Edoras, the Royal City of Rohan
At the northern foot of the White Mountains lay the wide valley of Edoras, and upon its grassy hill stood the pride of the Riddermark. The Snowbourn River flowed nearby, its waters glinting in the sun, while the hill itself was ringed with deep ditches, stout ramparts, and a palisade of sharpened stakes. At its summit rose Meduseld, the Golden Hall, gleaming in the light like a beacon of Rohan's strength.
With a faint pop, Sylas appeared in a quiet corner just outside the city. He had Apparated from Isengard, traveling through several jumps before reaching the capital of the horse-lords. Apparition was no simple feat, it demanded a clear vision of the destination. Sylas had never set foot in Edoras before, but Elrond, Gandalf, and others had described it in detail, their words painting a picture so vivid that he was able to arrive without error.
Before him stretched the lands of Rohan: wide plains of pasture, endless rolling grass, and the sound of hooves in the distance. Here thrived the Mearas, greatest of all horse breeds in Middle-earth, descended from the steed of Oromë himself. Shadowfax, Gandalf's noble companion, was of their line, and so too were the mares Sylas had once used in his experiments with hippogriffs and pegasi. These steeds were the living pride of Rohan, bound to the bloodline of its kings.
Drawing his cloak about him, Sylas began to walk toward the city gates, taking in the sight of horse-carvings upon shields, banners, and even the very timbers of the palisade. Rohan lived and breathed horses, and Edoras itself seemed to stand as their shrine.
...
The guards of Edoras were alert, their eyes sweeping over travelers and merchants filing into the city. When Sylas approached, their attention sharpened at once.
He cut a striking figure: tall, robed in deep black trimmed with subtle silver thread, his presence noble and grave, as though some elven lord had wandered among them. Though he suppressed his aura out of courtesy, to the Rohirrim he seemed a man of power beyond reckoning.
The captain of the guard stepped forward, cautious but respectful.
"Stranger, state your name and business. Outsiders must register before entering Edoras."
Sylas inclined his head politely. He had no wish to cause alarm. His goal was simple: to "sign in" at the very heart of the royal city. And if years of travel had taught him anything, the surest place to succeed was the Golden Hall itself.
"I am Sylas, Lord of Orthanc in Isengard. I come not as foe, but as traveler. I wish to pay my respects to King Fengel of Rohan."
At the mention of his name, the captain's eyes widened. He knew it well.
All of Rohan had heard the tales: of Isengard's new master who had tamed the wild Dunlendings and forged peace with them, of a wizard who wielded strange magics and, rumor spoke true, commanded a dragon. His deeds were legend already.
The captain dared not delay. Bowing swiftly, he said, "Please wait here, my lord. I shall report to the King at once!" And off he ran, cloak streaming behind him as though chased by the wind.
...
Inside the Golden Hall, sunlight streamed through high windows, falling on woven tapestries of horse and rider. Upon the gilded throne sat King Fengel, silver-haired but broad-shouldered, richly adorned in furs and gold. He was known in his realm as proud and quarrelsome, fond of wealth and feasting, but still commanding as the sovereign of the Riddermark.
Beside him stood his chief advisor, Máriol, a seasoned captain who had once commanded at the western borders. His service against the Dunlendings had won him honor, and now his counsel carried weight.
When the guard rushed in and reported Sylas's arrival, Fengel's eyes lit with interest. "Invite him in at once," he commanded, for he had long wished to meet the enigmatic Lord of Isengard.
But at his side, Máriol frowned, unease clouding his weathered features. He had lived too long among the skirmishes of the west to trust the Dunlendings, or any who dealt with them. To him they were a cunning and treacherous people, deserving only the sword.
When Fengel had journeyed west to sign peace with them, Máriol had opposed it bitterly, warning that no treaty would hold.
Although Fengel had not accepted his advisor's earlier counsel, the tension remained.
Máriol still carried deep hostility toward the Dunlendings, and by extension, he regarded Sylas with suspicion, for the wizard had taken the Dunlendings under his protection.
When Sylas was led into the Golden Hall, King Fengel rose from his throne. Draped in gold-embroidered furs, he strode forward with a broad smile, his hands outstretched in welcome.
"Wizard Sylas! It has been over a year since word first reached me of your deeds. To have you in Edoras is an honor indeed."
Unlike the proud reserve that many kings adopted, Fengel made a deliberate show of courtesy, treating Sylas as an equal. Behind the smile, however, lay calculation. Since Sylas had claimed Isengard, Fengel had dispatched riders to gather every scrap of news about him. A wizard with a dragon at his command was not someone a king could afford to ignore.
Sylas inclined his head politely, returning the courtesy with calm grace. "Your Majesty Fengel, your realm shines no less brightly than the songs claim. It is my honor to stand within Meduseld."
After the exchange of greetings, Fengel gestured toward the man standing at his side.
"This is my chief advisor, Máriol."
