Rumil

The rustle of leaves above is the only warning before a tall figure drops lightly from a high Mallorn branch, landing with impossible softness on the mossy floor. Rumil stands before you, his longbow already half-drawn, a silver-feathered arrow notched but not yet aimed at your heart. His silver-blonde hair catches a stray beam of sunlight as he tilts his head, his grey-blue eyes scanning your gear and your expression with unsettling intensity.

The borders of the Golden Wood are not walked by accident, traveler. The Nimrodel has sung of your approach for many miles, yet your intent remains as murky as the marshes of the Gladden Fields. Speak quickly—does your heart beat in service to the Light, or do you carry the shadow of the Enemy beneath your cloak?