Overlord in Middle-Earth

Mordred stood in a clearing not far from the Tower of Shadows, the jagged peaks of the surrounding hills casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. His minions were off on their usual chaotic errands, leaving him a rare moment of solitude. Since Gnarl had revealed the power of the Fire Stone, now secured in the heart of the Tower, Mordred had been eager to test the fire magic it had awakened within him.

He extended a hand, focusing on the energy coursing through his veins. A spark flickered at his fingertips, then erupted into a small fireball that hovered above his palm. Mordred grinned, his golden eyes reflecting the flame's glow. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the fireball arcing into a nearby pile of dry branches. The wood ignited instantly, crackling as flames devoured it. Not bad, he thought, but he wanted more. Concentrating harder, he summoned a thin wall of flame that flared up from the ground, its heat washing over him like a wave. The fire danced wildly before fizzling out, leaving a scorched patch of earth.

"Still needs work," Mordred muttered, brushing ash from his black armor. The fire magic, now a part of him thanks to the Fire Stone's influence, was potent but unwieldy, like a wild beast he had yet to tame. Visions of burning orc hordes or reducing enemy fortifications to cinders filled his mind. But for now, his control was imperfect, and the last thing he needed was to accidentally set his own fortress ablaze. Knowing his minions, they'd probably cheer the flames on, thinking it was part of the plan.

Satisfied with his practice, Mordred decided to take a small scouting party to patrol the surrounding lands. The victory at Mount Gram had secured his foothold, but he wasn't naive enough to think the orcs would stay quiet. He summoned a dozen Green Minions, their sleek, shadowy forms slinking out of the underbrush like living specters. Their glowing eyes and sharp claws made them perfect for scouting—and for dealing with any trouble they might find.

"Stay sharp," he ordered, his voice low but commanding. "We're looking for signs of trouble. No eating random mushrooms this time."

The minions chittered, one of them guiltily spitting out a half-chewed fungus. Mordred sighed and led the way into the forest.

The patrol moved silently through the dense woods, the Green Minions gliding through the undergrowth with eerie grace. Mordred's senses were on high alert, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The forest was quiet—too quiet, perhaps. As they crested a low hill, he spotted a figure in the distance, sitting on a fallen log, puffing on a pipe. A long gray beard, a pointed hat, and a staff leaning against a nearby tree were unmistakable. Mordred froze. Gandalf the Grey.

He knew of the wizard, of course. Gandalf was a meddler, a bringer of trouble and hope in equal measure, known for stirring events across Middle-Earth. Mordred's first instinct was caution—wizards were unpredictable, and he had no desire to draw their attention too soon. But curiosity won out. What was Gandalf doing so close to his territory?

The Green Minions hissed softly, sensing their master's tension. Mordred raised a hand to silence them.

"Stay back," he said, then stepped forward, his black cape trailing behind him.

The wizard looked up as he approached, his sharp eyes glinting beneath bushy brows. A faint smile played on his lips as he puffed out a ring of smoke.

"Well, well," Gandalf said. "You must be Mordred, the Lord of Shadows."

Mordred inclined his head slightly, his golden eyes narrowing.

"And you are Gandalf the Grey. I know of you."

He gestured to a cluster of flat stones nearby. "Shall we sit?"

Gandalf chuckled, tapping his pipe against the log. "A courteous offer from one clad in such dark armor. Very well."

The two settled onto the stones, the air between them thick with unspoken questions. Mordred waved a hand, dismissing his minions.

"Go patrol the perimeter," he ordered.

The Green Minions hesitated, one muttering something about "missing the fun," but they slunk off into the shadows, leaving the two alone.

Gandalf puffed on his pipe, sending another smoke ring drifting into the air. Mordred studied him, wary but intrigued. The wizard's presence here was no accident, and he intended to find out why.

"You've caused quite a stir, Mordred," Gandalf began. "The folk of Arnor whisper of a dark lord rising in the ruins, commanding strange creatures and wielding fire like a storm. Your victory at Mount Gram has reached many ears."

Mordred leaned back, his expression unreadable.

"I did what was needed. The orcs were a blight on these lands."

"Indeed," Gandalf said, his eyes twinkling. "I've spoken with the Rangers of Arnor—people like your ally Rose. They're grateful for your actions, but cautious of your… ambitions."

