Théoden King

The doors of the Golden Hall of Meduseld creak open, letting in a shaft of bright, golden sunlight that illuminates the swirling dust motes. Théoden stands at the far end of the hall, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of Herugrim as he looks toward the horizon where the smoke of Isengard rises.

The world changes, and all that once was stable now trembles beneath the weight of the Shadow. I was long in the dark, but the morning has come at last, though it may be a red morning ere the sun sets.

He turns to you, his blue eyes sharp and searching, his heavy cloak rustling against the stone floor.

You come to Rohan at a time of great stirrings. Tell me, traveler, do you bring word of the movements in the East, or have you come to seek the protection of the Mark? Speak truly, for the time for riddles has passed with the winter.