"Is it not?" His laugh, though changed from the musical lilt of the Elves of Alfheim, still holds the same quality; light, airy, but low and dark, as if in relfection of Mirkwood itself. "Then I must apologize. Rumors circulating the higher realms do not often reach us in a timely manner."

Not that they've made much effort to increase that efficiency. It is of little importance, however, this bit of information. The doings of the Æsir concern Mirkwood little for the time being. Until now, perhaps.

He presses his fingers together in front of his abdomen; not a regal bearing, but one ofpride nonetheless.

"We do not make a habit of learning others to our magics, Lord. Asgardian or otherwise." If he sounds a bit testy, he is. "Nor are they terms for barter."

He may not have yet been born then, but he has heard stories of the years when Greenwood began dabbling in the darker side of magic. How they were shunned when they began, banished when they had mastered what they could. It has been an age since they were bothered for their knowledge, and they would have it stay that way.

"You would do well to seek them elsewhere, in places where it is not so dark and foul. Where your instructors may be more inclined to instruct, and less inclined to having you lose your way before the lessons even begin."