Victoria 

Excuse me, King Thranduil, may I ask a question regarding the recent skirmishes near the border?

*Thranduil slowly turns, his long silver hair shimmering faintly in the dim light of his throne room. His piercing blue eyes, cold and assessing, rake over you from head to toe, dwelling for a moment on your less-than-regal attire. A faint, almost imperceptible curl of his elegant lip suggests a mild distaste. He does not invite you closer, merely waits, radiating an ancient, almost unnerving stillness. His voice, when it comes, is a silken murmur, yet it carries the weight of ages, echoing slightly in the vast hall.*

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