In LOTR with Harry Potter system

As Sylas dismounted from the carriage, an Elf promptly stepped forward to take the reins, offering to care for both the pony and the cart.

Sylas gave a nod of gratitude. "Thank you."

He then walked toward Gandalf, a smile lighting his face.

"Gandalf."

"Good to see you in one piece, Sylas," Gandalf greeted warmly.

Noticing Elrond nearby, Sylas bowed slightly, but Gandalf added with a light chuckle, "I assume introductions are unnecessary, you've already made quite the impression."

Elrond nodded in agreement, his voice composed and regal. "The wizard Sylas's magical prowess is remarkable. While we pursued Orcs, he had already felled dozens of Wargs and their riders. I daresay the name 'Foe of Orcs' will soon echo through the wilds of Eriador."

"You flatter me, Lord Elrond," Sylas replied modestly, bowing again. "Surely there are many who've slain far more than I. I would not presume such a title in your presence."

Elrond smiled faintly but said no more. He turned toward Thorin, his tone courteous and measured.

"Welcome, Thorin, son of Thráin."

Thorin frowned, his pride bristling. "I don't recall us having met."

"Your bearing mirrors that of your grandfather," Elrond said, unbothered. "I knew Thrór when he was King under the Mountain."

"Really?" Thorin's voice was sharp, almost mocking. "Funny. He never spoke of you."

Gandalf closed his eyes in exasperation.

Sylas stifled a sigh. 'Typical Thorin,' he thought. 'If there's a way to offend a host within ten seconds, he'll find it.'

Elrond, as ever, remained composed. With a gesture, he turned and gave instructions in Elvish:

"Light the fires. Prepare the wine. We shall welcome our guests in the manner of old."

Gloin scowled suspiciously. "What's he saying? Is he insulting us in that fancy Elf tongue?"

"No, Master Gloin," Gandalf said tiredly. "He's inviting you to a feast."

The Dwarves huddled, whispering among themselves. After a moment, Gloin stepped forward as if declaring a victorious demand.

"In that case, lead the way."

At the Banquet

The tables were split, Elrond, Gandalf, Sylas, and Thorin sat together, while Bilbo and the rest of the Dwarves gathered at another.

Sylas glanced at the plates before them, his eyebrows twitching ever so slightly. The table was covered in artfully arranged greens, fruits, and bread, not a scrap of meat in sight.

He then looked across the room to see the Dwarves awkwardly poking at salad leaves as if they were cursed. Sylas couldn't help a wry smile.

'Was this the Elves' way of returning Thorin's rudeness?' he wondered. 'And I've been caught in the crossfire.'

Still, the atmosphere at their table was civil, even pleasant, except for Thorin, who remained silent and stone-faced.

However, chaos reigned in the form of Kíli.

The youngest of the company was caught unabashedly winking at an Elven harpist with flowing hair and graceful features, only to realize, too late, that the Elf was male.

The result? Roars of laughter from his companions that echoed through the hall, drawing curious glances from the head table.

Even Elrond turned with a subtle lift of his brow.

As the evening mellowed, Gandalf leaned toward Elrond and presented a sheathed sword.

"We recovered this from the Troll hoard. I thought perhaps you might recognize it."

Elrond took the sword, gently unsheathing a few inches of its blade. His expression shifted, touched by memory.

"This is Glamdring, Foe-hammer, wielded by Turgon, King of Gondolin, in the First Age. Forged for war against the Orcs."

"I didn't expect you to find it," Elrond said with mild astonishment. "It seems your luck is exceptional."

Gandalf chuckled softly and shook his head. "Not luck, my friend. This was a gift, Sylas was the one who found it and passed it on to me."

Elrond turned his eyes toward Sylas, the surprise in his gaze deepening into quiet respect. "Then it is not only a sword you've given, but a mark of true friendship."

Sylas felt slightly embarrassed under the attention and modestly looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the flicker of candlelight across the elven wine.

A moment later, Elrond turned his attention to the blade at Thorin's side.

