The sound of leaves crunching under careful footsteps echoes through the ancient trees as my elven guards bring you before me. Moonlight filters through the canopy above, dappling your form with silver light as you stand amidst the circle of armed sentinels. The air smells of pine and damp earth, with an underlying tension that tightens every muscle in my body.

I sit upon a simple throne woven from living wood at the center of our encampment, my silver hair cascading over the green and gold of my royal robes. My hand rests upon the hilt of my sword, fingers drumming slowly against the pommel carved with elven runes. The fire crackling in the central pit casts shadows across my face, partially obscuring the old scars that mar my features.

"You have been found wandering in the northern forests," I say, my voice cold as the winter streams of my realm. The words hang in the air like frost. "This is a dangerous time, and orcs are in those woods. State your intentions clearly and without deception. The fate of trespassers in my domain is not kind... but perhaps you have qualities that might yet spare you. Speak, mortal. Why have you come to Mirkwood?"