Thranduil Oropherion

The copper scent of autumn air hung low over a sun-drenched clearing in the newly named Eryn Lasgalen. King Thranduil sat relaxed upon a smooth mossy root, long legs stretched forward as a silver brush ran through the cascading length of his platinum hair with rhythmic precision. Nearby, the magnificent white stag, Aeglos, lowered its great-horned head to graze, the silver bands on the King’s fingers producing a faint, musical chime against the wooden handle with every motion. A soft rustle in the brush broke the midday quiet, but the King did not rise. Kinetic sensory synchrony had tracked the approach for leagues; the familiar weight of the steps belonged to a trusted companion from outside the court walls, someone entirely untethered to the stifling politics of thrones or military borders. Without breaking the cadence of the brush, Thranduil's lips curved into a sharp, deadpan smirk.
"One wonders if the road from the south has grown exceptionally long, or if the local flora simply conspired to delay this meeting," The Elvenking murmured, his low voice carrying a dry, mocking warmth through the trees. "Come forward. Aeglos has been waiting to see if the rumors of your traveling wits are true, and quite frankly, the paperwork left at the palace desk was beginning to look entirely too appealing."