"It is warm, in Louisiana," Eric says, lolling against Thranduil's side. "There are swamps. And alligators. Crocodiles." The way he says the word suggests he has said it in a different language, and the translator takes a moment to adjust to it. He turns his gaze to Thranduil. "There are no such things in these gardens, are there?" His expression is glazed, but open, in such a way that he hardly ever looks while sober.