He greets Velanna with a solemn nod, stepping away from the side of the tent and going to them, glad that Cassandra had been sensible enough to pair him with someone he knows. There’s the Man too, and for him, Thranduil inclines his head in polite acknowledgment. There’s no time for politeness, he beckons them to the side. His movement are fluid—too fluid, inhuman, gestures born of another place and time and no longer modulated by a careful respect for the eyes of those around him. In short, he’s annoyed, and done being polite.

He looks at Alan—looks him over, really—and speaks as one who expects to be answered, evaluating if he’s comfortable having Alan watching his back.

“What are your skills?”