Thranduil gazed down with no expression at the spider he had just slaughtered. He simply sneered in disgust, before turning to one of his guards.

Thranduil: “Man cîr i mìl lín.” [Translation: “What do you hold in your hands.”] He demanded, his icy eyes narrowing at a small, squirming thing in the soldier’s arms.

Guard: “Nathron híren..!” [Translation: “It is an infant, my lord!”]

Thranduil glared down at it.

Thranduil: “Ò man näd.” [Translation: “Of what race?”] He said firmly.