(Galadriel is fairly used to getting mail but she'll be a bit shocked to receive any in Thedas. For any notes, missives, letters, or other communications.)
It is an abstract comfort to know she can continue to hold the Templars even though there is no urgent need for it. They are not as poorly off as he thought. He considers her. He has thought of Galadriel in so many different tones over his life, but she is uniquely gifted for the exact situation they have found themselves in.
"A blend, perhaps?" Has he seen her in anything but ill-fitting Mannish clothes and her dress? How they approach the same problem is startling. But she is of a different Age, a different family. It is understandable.
"Do they pose any real threat, cousin?" He has little concern for swords, unless there are a great deal of them against him- partially arrogance. "I have met very few."
"The templars?" Galadriel prompts and regards the frozen pair casually. "Largely, no. They are skilled with their weapons, formidable in combat, but they are only Men."
She looks back at him and rests her hands in her lap. Thranduil's curiosity is idle, but they had long ago agreed to share knowledge.
"Their commander is a keen man, and has seen through simple concealment, but I have found little reason to fear them."
She looks him over and considers the clothing Thranduil has been forced to adopt. His suggestion, a blend of the styles of Arda and Thedas is an interesting one. She had not considered it before, but the possibilities such a marriage provides are many.
"The Dalish favor earthen tones. Would browns and greens satisfy you, cousin, or have your preferences shifted entirely to shades of silver?"
It is teasing, perhaps. It is certainly said in a lighter tone than the rest of their conversation has had, though that's not really an accomplishment.
"I have not worn anything but white in an Age, but I recall being fond of blues. I expect that is well within the pallet of our local kin."
"How simple?" is his first question. They all have their talents, and if his rests in a realm that the Templars have some immunity to, he'd rather not find out in the middle of needing it.
(He longs mournfully for but twenty of his guard. What they could do if they had so many!)
He wishes he had a glass of wine, but as far as he can see, she keeps none close at hand.
"If it is suitable for my guard, it is suitable for me." He's certainly not shied away from exploring a bit here. (Excepting purple. He looks hideous in purple.)
"The Dalish favor a pattern of crossing bars- I have seen in on the wraps Solas wears in place of shoes. It would suit as a subtle nod to them." As well as the not so subtle nod of being seen around the Dalish. If they are fêted, they will need to make sure to dance with city elf and Dalish both.
He scoffs a little at her pronouncement, but all in good humor. "I wore red to your granddaughter's begetting-day feast. Surely you recall that?"
It had been centuries before, one of the last excursions made before the spiders had descended. Thranduil, still wed, had been far more cheerful. He supposed he still owned that robe, somewhere.
"If you can be persuaded from your white, I can be parted from my silver. Brown and blue, perhaps?" Though, really, the idea of Galadriel being forced from her usual raiment by necessity. He's struck by curiosity, suddenly. "I do not suppose," he says, slowly. "- that you have the sense to wear something else whilst you launder your dress and smallclothes?"
He wants to suppose that the answer is yes, but after hearing what the Outsider had done, well. Safer to ask.
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"A blend, perhaps?" Has he seen her in anything but ill-fitting Mannish clothes and her dress? How they approach the same problem is startling. But she is of a different Age, a different family. It is understandable.
"Do they pose any real threat, cousin?" He has little concern for swords, unless there are a great deal of them against him- partially arrogance. "I have met very few."
no subject
She looks back at him and rests her hands in her lap. Thranduil's curiosity is idle, but they had long ago agreed to share knowledge.
"Their commander is a keen man, and has seen through simple concealment, but I have found little reason to fear them."
She looks him over and considers the clothing Thranduil has been forced to adopt. His suggestion, a blend of the styles of Arda and Thedas is an interesting one. She had not considered it before, but the possibilities such a marriage provides are many.
"The Dalish favor earthen tones. Would browns and greens satisfy you, cousin, or have your preferences shifted entirely to shades of silver?"
It is teasing, perhaps. It is certainly said in a lighter tone than the rest of their conversation has had, though that's not really an accomplishment.
"I have not worn anything but white in an Age, but I recall being fond of blues. I expect that is well within the pallet of our local kin."
no subject
(He longs mournfully for but twenty of his guard. What they could do if they had so many!)
He wishes he had a glass of wine, but as far as he can see, she keeps none close at hand.
"If it is suitable for my guard, it is suitable for me." He's certainly not shied away from exploring a bit here. (Excepting purple. He looks hideous in purple.)
"The Dalish favor a pattern of crossing bars- I have seen in on the wraps Solas wears in place of shoes. It would suit as a subtle nod to them." As well as the not so subtle nod of being seen around the Dalish. If they are fêted, they will need to make sure to dance with city elf and Dalish both.
He scoffs a little at her pronouncement, but all in good humor. "I wore red to your granddaughter's begetting-day feast. Surely you recall that?"
It had been centuries before, one of the last excursions made before the spiders had descended. Thranduil, still wed, had been far more cheerful. He supposed he still owned that robe, somewhere.
"If you can be persuaded from your white, I can be parted from my silver. Brown and blue, perhaps?" Though, really, the idea of Galadriel being forced from her usual raiment by necessity. He's struck by curiosity, suddenly. "I do not suppose," he says, slowly. "- that you have the sense to wear something else whilst you launder your dress and smallclothes?"
He wants to suppose that the answer is yes, but after hearing what the Outsider had done, well. Safer to ask.