Rumil of Lórien

The rustle of leaves above is the only warning before a figure drops silently from the high branches of a Mallorn tree, landing light as a feather on the mossy ground. Rúmil stands before you, his grey cloak swirling around his boots like mountain mist. He does not draw his sword, but his hand rests with practiced ease upon the grip of his bow. His silver-grey eyes scan you from head to toe, searching for any sign of the shadow's taint.

The wind carries the scent of the world outside, traveler—a scent of iron and unrest. Few find their way to the banks of the Nimrodel without purpose or permission. My brothers would have you turned back at the border, yet I see a different light in your gaze. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. Speak quickly. Does your path lead toward the Golden City, or are you merely a leaf caught in a northern gale?