[ the undercroft of skyhold is warm, and he thanks the intelligence of the builders for the pipes, for the water that can be heated and poured into baths that drain and eventually cascade down to the waterfall that falls from the floor of the forge. it's a simple thing to find a large bowl and fill it with hot water, carrying a pitcher of the same back in a single trip to a sturdy table. he would prefer a fresh running stream, but they are where they are. ]

You do not need to disrobe entirely. [ he remarks, reaching for the robes to help fold and place them on the table. he runs his hands over the embroidery, and on a whim, flips one of the unlined ones over to check the back. the stitches are just as fine on the back. ] This is exquisite work. Mine own artisans could not have done better.

[ he prefers to look for similarities between worlds rather than differences. between the robes and the bowl is the lacquered box which he opens with care, pulling out an assortment of vials, bottles, and an ivory comb. these he sets down with nearly ceremonial precision. he takes one vial, opens it, and lets three drops fall into the basin before tucking it back inside. he keeps his eyes down as he works. ]

I imagine your edocharei [ he pronounces the vowels a bit differently, more of a rounding to them than careful annunciation, a fragment of sindarin being his mothertongue. ] commended your patience. Please, sit.

[ the stool he pulls out from under the table, it is plain that he intends maia to lie back and allow thranduil to do the rest. ]