[ He had business in Caer Glaem, the last before no longer anything will be tying him to the place. To pick up armour crafted for him by Celebrimbor on his father's request, before the smith has been spirited away to a non-existence between worlds along with Thranduil. That armour he's now wearing. Fine, of obvious Noldorin make, fitting like a glove or even better. Like this, and with a thick, long braid swung over a shoulder and reaching nearly the waist, he looks every bit lord that... he had never quite looked like before. His posture speaks of both successes and failures, of having been forged anew through fire and pain.

And yet that gentle light and lightness he was so well known for remains. It shows in the swiftness of a smile, in the twinkle of an eye, even in a place most loathed for him, Legolas might just as well be a flicker of a flame on a candle, lightening up the room upon the sight of a face familiar and beloved.

Even in full plate armour he manages to be quiet with the approach, the noise of the feast dulling out what sounds the smooth metal does wind up making with every motion. That smile that stretched his lips is sly, that twinkle in his gaze mirthful as he stands behind Gimli and speaks with laughter and joy. ]

'tis not the disposition to have on such a lush feast, Master Dwarf, during which friends of the old may come across you. Sour faces, I should think, are not the way to greet them!