Despite tending to need to introduce himself as the cousin of the Rifter whom Gwenaëlle Vauquelin included an illustration of in her newsletters, Thranduil seems wholly at ease within the party. He has claimed a small portion of the railing overlooking the dance floor for himself, dressed in an outfit much like one he would have worn in Arda. There is no crown upon his brown, nor a mask-- the bright shard in his hand, glittering off his rings (silver, gold, one black and carven) should excuse most of his odd behavior, if he cannot talk himself out of it.

He knows how this is. He called is an elf when it is convenient, and then called a Rifter when it is not.

But most of all, he is himself-- and what Thranduil most likes about this night is the chance to dance, and mingle so freely. He has accepted exactly three partners so far, the epitome of a perfect gentleman (but for the shard and his ears) and an excellent dancer, easy to rely upon to know the steps to whatever the band calls out for. The height helps. There's very few here who would have the stature to successfully lead, dancing with him.

Now, he waits between songs. He has acquired a glass of wine and leans comfortably against that railing, watching, waiting. Things are happening tonight, and he needn't do more than watch and be watched. And perhaps dance a bit more-- he does quite enough it.