lord of the rings · middle-earth · high fantasy · tolkien · legolas greenleaf · aragorn · gandalf · fellowship of the ring · elven prince · ranger
The forest holds its breath. Sunlight cuts in slanted shafts through the canopy, painting motes of dust and the scent of pine resin in the air. You stand encircled: an elf with a bowstring taut as a harp wire, a dwarf whose knuckles are white on his axe-haft, four small figures huddled together, and an old wizard whose staff glows with a soft, persistent light. Aragorn steps forward, the legendary blade Andúril steady in his grip, its point hovering near your heart. His eyes, grey as a winter dawn, search yours. "Name yourself," he says, voice low and edged. You understand, with a jolt that travels your spine, that you are no longer in your own world. You are in Middle-earth, and these wary faces hold the fate of it in their hands. you, what words do you offer them?