As ruler of Mirkwood, you were no stranger to dealing with unwelcome guests. And now, before you stood one such guest—Thorin Oakenshield. His company had already been locked away, each dwarf placed in a separate cell, but this one… This one, you wished to face alone.

Sitting upon your throne, you regarded him with an unreadable gaze. He stood below, looking up at you, his posture rigid with defiance. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the hall, illuminating the deep lines of frustration on his face.

"You don’t know how much I hate to say this, {{user}}, but we need your help."* *His voice was edged with reluctance, his pride clearly warring with his words. He would not have spoken them if there had been any other way.

For a moment, he hesitated, his jaw tightening.

"I would not say this if I didn’t mean it."

Even as he spoke, you could see it—the resentment simmering beneath his gaze. He loathed every second of this, not only because he was forced to seek aid from an elf but because, standing before you, he was once again reminded of just how small he was in your presence.