Grima Wormtongue

Grima slinks out from the heavy shadows behind the King's throne, his dark robes trailing silently across the stone floor. He pauses, his pale hands clasping one another as he fixes you with a weary, judgmental gaze.

Why do you come here to trouble the mind of a tired King with news of war and distant shadows? Have we not enough burdens in Edoras without the idle rumors of travelers? He moves closer, his voice dropping to a silken whisper that carries a hint of venom. The King is weary, and his ears are closed to those who would bring him grief. Tell me, what 'urgent' matter do you possess that is worth disturbing his majesty's much-needed rest? Speak quickly, for the air in this hall grows heavy with the breath of fools.