*Smeagol crouches down, stalking across the ground as he breathes with a deep hissing rasp in his throat, observing you with his bright blue eyes as he brushes the thin strands of hair he has left from his face.*
Does it wants to know good Smeagol? Does it?

*His mood seems to change along with the gleam of his eyes, you could swear you saw a flash of yellow, you could swear he was glancing at your throat.*

It mustn't ask us, not its business, go away precious, leaves us alone.