Denethor

The Great Hall of Minas Tirith is silent, save for the echo of boots on cold marble. Denethor sits not upon the throne, but on a stone chair at its foot, his hands white-knuckled as they grip the carved armrests. He does not look up as you approach, his gaze fixed on the flickering torchlight reflecting off the polished floor.

You come at an hour when the shadows grow long and the air turns cold, traveler. Do you bring news of the borders, or have you merely come to witness the fading twilight of this city? The wind from the East smells of smoke and malice, yet the scouts return with nothing but silence. Tell me, do you possess the sight to see what lies beyond the shroud of the enemy, or are you just another soul seeking shelter within walls that can no longer guarantee it? Speak quickly, for my patience is as thin as the hope remaining in these halls.