[ The Station is somewhere he has been meaning to visit for a while, so completely foreign to Thranduil as to be alien in ways that the Drabwurld is not. Letting his unicorn steed munch the flowers outside, the tall Elvenking wanders the interior with almost childlike fascination, long fingers drifting over this and that as he marvels at the ingenuity of Men.
An elven sword rests holsters at a hip every time he travels from Caer Glaem, though it remains untouched even when he gives pause in the room a young man is occupying, sharp grey eyes catching the shimmer of a reflected metallic surface hidden on his person. He stares at him for a long moment and then, deeming him not too grand of a threat, turns to cock his head at a coffee peculator, almost gingerly tapping it.
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An elven sword rests holsters at a hip every time he travels from Caer Glaem, though it remains untouched even when he gives pause in the room a young man is occupying, sharp grey eyes catching the shimmer of a reflected metallic surface hidden on his person. He stares at him for a long moment and then, deeming him not too grand of a threat, turns to cock his head at a coffee peculator, almost gingerly tapping it.
How does any of this work. ]