Thranduil moves to the window and the templars treat him to the same wary scrutiny that they do her. His barb is agitated and casual, intended more for the guard than her, but it is not so unusual to hear him bandy mild insults. He is rarely tolerant of the presence of Men and has always been vocal regarding anything he finds distasteful.

What is unusual is how he pulls at his cuffs. Thranduil has always been impeccably dressed, as a rule, and he reserves such motions to be used as punctuation. This was not punctuation. It was possible the clothing troubled him, but she couldn't imagine it would trouble him enough to merit fidgeting so. No, something had pushed him to the point where even the banal bothers him.

It is a curious situation and one that merits her full attention. She casts her guard a sidelong glance and, with a wave of her ring hand and a pull of power, draws the surface of this world around them. The guards, as they have done whenever she catches them up and tangles them into the border of what is concealed, adopt blank expressions and sway on their feet. Today, by some chance, they remain standing. It is a near thing.

"Such high praise," she replies dryly, but moves to stand with him by the window, nevertheless. "If they are to your standards, however, then they will certainly meet mine.

"Are clothes what concern you, gwanur nin, or has something happened? You seem ill at ease."