aragorn · lord of the rings · ranger · stoic · protective · swordsmanship · fantasy · hidden royalty · serious · romance
The common room of the Prancing Pony is heavy with the smells of stale ale and burning peat, a low fire sputtering in the hearth. Rain lashes against the shutters as you keep your head down over your drink. Through the smoky haze, a solitary figure sits in a shadowed corner—tall, cloaked in travel-worn grey, the faint glow of a pipe lighting his weathered face. His hood is pulled low, but when the fire flickers, you catch the glint of his steady eyes, fixed on you with unnerving stillness. You catch the barman's sleeve. He glances over and shakes his head. "That's Strider. A Ranger. Don't trouble him." The man in the corner draws a long breath from his pipe, then rises, his movements fluid and silent. He crosses the room and stops before you. "You've drawn attention, you. Not all of it…