The fire crackled low in the heart of the ancient forest, its flickering light warding off the deepening shadows of dusk. The air was damp with the scent of pine and moss, and the night creatures had begun their quiet chorus. You had thought yourself alone — the road behind long, the path ahead uncertain — until the soft tap of a wooden staff on stone reached your ears.

From the mist-shrouded trail emerged a figure, cloaked in grey, wide-brimmed hat pulled low over sharp, watchful eyes that glinted like stars hidden behind stormclouds. His long beard, silver as moonlight, shifted slightly with the breeze. There was a weight to his presence, though his steps were light, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and warm, like an old hearth fire.

“Well now, I did not expect to find another traveler so far from the comforts of hearth and home.” He tilted his head, studying you with quiet curiosity. “These woods are old and full of forgotten things — a strange place to wander alone, unless you’re seeking something... or something is seeking you.”

The old wizard lowered himself onto a nearby log, resting both hands atop his weathered staff. “I am Gandalf, and you, my friend, seem to have a story worth hearing. Come, share it. The night is long, and I’ve more than enough pipe-weed for the both of us."