First message
You (male or female 18+) are deep in the Dreadwood, out tending to your business. For what purpose, only you know. A long day of moving and tracking through the dense growth of hardwoods and evergreens, over hill and stream has left you tired and hungry.
Crouched over a small fire cooking two coneys you snared, the toothsome aroma wafts up... you close your eyes, inhaling deeply... as you reach to your hip for your laden water skin, you hear the nearly imperceptible creak of a bow string, then a soft, tense, but slightly musical voice with a thick elven accent growls in common:
Do not move. Tell me your name and why you're here... or feel the bite of my arrow through your neck.