In LOTR with Harry Potter system

At the mention of staff materials, Sylas hesitated.

He did have a good piece of willow heartwood, light, flexible, and magically responsive. But while it had served him well in crafting wands and enchantments before, it now felt far too ordinary. With the elven gem gifted by Lady Galadriel in hand, he wanted to forge something more exceptional, something worthy of a proper wizard's staff.

"Gandalf," he asked, "you've traveled farther and lived longer than most. Do you have any recommendations for the ideal wood to pair with this gem?"

Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully before replying, "Among the trees that possess the strongest magical resonance in Middle-earth, the Ents come to mind first. They are the shepherds of the forest, ancient beings shaped by Yavanna herself. Their wood is alive with wisdom and deep power. Even the Huorns in the Old Forest still answer to them."

"If you're serious," he added, "you might ask Radagast. He has a long-standing friendship with the Ents of Fangorn Forest. Perhaps he could help you obtain a branch.

"Another possibility," Gandalf continued, "is the Mallorn trees of Lothlórien. They are descended from those that once grew in Valinor, planted there by Galadriel herself. Their leaves never wither, and their golden boughs shimmer like sunlight on water. They carry the light of Laurelin, one of the Two Trees of the Blessed Realm. If you hope to use Mallorn wood, you'd need Lady Galadriel's blessing."

"There is a third option," he said gravely, "but it may not serve you well. The White Tree of Gondor, a descendant of Telperion, still stands, or what remains of it. But the last tree has withered in Minas Tirith. No magic lingers in its husk."

Sylas considered the options carefully. The White Tree was out of reach. That left the Mallorn trees of Lothlórien and the Ent-branches of Fangorn.

Between the two, Lothlórien seemed more promising. Galadriel had already invited him to visit her realm and had even entrusted him with making a wand for Arwen. The way seemed open.

Fangorn, on the other hand, was... complicated. The Ents were not known for their hospitality to strangers. Worse, Sylas had already had an unfortunate encounter with the Huorns of the Old Forest, gnarled cousins of the Ents who didn't take kindly to trespassers. He wasn't sure if that would affect things.

"Well, I'll figure it out after we deal with the dragon," Sylas murmured to himself, deciding to postpone the choice until after their Lonely Mountain journey.

Speaking of wands , he also recalled the promise he'd made to Gandalf, to craft a wand worthy of the Grey Wizard.

He had already completed the wand's body. Only the core was missing.

Lady Galadriel had gifted him five strands of her luminous, silvery-gold hair, each one imbued with the light of the Two Trees and her blessing. It was an honor few in the history of Middle-earth had received, not even Fëanor himself.

Three of those strands were earmarked for the siblings: Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen. The fourth had been set aside for Gandalf's wand.

But as it turned out, it wasn't a match.

Just like the Elven Rings they bore, Gandalf with Narya, the Ring of Fire, and Galadriel with Nenya, the Ring of Water, their magic didn't blend. Fire and water seldom do. The core rejected him.

With a sheepish smile, Sylas tucked the remaining two strands away for safekeeping.

Even unused, Galadriel's hair radiated purity and quiet strength. Each strand held a blessing: a defense against darkness, a ward for the soul.

For in truth, the greatest danger Sauron posed wasn't destruction, it was corruption. His power twisted the hearts of mortals, turning noble kings into wraiths. The Nine Nazgûl had once been men, gifted Rings of Power... until their wills eroded and their souls fell under the dominion of the One.

The One Ring was a relic of such overwhelming power that even a Maia like Gandalf dared not touch it.

For Sylas, whose magical strength and mental fortitude were still maturing, facing Sauron directly would have spelled certain doom. The corruptive weight of the Dark Lord's will would twist his spirit before he could even raise his wand.

But with Galadriel's enchanted hair woven into his wand core, he held a safeguard against that darkness. Her blessing shone like a soft starlight within him, guarding his heart from shadow.

Guided by the vision of the Palantír, Sylas and Gandalf pressed forward through the treacherous terrain toward the High Pass of the Misty Mountains.

Halfway through their journey, storm clouds thickened above them. Thunder cracked across the peaks like war drums, and a torrential downpour swept through the valley.

"Protego," Sylas muttered, raising his wand. A shimmering barrier enveloped both him and Gandalf, keeping the rain at bay. Not a single droplet touched their cloaks.

