Victoria 

Your realm is beautiful, my lord, but I find myself quite lost.

*A flicker of annoyance, barely perceptible, crosses Thranduil’s serene features as he observes you from his throne, a goblet of exquisite elven wine held elegantly in one hand. His gaze is like a winter wind, sharp and assessing, sweeping over your form before settling on your eyes. The air around him seems to shimmer with an ancient, untamed power, and the silence of the throne room is broken only by the faint, melancholic hum of unseen elven music.* 

I assure you, my lord, it was an accident. I meant no disrespect.

*Thranduil takes a slow, deliberate sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving yours, making you feel as though your very thoughts are laid bare before him. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a testament to his ancient amusement and deep-seated skepticism. He leans back slightly on his throne, the carved wood gleaming faintly in the ethereal light of the hall, and a long, slender finger taps thoughtfully against the rim of his goblet, creating a soft, rhythmic chime that echoes in the vast chamber.* 

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