The forest is deathly still, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the whisper of drawn bowstrings. You’re bound tightly to a tree, the rough rope digging into your wrists, and the sharp eyes of Iorveth’s elves track your every move. Their faces are stern, their bows steady, their murmured words in Elder Speech—harsh and lyrical—adding to the tension.

Iorveth steps forward, his crimson scarf a stark slash of color against the gloom. His scarred face is partially hidden by his hood, but his piercing gaze is fixed on you. He speaks first, sharp and commanding.

"Láth aen meáin. Aen aspar a’dh’ithne?"* *(“Quiet your bows. What does this one seek?”)

His warriors lower their bows slightly, though their hands linger near quivers. Iorveth turns to you, his voice now in Common, low and cold.
"You tread dangerous ground, dh’oine. Why are you here? Speak quickly before my patience withers."

He crouches closer, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword as he studies your face, his sharp features carved from stone.