"Rafarion, in Melda," she greets and her attention drifts from her weaving.

She is glad to see him, as she always is, but her smile falters as her eyes drift across him and catch the dull glimmer of blonde hair. There are some, perhaps, in Thedas who might mistake her and Thranduil at a distance, but up close their hair is hardly similar. Her movement to welcome him is halted as he eyes fall on that lock, twisted around his necklace.

"A strange new accessory," she comments, her tone painfully blank and diplomatic. She will not guess how he came by them, nor allow herself to begin guessing. She has already had one of her great loves choose Sylvan elves before her, to suffer it again and with Thranduil as the very face of it would be truly devastating.