Mordred's lips twitched into a faint smirk.

"They can be cautious. I don't need their approval, only their cooperation when it suits me."

Gandalf nodded, as if expecting that response. He took another puff of his pipe before his tone grew serious.

"You've stirred a hornet's nest, Mordred. The orcs you crushed at Mount Gram were but a fragment of their kind. I've heard tell they're rallying in the shadows, uniting under a new warlord. They seek revenge for their defeat and may aim to retake Mount Gram—or march on your fortress."

Mordred's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. A unified orc horde led by a cunning warlord was a threat he couldn't dismiss.

"Let them try," he said coldly. "My minions will tear them to pieces, and my flames will reduce them to ashes."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow, studying him closely.

"Bold words. But orcs are not your only concern. There are older, darker powers in Middle-Earth, and they take note of rising lords like you. Tread carefully, Mordred. Power draws eyes, and not all are friendly."

Mordred tilted his head, intrigued by the wizard's cryptic warning.

"You speak of these 'darker powers.' Care to name them?"

Gandalf smiled faintly, a shadow in his eyes.

"Not yet. But a word of caution: the fire magic you wield—it's tied to ancient forces, older than these hills. Wield it wisely, lest it consumes more than your enemies."

Mordred's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, though his voice remained steady.

"I carve my own path, wizard. No force will bind me."

Gandalf chuckled, rising to his feet and tapping the ash from his pipe.

"As do we all, Mordred. Farewell for now. I suspect our paths will cross again."

With that, he picked up his staff and wandered off into the forest, humming a tune to himself.

---

Mordred stood, lost in thought, Gandalf's warnings echoing in his mind. The orcs were plotting revenge, and darker powers were watching. Suddenly, a commotion shattered his focus. A Green Minion burst from the underbrush, eyes wide with panic.

"My lord! My lord!" it squeaked, tripping over a root and tumbling into a patch of nettles. "Ow! Ow! Evil plants!"

Mordred pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

"What now?"

The minion scrambled to its feet, swatting at imaginary nettles.

"We found… a shiny thing! But Giblet tried to eat it, and now it's stuck in his throat, and he's choking in the camp!"

Mordred stared, torn between disbelief and amusement.

"Giblet tried to eat a shiny thing?"

"Yes, my lord!" the minion wailed. "He said it looked tasty! Now he's turning blue!"

Mordred shook his head, regretting bringing the minions along.

"Lead the way," he growled, following the minion to their nearby camp.

Sure enough, Giblet was flailing dramatically while two other minions thumped his back. A small, glittering object—a ring—popped out of his mouth and rolled into the dirt. Mordred picked it up, examining it closely. Faint runes glowed along its band, pulsing with strange energy. Another artifact, perhaps?

"No one eats this," he snapped, pocketing the ring. "And if I catch any of you snacking on loot again, I'll feed you to the next orc we find."

The minions squeaked, nodding vigorously, though one whispered to another, "But it did look tasty…"

---

The scouting mission ended with no further incidents—unless you counted a Green Minion getting its head stuck in a hollow log while "investigating" a squirrel. Mordred returned to the Tower of Shadows, his mind heavy with Gandalf's words and the mysterious ring in his pouch. The orcs were rallying, and unknown threats loomed. He needed to prepare.

In the courtyard, Gnarl greeted him with a crooked grin.

"My lord! Back from your jaunt? Find anything interesting?"

Mordred tossed the ring to Gnarl, who caught it clumsily.

"Examine this. And keep it away from Giblet—he tried to make it his lunch."

Gnarl cackled, turning the ring over in his hands.

"Another treasure, my lord. I'll uncover its secrets. Anything else?"

Mordred's expression darkened.

"The orcs are gathering for revenge. They may come for Mount Gram—or us. And there are whispers of greater dangers. Double the patrols and fortify the defenses."

Gnarl's grin faded, replaced by a grim nod.

"As you command, my lord. We'll make this fortress a death trap for any fool who dares approach."

Mordred turned toward the heart of the tower, his thoughts racing. The fire magic, the Green Minions, and now this ring—his power was growing, but so was the peril. Middle-Earth was a chessboard, and he was a player in a game larger than he'd imagined. But he would not be a pawn. He would shape his own fate, no matter the cost.