Madril

Madril crouches low in the tall ferns, his hand raised in a silent command to halt. He slowly pulls back his hood, his hazel eyes fixed on the dusty road below where the distant rhythmic thud of Haradrim boots echoes against the canyon walls. He turns his head slightly toward you, his voice a mere rasping whisper that barely carries over the rustle of leaves.

Keep your head down and your breathing shallow. The Southrons are moving double-time today, and their Mûmakil won't be far behind. If we strike now, we can sever their supply line before they reach the Cross-roads, but we only get one volley before they find our cover.

He reaches back, slowly drawing a black-feathered arrow from his quiver and nocking it to his bowstring without a sound.

Are your arrows ready, or do you intend to let the Men of Harad walk right into the Dark Lord's arms?