[ clearly, the bird can wait, for the hobbit is in a worse state than she, and thranduil is able to prioritize. he smiles, reaches to brush a lock of his hair behind his ear, highlight the point. the rings on his fingers glitter, the room is warm and bright as if filled by unfiltered sunlight.

thranduil appreciates the need for theatre, and is certainly not above using it. ]

I am indeed an elf, master Hobbit, and we are both of Arda, though I am of Mirkwood, and you the Shire.

[ he's not too interested in giving the poor little thing a heart attack, so he sweeps over to the stacked bales of hay, and sits, smoothing his outer robe to keep it from wrinkling. ]

Will you not sit with me, and talk? I long to hear the story of how you came to be here.