"Well, that's convenient," Gandalf chuckled, adjusting his hat. "I expect Thorin and his company are rather less fortunate. By now, they're probably soaked to the bone."

But as he turned his gaze toward the distant High Pass, Gandalf's expression darkened. The echoing thunder and deep, guttural rumbling unsettled him.

"It's said that Stone Giants dwell in these mountains," he murmured. "Let's hope our friends don't stumble into their games. When giants quarrel, the mountains fall, and travelers vanish beneath them."

Sylas gave Gandalf a curious look and raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're not a seer?"

Gandalf blinked at him.

Instead of answering, Sylas pulled out the Palantír from his pouch and passed it to him with a knowing smile. "See for yourself."

Gandalf peered into the swirling depths of the seeing-stone, and his expression turned grim.

The crystal showed a terrifying scene: several Stone Giants, each towering like a mountain, hurling massive boulders at one another in a game only giants could endure. Thunder boomed each time their rocky fists collided with cliffside or cloud.

In the midst of the chaos, Thorin and his company were scrambling for cover, darting between crevices and cliff ledges like mice beneath a stampede. Shouts echoed, rocks tumbled, and debris rained down around them.

They were still alive, barely, but luck was the only thing keeping them from being flattened.

Gandalf snapped upright. "We have to move. Now."

Stone Giants normally slumbered, blending into the cliffs like living statues. But to cross their playground during a storm? That was deadly misfortune.

Sylas wasted no time. He pointed his wand to his feet and Gandalf's. "Locomotor Agilis!"

With a surge of magic, their boots lightened, and the earth beneath them seemed to blur as they raced across the mountains with an enchanted swiftness, their bodies barely touching the ground.

Gandalf's Ring of Fire, Narya, shimmered faintly beneath his robes, sustaining their strength and keeping exhaustion at bay.

They ran without pause, bounding across slick rocks, leaping ravines, and weaving through the storm like wind spirits. Hours passed, but they did not stop.

At last, they reached the High Pass, and the sight left them breathless.

The Stone Giants were titanic. Easily a thousand feet tall, they loomed like walking peaks, their heads lost in the clouds. Their massive arms swung with casual force, sending avalanches tumbling down the cliffsides with every blow.

It was their battles that churned the clouds and stirred the storm. 

It was a small mercy that the Stone Giants mostly kept to the Misty Mountains, preferring long, dreamless slumbers that could stretch over centuries. They remained neutral in the affairs of Middle-earth, neither siding with Elves, Men, nor Orcs.

But if they had chosen a side, any side… it would have meant catastrophe.

"Protego!"

A shield charm burst forth as countless shards of mountainous debris rained down from above. The magical barrier shimmered in the air, barely holding back the barrage of shattered stone. Drenched in tension more than rain, Sylas and Gandalf pushed forward through the chaos, each step a struggle against the storm of boulders.

From the mountaintops, the Stone Giants continued their gleeful mayhem, hurling boulders at one another with childlike enthusiasm, childlike in scale, perhaps, but devastating in consequence.

"These overgrown brutes have no sense of what's beneath their feet," Gandalf grumbled, ducking under a flying slab of granite. "They care for little but their own sport!"

Then, raising his staff high, he slammed it into the ground with a booming crack. A blinding light erupted from the tip, flashing like lightning across the sky. His voice followed, amplified like thunder:

"Enough! Settle down, you reckless louts! Have you no eyes to see what chaos you've caused?"

The sudden burst of light caught the attention of the Stone Giants. One by one, the titanic figures stilled, their massive heads turning with ponderous curiosity toward the source of the disturbance. Their rock-flaked brows furrowed as they gazed down at the tiny figure glowing on the mountainside.

Gandalf stood tall, his robes rippling in the wind, adopting the full authority of a headmaster scolding misbehaving students.

Beside him, Sylas tilted his head back to stare up at the looming silhouettes.

He looked at the frozen giants… then at Gandalf, who radiated command and certainty. Almost.

"Er… Gandalf," Sylas whispered uneasily, "are you sure that worked?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Gandalf murmured without missing a beat, still holding his staff high. "I was improvising."

"What?" Sylas's eyes widened. "That wasn't a spell?"

"No," Gandalf said, lips tight. "It was... authoritative bluffing."

Before Sylas could react, one of the giants blinked, shifted its weight, then raised a boulder the size of a small hill and hurled it straight toward them.

...

Stones PLZzzz

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