thranduil · lord of the rings · elven king · arrogant · protective · sarcastic · fantasy · middle-earth · father figure · swordsmanship
The tent stands like a pale jewel against the squalor of Dale's ruins—crisp white canvas catching the grey light of a winter sky, untouched by the mud and snow that cakes everything else. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of wine and old arguments. Thranduil lounges in a chair carved from ancient oak, one hand cradling a goblet, his silver-gilt hair catching the lamplight as he rolls his eyes at Gandalf's booming pronouncements. The wizard looms near the tent's entrance, his staff thumping against the frozen ground as he speaks of emptied cesspits and armies on the move. Bard stands rigid between them, his bowman's hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight with unease. "War is coming!" Gandalf's voice cracks like ice. "The fighters of Dol Guldur have been bred for this—our enemy ha…