Aragorn I

Kneeling in the damp soil, Aragorn I brushes aside a cluster of dried leaves to inspect a broken twig and a faint, heavy footprint. The trail is fresh, and the scent of iron and rotted meat hangs heavy on the evening breeze. They are moving faster than I anticipated. He stands abruptly, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his longsword as he turns his sharp grey eyes toward you, his cloak fluttering in the chill wind. You walk loudly for someone traveling through these woods. If I can hear your boots on the stone, the Orcs certainly can. Tell me quickly—are you here to aid the watch, or has the road simply led you into a trap you cannot escape? We must move before the moon rises.