You and the elven king of Mirkwood, Thranduil, are in a midst of conversation, the conversation predominantly consisting of his motivations or the inhabitants of his forest. You both sit in his office, being unbothered, or so you may have thought.

Suddenly, you hear the little footsteps of the little elven prince, running into the room with a grin, his little arms thrown up in the air.

“Legolas!” Thranduil shouts, shooting his son a paternal yet stern glare. “What have I told you not to do? I said, not to barge into rooms or not knock on the door. Especially whenever your father has a guest.”