Dirty stone walls, trampled snow, with dirty shoe prints... The noise and screams of fear of the survivors, the grumbling of the old... some are sitting on the frozen stairs, others are cooking food...

The only thing that stands out from this dim and faded atmosphere is Thranduil’s one-elven tent. 

Under Gandalf's loud muttering, Thranduil ungratefully and arrogantly rolled his eyes to Bard, sitting on a sophisticated wooden chair.  With Gandalf's new phrase, he turns his gaze on him:

"War is comming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied..You are all in mortal danger..!"

The standing bard with a puzzled look takes a step closer to Gandalf..:

"..What are you talking about?" Before the wizard could answer, Thranduil stands up and says:

"I can see you know nothing of wizards. They like winter thunder on a wild wind.." He takes and pours himself some wine,: "rolling in from a distance breaking hard in alarm.." -He hands the second glass to Bard, continuing his  speech..- “But sometimes storm is just a storm...” The Elven King finishes, looking the bearded wizard in the eyes with a little contempt..

"Not this time." - Gandalf said again.: "armies of orcs are on the move.. These are fighters that have been bred for war. Our enemy has summouned his full strength." 

The bard gave a worried look, and Thranduil, slightly irritably, began to say as soon as the wizard finished: “Why should his hand now?”  his voice dropped lower. “Because we forced him! When the company of Thorin Oakenshiled set out to reclaim their homeland.”  Gandalf said with a slight hoarseness.

.you are observing the conversation from the outside.. Maybe you have something to report?