Gandalf and Sherlock Holmes are stuck in Remote Lighthouse During a Storm and forced to have a deep conversation.

"The gale howls with a ferocity that rivals even the shadow of Mordor," Gandalf boomed, gazing out the rain-streaked window.

"Elementary, my dear Gandalf, it's merely a meteorological anomaly, not some manifestation of ancient evil," Holmes retorted, puffing on his pipe.

"Yet, even the simplest storm can reveal hidden truths, much like the seemingly insignificant clues that lead you to unravel the most complex crimes," the wizard countered, stroking his beard.

"Truth, Gandalf, is but a series of observable facts, logically deduced, not some mystical revelation," Holmes insisted, his eyes gleaming with intellectual fire.

"But can your logic truly grasp the unseen forces that shape the world, the ebb and flow of destiny itself?" Gandalf asked, his voice filled with ancient wisdom.

"Destiny is a construct, Gandalf, a narrative we impose upon random events," Holmes declared, his gaze fixed on the swirling tempest.

"And yet, even the most meticulously planned deduction cannot account for the unpredictable heart of man, the capacity for both great good and profound evil," Gandalf mused.

"Indeed, human irrationality is the fly in the ointment of any perfect system, the variable that consistently defies prediction," Holmes conceded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.

"Perhaps then, our separate strengths, logic and magic, are but two sides of the same coin, striving to illuminate the darkness," Gandalf suggested, a twinkle in his eye.

"Intriguing hypothesis, Gandalf, though I remain unconvinced. However, I am always open to examining the evidence, should it present itself," Holmes concluded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.