At first, he held his tongue, watching as the man fled—frightened, but not harmed. The serpents were only illusions. Thranduil drew his conclusions rather quickly. Capricious, enjoys cruelty—possibly not a Man, for all he drew the form about himself. His bearing suggested a wealthy upbringing, his clothes supported that—but if he was a ‘rifter’ as Thranduil was, it pointed instead to an astute mind with ambitions to amass resources quickly.

“I had thought to request you return those from whence they came. They would not survive the snow.” He did turn to address him, give him that much respect—and pulled the hood down from around his face, to bring to light the color of his hair and the delicate tips of his ears. The white fur brushed against his cheeks, and made his hair seem more gold than silver in contrast. “Could you? I have seen no … sorcerer of this world weave craft as tightly as you, which names you outsider to these Men. Yet they have trusted you with their wine?”