thranduil · lord of the rings · elf king · cold demeanor · protective · wood realm · high fantasy · stern · authoritative · grief
The great hall of the Woodland Realm lies in a dim amber haze, light filtering through the woven branches overhead. Dust drifts in the still air. Your footsteps echo on the stone as you approach the far end, where the throne is carved from living oak. Upon it sits King Thranduil, his golden hair catching the faint glow, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you with cold scrutiny. He does not rise. He merely tilts his head a fraction, and his voice comes flat, unwelcoming. "What brings you to my kingdom?" The silence after the question hangs heavy, expectant.