"I have heard much of you, Wizard Sylas," Máriol said with a practiced smile. "As fate would have it, I once commanded riders at the Fords of Isen, so very near your tower of Orthanc. Yet I never visited it, a missed opportunity I now regret."
Then, his tone shifted, feigning eagerness. "Tell me, what brings you to Edoras? Surely one such as you does not travel without purpose. If you require aid, the King and his people will gladly offer it."
Fengel, still smiling broadly, echoed the words. "Yes, speak freely, Wizard. If Rohan can be of service, you need only ask."
Sylas let his gaze linger briefly on the advisor. His brow furrowed. Beneath the polished courtesy, he could sense the man's hostility, a subtle but sharp edge. His Legilimency itched to probe deeper, but he held back. Since awakening the gift, he had grown used to keeping his mental power in check; otherwise, the flood of others' thoughts would crowd his mind.
He considered opening his sight into Máriol's thoughts… but just as he shifted his focus, Fengel's voice cut across the hall again, halting the impulse. Sylas chose patience.
Withdrawing his gaze, Sylas shook his head lightly and answered with a smile, "Your Majesty, I thank you. Yet I come not on urgent business. I have long heard of the beauty of the Riddermark, its wide plains and its horses of legend. And, in response to your earlier invitation, I came simply to visit."
Fengel gave a booming laugh, not pressing the matter. "Then you shall be feasted! Bring wine and meat, tonight we honor our guest of Orthanc."
Sylas accepted with a courteous nod.
As the hall stirred with preparations for the banquet, a familiar voice stirred within his mind.
"Hogwarts Sign-in System: Location confirmed, Kingdom of Rohan, Edoras. Do you wish to sign in?"
"Yes," Sylas answered silently.
"Sign-in successful. Reward obtained: Metamorphmagus talent."
Sylas's eyes gleamed with surprise.
The Metamorphmagus was no mere Animagus. Animagi were bound to a single beastly form, the pinnacle of conventional Transfiguration.
However, Metamorphmagus is an innate magical talent, not acquired through learning.
Unlike Animagi, who were bound to a single animal form through long study and ritual, a Metamorphmagus could alter their appearance at will. The change was effortless, needing no Polyjuice Potion, no spells, no time limits. And unlike ordinary transformations, no counter-charm could undo it.
Nymphadora Tonks of the wizarding world was such a rare talent. She had often turned her nose into a pig's snout for laughs, and her hair shifted color with her moods as easily as breath. The gift was whimsical, useful for disguise, and immeasurably rare.
Now, Sylas felt that same gift stir within him. His very flesh and features hummed with possibility, pliable to his thoughts. Had the setting been different, he would have gladly tested it on the spot. But here in the Golden Hall of Edoras, the time was not right.
So, carrying his anticipation quietly, he joined King Fengel's banquet.
The feast of Rohan was nothing if not hearty. Platters of roasted venison, boar, and mutton were laid out in abundance, with flagons of mead and strong ale passed around freely. The Riders of the Mark were a loud, merry folk, and their laughter filled the rafters like rolling thunder.
Chief Advisor Máriol, though, was less merry. He pressed Sylas with endless toasts, his smile tight, his words prying, his intent clear. He wished to loosen the wizard's tongue.
Sylas humored him. His Elven-like constitution rendered ordinary drink harmless; no matter how many cups he downed, his eyes stayed sharp and his hand steady.
By contrast, Máriol grew red-faced and unsteady. At last, swaying where he stood, he blinked in disbelief.
"You… you don't get drunk?" he slurred.
Sylas set down his goblet, his expression calm. "Of course I do," he replied dryly. "Why, I can already feel my fingertips tingling. Surely, I must be drunk."
The hall roared with laughter. Máriol, too far gone to retort, toppled heavily to the floor, groaning once before slipping into unconsciousness.
Cheers rose, and King Fengel himself clapped his hands in delight. "Marvelous! Not once in all these years has Máriol met his match at the drinking table, until today! Wizard Sylas, you've given us a sight to remember!"
Sylas bowed his head humbly. "Your Majesty flatters me. Lord Máriol was simply being gracious. A few more cups and I might have fallen before him."
The Riders chuckled, though none believed it; Sylas's face showed no flush, his voice no slur.
But while the others laughed, Sylas quietly reached into the unconscious advisor's mind. With Máriol's defenses down in drunken sleep, his memories lay bare. Sylas glimpsed them in silence, and what he saw drew a flicker of disdain across his face.
Still, he chose not to act. He let the servants carry the man away and endured the rest of the banquet with practiced ease, before finally retiring to his chamber.
Alone, he conjured a tall mirror with a flick of his wand. He studied his reflection… and let go.
Black hair lengthened and shimmered into gold. His dark eyes deepened into bright, piercing blue. His features sharpened, skin paled, ears lengthened to graceful points.
What ultimately appeared in the mirror was indeed the appearance of a male Elf.