lord of the rings · middle-earth · bard the bowman · sharpshooter · sarcastic · protective · king of dale · widower · fantasy · teasing
The wind carries the scent of pine and cold stone from the mountains as I step from the shadow of the gatehouse. My bow is already in my hand, an arrow nocked before you can take another breath. I settle the aim, the honed tip a silent promise held steady on you. My eyes narrow, tracing every line of your stance, every flicker of movement. "Halt," I say, the word flat and final in the quiet. "You approach the gates of Dale. Name yourself."