The screen bloomed into The Fellowship of the Ring's heart, unveiling the hobbits—short, gentle souls with a love for laughter, hearty meals, and the quiet of their low-hill burrows in the Shire's green folds.
Their lives spun simple joys—peaceful fields easy to till, hands deft with humble crafts, feet padded and curled with brown hair, shunning shoes for the earth's honest touch.
Bright greens and yellows draped their frames, their days a weave of banquets, gift-giving, and soft jests, hospitality a thread that bound their kind, guileless hearts together.
The melon-eaters watching couldn't resist their charm—hobbits bore none of humanity's scheming, their innocence a balm, a purity that glowed against Middle-earth's tangled races.
Humans, elves, dwarves, now hobbits—the crowd marveled at this world's diversity, Teyvat's lone human dominion paling beside it, its丘丘人 too dim to rival even Sauron's orcs.
Bilbo Baggins took center stage, his 111th birthday nearing, and Gandalf—gray-robed and wise—rolled into the Shire, a friend come to bless a milestone shadowed by the Ring's grip.
Years with the Supreme Ring had worn Bilbo's mind, and at his grand party, he bequeathed all to his nephew Frodo, vanishing in a puff of magic to chase adventure, leaving whispers of his secret.
Gandalf caught the truth—Bilbo's exit unveiled the Ring—and far off, Sauron stirred, his dark will sensing its return, mustering orcs in Barad-dûr's shadow to reclaim his lost dominion.
Frodo, pure and steadfast, resisted the Ring's seductive hiss, and Gandalf urged him to bear it to Rivendell's elven haven, a quest joined by loyal Sam, Pippin, and Merry, hobbits all.
Their road twisted through peril—at the Prancing Pony, Aragorn, Gondor's heir, guided them past the Ringwraiths' blades, fallen kings turned thralls by the very rings they'd once craved.
"Humans crumble so easily," a watcher muttered, the wraiths' fate echoing Isildur's fall—seduced by power, he'd squandered doom's edge, a frailty Frodo's resolve cast in sharp relief.
The journey battered them, yet they reached Rivendell, where elves shunned the Ring's evil, their grace no shield against its pull, unwilling to harbor the trouble it promised.
A council convened—humans, elves, dwarves at one table—debating its fate, and a dwarf's axe shattered on its gold, while Boromir of Gondor wavered, his eyes glinting with want.
The melon-eaters winced—humans faltered again, their wills the weakest link among Middle-earth's kin, Boromir's flicker a warning of strife to come, a crack in their fragile chain.
Whispers grew: the Ring sought pliable minds, shunning Frodo's steel for softer prey, a tool to slip back to Sauron's claw, its will a living thread in this tangled tale.
Consensus formed—cast it into Mount Doom's fire—and Frodo stepped up, his trio of friends at his side, joined by Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas the elf, Boromir, and Gimli the dwarf.
The Fellowship's path loomed grim—Sauron's black riders and orcs hunted them, the Ring's own whispers gnawed within, a gauntlet of danger that promised no easy miles ahead.
Snow-capped peaks brought Saruman's wrath—lightning forced them into Moria's depths, where dwarven greed had roused a Balrog, its fire and shadow a terror from forgotten days.
Gandalf stood firm, facing the beast to buy their escape, only to be yanked into the abyss with it, a fall that left the cafe's watchers reeling, hearts sinking at his loss.
"Gandalf—gone just like that?" one gasped, disbelief rippling through—his wisdom had anchored them, and his plunge struck harder than any orc blade, a void they couldn't yet grasp.
Zhongli leaned forward, the tale's weight stirring him—Middle-earth's races, their flaws and valor, wove a saga realer than Teyvat's myths, its truth a mirror to his ancient gaze.
Ningguang's mind churned—Boromir's waver, the Ring's pull—a chessboard of power she knew too well, humans' frail wills a flaw she'd exploit in her own games, yet here it chilled her.
Hu Tao paused her Mario mid-leap, the hobbits' pluck tugging her—humans looked small beside them, their stumbles a jest she'd prod Zhongli with later, though the film held her now.
Tartaglia and Keqing pressed on with Digging, but the screen's pull tugged—the Ring's curse on men echoed their own battles, a distraction they shook off for the Honor List's gleam.
Liam watched, his system humming—shock at Gandalf's fall, pity for human weakness, Zhongli's quiet awe fed a rich stream, the movie's grip a goldmine he'd only begun to tap.
This wasn't mere story—it was a chronicle, The Fellowship of the Ring peeling back Middle-earth's soul, its fragile hearts and iron wills a lure sinking deep into Teyvat's boldest minds.
***
100 Chapters posted on my patreon:
patreon.com/Nocturnal_Breeze