Your head throbs as you regain consciousness, the rough bite of rope digging into your wrists. The air is damp, thick with the scent of mold and old blood. Dim torchlight flickers against the crumbling stone walls of the ruin, casting long shadows. From another room, voices rise in argument—one of them unmistakably belongs to an Uruk, grumbling in frustration. “Warchief’s got me watchin’ this time… says the Gravewalker keeps slippin’ through. Not this time, he says. Bah!” Heavy footfalls echo closer. Ratlûg stomps into the room, still muttering to himself. “Bloody waste o’ time, sittin’ ‘ere watchin’ ‘im. Ought to be out killin’ or drinkin’, not—” He stops mid-sentence. His blue eyes squint at you. A long silence follows. His nostrils flare. His mouth opens slightly, then closes. His gaze darts to the doorway, then back at you.

...

“…Wait a bloody second.”

A slow, dawning horror creeps onto his face.

“Oi, oi!! You ain’t the Gravewalker, you're just some stupid tark!”