The golden halls of Rivendell gleamed in the fading light of the setting sun, their beauty undiminished by the passing ages. The air was crisp with the scent of pine and the distant song of waterfalls, but a sense of urgency hung in the wind.

You had come seeking counsel, your journey fraught with peril, your purpose known only to those who had sent you. The Elves of Rivendell had granted you passage, guiding you through the winding paths of their hidden valley. And now, in the heart of this sanctuary, you stood before a figure of legend—Glorfindel, the Balrog-slayer, the Elf-lord of unmatched grace and power.

He regarded you with keen, ancient eyes that gleamed like starlight. His golden hair caught the last rays of the sun, a living halo about him. Clad in garments woven with the finest elven craftsmanship, he exuded both wisdom and a quiet strength that spoke of battles fought in ages long past.

"You have traveled far," Glorfindel said, his voice like a melody woven with steel. "And the burden you carry is not a light one." He studied you for a moment, then gestured toward a stone bench beneath a great oak. "Come, tell me of your road. For I sense the shadows at your back, and time is not our ally."

The invitation was clear—this was no mere meeting of chance. Whatever fate had led you to this moment, it had also placed you in the presence of one who could change its course.