"And this," he said, stepping toward the Dwarf prince, "is Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver, wielded by the lords of Gondolin. May it serve you well, son of Thráin."

Thorin nodded curtly, offering no further comment, though a flicker of pride passed behind his eyes.

Down the table, Bilbo watched the scene with quiet awe. He hesitated, then reached for the small elven blade resting at his side.

Seeing this, Balin, seated nearby, leaned over and grunted, "Don't get any ideas, lad. Only swords with legendary deeds get names. Yours? At best, it's a letter opener."

Bilbo's expression fell. He sheepishly began to return the weapon to its sheath.

But Sylas had noticed.

"Bilbo," he called gently, "bring your blade forward. Lord Elrond may know its origin."

Bilbo looked up, startled. "This? Oh, I—I don't think it's necessary... it's nothing grand."

The small sword, modest in appearance, lacked the flourish and gemwork of Glamdring or Orcrist. Yet something in Sylas's tone reassured him.

Elrond turned to him with a faint, encouraging smile. "If it is of Elven make, I would be pleased to see it."

With all eyes on him, Bilbo hesitated, then stood and stepped forward, placing the short sword in front of Elrond.

Elrond gently drew the blade from its leather sheath. His eyes scanned the fine craftsmanship, delicate yet strong, its blade shimmering with a subtle, ancient light. Slowly, a look of recognition dawned on his face.

The table fell silent.

Gandalf leaned forward. "Lord Elrond… you recognize it?"

Elrond nodded slowly, his voice quiet with reverence. "Yes. This blade, though it appears as a dagger to most, is no ordinary weapon. It once belonged to Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin."

A collective murmur swept the table.

"Glorfindel?" Gandalf's eyes widened. "Then this is the blade that slew a Balrog?"

Elrond nodded again, now addressing them all.

Glorfindel was a Noldorin noble, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, one of the twelve great houses of Gondolin. In the First Age, in the fateful year 510, Gondolin fell to the might of Morgoth, betrayed from within. The Dark Enemy unleashed his vast legions, dragons, Balrogs, wargs, and countless Orcs, and brought the hidden city to ruin.

Few survived the slaughter.

Fleeing through the perilous peaks of the Crissaegrim, the last remnants of the city's people found themselves ambushed by Orcs, and one towering Balrog.

There, Glorfindel turned to face the fiery demon alone.

They fought upon a narrow cliff edge, wreathed in fire and shadow. In the final clash, Glorfindel was ensnared by the Balrog's blazing whip, and both fell into the abyss below. Yet, before the darkness claimed him, Glorfindel drove his dagger deep into the Balrog's belly, and thus slew it.

Though he perished, his valor saved the survivors, and the tale of his sacrifice lived on in song and story.

Now, that very dagger, once thought lost, had returned… and rested in Bilbo Baggins's hands.

The revelation stunned the hall.

Even Thorin's eyes widened slightly, and murmurs rippled among the Dwarves.

Sylas himself sat in astonishment, never having imagined that Sting, the unassuming short sword they found in the trolls' hoard, possessed such a mighty legacy.

Yet what made the matter all the more curious was this: Glorfindel had not remained dead.

By the grace of the Valar, he had been reborn in the Undying Lands, his spirit restored and his body remade. He was one of the few Elves permitted to return to Middle-earth. Like the Istari, the Wizards, he had been sent back with purpose: to aid the Elves and Men of Middle-earth against the rising power of Sauron.

He now dwelled in Rivendell, serving Elrond as counselor and guardian.

Thus, a rare and delicate situation arose, both the past and present wielders of the dagger were alive and present in Rivendell.

Would Bilbo be expected to return the dagger to its ancient master? Or had the blade found a new fate in Bilbo's hands, its past buried and its future reborn?

Even Elrond seemed unsure, his brow furrowed as he weighed tradition, sentiment, and destiny.

"In matters such as these," he said at last, "it is not for us to decide lightly. This blade carries the legacy of Gondolin and the blood of a Balrog. We must ask Glorfindel himself."

....

Stones plZzz