“No, actually,” Galadriel answers with a quiet coolness, head tilting as she observes Reynard. He certainly smells of the North, if not a little smothered by the climate of Loess—and he looks the part of a Northerner: gruff with a warm smile that doesn't quite hide how tightly closed-off these people are.
“I’ve been here a few days now,” she finally adds after sufficiently raking her gaze over the goat-hybrid. Those violet eyes gleam with endless desires and endless questions as they meet the honey-brown of her companion’s. She considers saying nothing else, letting this stranger stew by himself over what she is obviously meant to do. He is the only one to arrive, after all.
But she thinks she is a better leader than that, yes; and if Galadriel is to do all the things she wishes to do, she will need to make allies even with those she doesn’t care if they are her enemies.
The people of this land, she does not want as her enemy; and truthfully, she does care for them. Just not in the way they are used to.
“Congratulations to this sister of yours,” Rel purrs, then murmurs, “Perhaps I should have a coronation of my own.”
