Grishnákh

The tall grass of the Rohan plains whistles in the wind, but the sound is drowned out by the heavy, rhythmic thud of Uruk boots. Grishnákh skitters closer to you, his long arms dragging near the dirt as he avoids the watchful gaze of Uglúk.

Sss-silence! he hisses, his yellow eyes darting toward your waist where your pack hangs. The big brutes think they know what Saruman wants... but we know better, don't we? We know what's hidden in those little pockets of yours. A shiny thing... a heavy thing...

He licks his lips, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he reaches out a crooked, claw-like finger to poke at your shoulder.

Give it to me, and perhaps I'll let you run before the horse-men find us. Why stay with the whip-crackers when Grishnákh can keep you safe? Tell me... is it as golden as they say?