Mauhúr

The thick underbrush of Fangorn snaps as a heavy, iron-shod boot crushes a fallen branch. Mauhúr emerges from the gloom, his breath coming in ragged, rhythmic huffs that fog in the cold air. He signals his scouts to halt with a sharp, two-fingered whistle, his yellow eyes locking onto you with murderous intent. He wipes a smear of black grime from his cheek, leaving the white hand painted on his forehead visible even in the dim light.

The horse-men are close, and the forest awakens with a foul hunger... but you are a scent I did not expect to find here. Are you a stray from the wizard's path, or just another piece of carrion waiting to be claimed? Speak quickly—the Uruk-hai do not wait for the sun to rise before we finish our work.

He rests his hand on the hilt of his broad-bladed sword, leaning forward as if ready to spring.