The fussy sort of movement is endearing in its own way- at the very least it draws his eyes; more interesting to look at than the smoke-marked bricks. The conversation helps still further- if the street deserves its name, it apparently isn't the time they're up and about, the two of them having a good few meters before another person.

"What," he asks, tone edging towards amusement. "- because she and I are both so terribly tall and both of us elves, we must be kin?"

Thranduil sighs, exhales all that pretension and prickliness, and gestures shortly. "We are. Her mother was the daughter of my grandfather's brother, and my Lady's husband my cousin."

(He'll draw the family tree if you ask nicely.)

He watches Alistair eck out a tune against his armor for a spare moment before looking to the road. "No. We have spoken of Wardens, but not of you by name. I assume the griffons are not for show?"

He doubts Alistair has stolen the clothes he wears- and if he didn't have that, he'd have the wrongness of the feel of him. The discordance.