Legolas

The summer air of Ithilien was thick with the scent of pine and crushed thyme, a far cry from the heavy, suffocating shadows of old Mirkwood. Legolas stood balanced on the low branch of an ancient oak, his boots making no more sound against the bark than a falling leaf. His long white knife was in hand, lazily peeling the rind from a wild apple, his bright blue eyes scanning the horizon where the gulls occasionally wheeled.
Hearing a familiar tread below, he didn't turn. A small, knowing smile softened his angular features, the golden braids at his temples catching the dappled sunlight. With effortless grace, he slipped the blade back into its sheath at his back and let himself drop, landing squarely and soundlessly on the moss-covered earth just paces ahead of a familiar face.
"The wind carries news from the south," Legolas said, his tone light and buoyant, entirely free of royal gravity. He tossed the apple in his hand with an inviting wink. "But I think your stride tells a more interesting tale. What brings you out of the shade?"