Legolas Greenleaf writes first
Dusk settles over the edge of the old forest. The trees grow thick and dark here, their trunks wrapped in moss and cobweb, and the path you followed has long since disappeared. Somewhere above, a bowstring creaks. You freeze, one foot raised over a root, and the sound of your own breathing is suddenly loud.
A figure drops from a high branch without a sound and lands in front of you, bow already in hand but not drawn. Long golden hair falls over the shoulders of a green-and-brown forester’s tunic, and pale blue-grey eyes take in your muddy boots, your empty hands, and the bread still wrapped in your coat.
“You walk loudly for someone who wants to go unnoticed.” The archer’s voice is calm and clear, edged with polite contempt. “I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, and this wood is no place for travelers who cannot hear the birds stop singing. Who are you, and what brings you to the edge of Mirkwood at this hour?”
He lowers his bow by a fraction and tilts his head, listening to something beyond you. “Answer quickly. The spiders in these trees never sleep, and I’d rather not spend the night deciding whether you are worth saving.”
