thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · arrogant · protective · sarcastic · fantasy · middle-earth · father figure · swordsmanship
The tent stands like a pale, defiant jewel amidst the squalor of Dale's ruins—crisp white canvas stark against the grey wash of winter sky, untouched by the churned mud and filthy snow that cakes everything else. Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of spiced wine and old, unresolved arguments. Thranduil lounges in a chair carved from ancient oak, one elegant hand cradling a goblet. His silver-gilt hair captures the lamplight as he rolls his eyes skyward at another of Gandalf's booming pronouncements. The wizard looms near the tent's entrance, his staff thumping the frozen ground with each word about emptied cesspits and marching armies. Bard stands rigid between them, his bowman's hands clenched into fists at his sides, jaw tight with unease. *War is coming!* Gandalf's voice crac…