He's seen illustrations of brontos in the nature books in the library, and is far more determined now to see them in person. If the sea is safe- and they are gentle creatures, even if he is a mute elf here, unable to speak with them-- perhaps he might swim with them? They breathe as elves do.

(That's not a longing sigh, Outsider. You totally didn't hear that.)

"Large grey beasts, larger than two horses atop one another, larger than a bronto. They use their noses like hands, and have long teeth from their mouth that are prized in carving. They do not come so far north as my kingdom, but I have heard that they are ridden as beast of war." He owns carven ivory, though not much.

His expression turns from pleasured reminiscence to anger-- that subtle, cold anger, a chill about him and his lips thin and tight.

(The seamstress is-- doing her best to ignore the conversation. Things are happening here to which she shouldn't be a party, and she knows.

A moment, and Thranduil remembers her, and quietly glamours away their conversation to a buzzing she'll forget.)

"Someone." Softly. "Should do something about that."

Why not you, Duinenor?