In the study of the arcane, there exists a branch of research known simply as Forbidden Knowledge.
With it comes something far less welcome: Distortion.
Every time a person grasps a fragment of such knowledge, their distortion value creeps higher. The more it rises, the stranger things become around them.
The light effects are annoying but survivable. One might suddenly find a puddle of foul, curse-tainted sludge squelching under their boots. Vision may darken without warning, or an unshakable hunger may seize them until everything in sight looks edible yet never satisfying.
The heavier cases are far worse. Hallucinations appear: swarms of tiny spiders crawling out of the void. They bite, and even though only the victim can see them, the wounds they leave are horribly real. This is why some mystics are occasionally seen flailing wildly at the air. They are not mad, only fending off their invisible attackers.
Other effects are even nastier. A sudden wave of heat might end in spontaneous combustion. Curses may manifest, draining blood drop by drop. And in the rarest, most unsettling cases, the afflicted themselves become a walking contamination, spreading corruption to anything they touch.
Not all distortions are strictly harmful. Some are strange enough to be called neutral. One of the most infamous is the Death Gaze. Those burdened with it can barely see beyond a narrow distance, but any living creature that enters their sight begins to wither away until it dies. Grim, certainly, but occasionally useful.
There are countless such phenomena, each as unpredictable as the next. Distortions torment mystics constantly, striking without warning. Most of them cannot be purged by milk or any simple cleansing charm. They must simply be endured.
It is worth noting that some distortions are born from within, the result of a mind warped by too much forbidden lore. Others come from without, caused by beings beyond the world's borders. These entities notice the researcher's trespass into their secrets and reach across the void, sending claws, whispers, or worse.
When a mystic touches the forbidden, the forbidden touches back.
Eric knew this all too well. Since diving into these studies, his own distortion value had grown considerably. His vision had blurred into blackness more than once. Yet, curiously, none of the truly dangerous phenomena had occurred. No swarms from the void, no sudden infernal visitations.
It was as though something had cut off the outer powers, barring them from reaching this world. Their claws could not pierce through. Only distortions born from his own mind still harassed him.
Which led Eric to a simple, rather pleasing conclusion.
"So… I can study forbidden knowledge as much as I like? Well then. Praise be to the Creator of Arda."
Most distortions did not truly threaten him, though they were irritating, especially those that could affect others nearby. Temporary distortions could be washed away with a bar of Purging Soap, but permanent ones clung stubbornly, whispering of entities lurking in the background. For a while, he had worried that such influences would overwhelm him. Now it seemed the very fabric of this world protected him.
Whatever powers haunted the void, they were far beneath the stature of Arda's own Creator. Compared to that, even Sauron felt more impressive.
Days passed. Sun rose, moon fell, and Eric stepped from his tower one morning, lifting his face into the warm light. For the first time in a while, the distortions seemed to ease, the world shimmering clearer around him.
During these days he had unlocked every chapter of the arcane compendium. All but one. The section on Dark Thaumaturgy remained sealed. It required a tome of vile sorcery usually carried by cultists, and Middle-earth had no such people. At least not yet.
Eric shrugged. Dark Thaumaturgy was not strictly necessary. It was enough to be a respectable mystic without plunging into the void.
With his studies complete, it was time to build the foundation of all further work: the Infusion Altar.
This structure could infuse magical essence into ordinary matter or combine multiple essences to forge extraordinary items. The discipline was called Alchemy, though in truth it felt more like delicate engineering.
The altar was no simple crafting table. It was a multi-block construction that required space, planning, and a healthy respect for risk. Eric cleared the entire second floor of his tower for the work, dedicating it to magical craftsmanship.
Wooden staves drained of their magical charge provided the raw materials. Slowly, methodically, he assembled the parts until finally, with the last flicker of stored energy, a runic matrix flared into being. Four corner stones reshaped themselves into pillars, encircling the glowing sigils.
This was the altar's beating heart, capable of calculation and execution, like a primitive magical computer.
Around it, Eric placed the pedestals for ingredients. The shape was right, but he knew it was not yet stable. Infusion carried risks. Miscalculations could warp or destroy a work, sometimes catastrophically. The solution was to surround the altar with magical objects, balancing and stabilizing its flows.
Fortunately, Eric had a supply. Orcs, once slain, tended to leave behind a most unsavory byproduct: rotten flesh. He had saved plenty. Distilled in cauldrons, it yielded magical tallow. From this, one could craft candles rich in power and not entirely unpleasant to look at.
"Let us give thanks to the orcs," Eric said dryly as he set about the work. "For their noble and lasting contribution to the advancement of mysticism."
Beside him, Blush, his ever-curious companion, sniffed one of the chunks of meat, made a disgusted sound, and walked off in disdain.
Eric chuckled. "Well, I'm not picky."
By the time he finished, one hundred and sixty-nine shimmering candles circled the altar, their waxy glow lending it stability.
The altar was ready. But he still faced another hurdle: elemental shards.
Mystical research required them constantly. They were usually mined, but Middle-earth had no such ores. Neither the overworld nor the Nether seemed to produce them. To lack shards was like playing Minecraft without wood. Impossible.
Thankfully, the compendium revealed another method. Quartz could be transmuted into shards if submerged in an elemental cauldron. With that discovery, Eric's resource crisis was solved.
He threw himself into the work, separating essences with distillation, filling jars with glimmering vapors, and crafting his first quartz staff. It could hold seventy-five points of magical energy, three times more than the wooden version. The difference felt like upgrading from a wooden sword to an iron blade.
The next tier, the Silverwood staff, could hold a hundred. Below quartz was Greatwood, which held fifty. Sadly, neither tree existed in Middle-earth.
Or did they?
Eric's gaze wandered eastward, across leagues of mountain and forest, to the realm of Lothlórien. There, under the watch of Lady Galadriel, grew forests of silver-trunked, golden-leaved trees. They were called Mallorn, gifts not of Middle-earth but of the Blessed Realm beyond the Sea.
Perhaps they would serve.