"Nope," Alistair says, thumping a fist against said griffons. "Bona fide servant of the darkness."

Or whatever it was Galadriel called them. It's all a blur now. A frightening blur. He tries not to dwell, lest the nightmares return. (This is an exaggeration. He gave her a considerable amount of lip and deserved every ancient and icy glare she volleyed back. No one died. He didn't even cry. It was fine.) And in the interest of not offending this one too horribly, either, he looks sideways and provides a more thorough explanation:

"You're both tall, terribly blonde, and terribly not from around here. You don't have vallaslin or look like you've ever been kicked in the head for no good reason. And:" He lefts his left hand and wiggles his fingers to draw attention to it. His hand does not glow. He's not that special.

Or he is that special, but not in that specific way.

How many different worlds can there be, though, is his point, and how many of those worlds could possibly be worlds where everything is topsy-turvy and elves are not only tall, but regal? His guess is one. One world. The world in which Thranduil and Galadriel are related to one another in excessively complex ways. He does not want a family tree, thank you.

Ahead of them on Pickpocket Lane, a woman with a cart of scrap cloth and rope glances between them--"Hello, do you--" Alistair manages to squeeze in--and makes an abrupt turn down an alley to avoid them.