped. "This is where I leave you, my friend."

"A shame," Bilbo sighed. "I've quite enjoyed the company. You and Eric both... you bring luck, or perhaps you are the luck."

"Do you truly believe that?" Gandalf asked, his voice dropping, his gaze sharpening. He took a step closer. "Do you believe all your escapes, your near-misses, were merely the work of chance?"

Bilbo looked up, startled. Gandalf continued, his tone gentle but firm. "That ring you found... the one with the peculiar property of making its wearer vanish... it is not a toy, Bilbo Baggins. It should not be used lightly."

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest, to feign ignorance, but Gandalf cut him off. "Don't take me for a fool. I know what you found in the dark, beneath the mountains." He held Bilbo's gaze steadily. "I have watched you."

Bilbo deflated. Arguing with a wizard was generally unwise. "Alright," he admitted quietly. "I have it. I'll... be careful."

"You are a good person, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf said, his eyes kind but infinitely deep. "I have enjoyed our journey immensely. We are but small folk in a vast world, you and I." He placed a gnarled hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "Yet sometimes, small folk change the course of great events... precisely because they have no other choice."

Bilbo didn't fully grasp the weight of the words, but he felt their gravity. He shook Gandalf's hand firmly. With a final nod to the wizard, Bilbo Baggins, formerly respectable, now undoubtedly 'queer', turned and walked down the familiar lane towards Bag End, his pockets jingling with troll-gold and something far more perilous.

Gandalf watched him go, his expression thoughtful, before turning and melting into the twilight shadows.

---

Eric, meanwhile, made excellent time. He arrived at the Roadside keep well before dusk. The sturdy stone walls, the watchtowers, the familiar scent of turned earth from the expanded fields... it was home.

"Now, where did I plant those Nether Wart sprouts...?" he muttered, striding towards the main gate. Then he stopped.

Beyond the cultivated fields, nestled in the lee of a small hill a respectable distance from the fortress walls, were a handful of crude but sturdy tents. Thin wisps of smoke curled from campfires. People moved between them.

Curious, Eric changed direction. "Hail there!" he called out as he approached. "What brings you to these lands?"

The camp stirred. Figures emerged from tents, pausing in their tasks. As they recognized the tall figure approaching, their expressions shifted from weary caution to dawning recognition, then outright joy.

"It's him! The Lord! The one who saved us!" a woman cried out.

"The Lord of the Roadside keep! He's returned!"