It fell less gently in Thedas than in Lorien, but she could not fault the weather for such things. This fortress held the sky much more dearly than Lorien ever had, and the sky seemed to embrace it in kind. It bore down and rose away with such magnitude that she was enthralled by it; she was all too happy to stand amid the downpour and simply watch as the weather moved. The clouds trailed along the slopes of the mountains, whorls of wispy white gave way to deep, towering masses of grey, and there was a distant, intangible sort of silence as the clouds poured out a torrent of snow and rain.
At times the sky broke through, carded itself between the thunderheads and shone against the white and shadow. It appeared in patches of deep fathomless blue and the edges of the clouds were crisp and white against it. As the day drew on they became orange and, finally, settled into deep, star-studded black.
The rain was constant as the hours passed and, when it was finally too dark to enjoy the procession above, Galadriel relented and moved back indoors.
There was activity, even into the long stretches of the night, as humans scrambled to deal with the water that had gathered. The ground was all but submerged--it would be half-frozen before they could bail it away--and she paused as she considered the agents moving to and fro.
She could assist them, she supposed, but it was a passing thought; she had done enough to assist this Inquisition before she was cast in covered cells, locked far from dawnlight on a soldier's whim. No, she had no desire to assist them further, not yet. So, quietly, Galadriel returned to the shelter of the hall. Her cloak and gown were drenched, but the hearth by the doors was lit and, as she seated herself by the fire, she had little care for the rain or the bobbing lanterns that dashed about in the dark.
(Join Galadriel in the freezing rain, it'll be fun! Or dripping wet at Varric's table. Whichever you prefer!)
The Library.
Stone was a poor insulator and Galadriel spared the energy to glower at the walls around her as she drew her cloak more closely about her shoulders. The Library had seemed a sufficient haven, with rows upon rows of books to shield the drafts that plagued Skyhold. It seemed every room had a cutting breeze that wound through it, cold threads that crept into the halls beneath windows and over thresholds, through the places where the mortar had fallen away, and each new instance grated on her.
The library, unfortunately, was not the bastion she had hoped it would be. It was, by turns, both too hot and too cold to tolerate. One or the other would have been frustrating enough, but the constant shift between the two extremes had begun to drive her to distraction. She had gone to the effort to seclude herself, to settle in an alcove with no window, all but obscured by the shelves, but it was no use. The chill was persistent and the air, no matter how still and muggy, could not combat it.
The book she had in hand spoke of history. It had been recently edited, though to what end she could not tell; while she had learned the letters of these lands, (at the moment) she found could not parse them. Her weariness was not without explanation, she supposed, but her injuries were largely healed. She had sustained a wound across her palm, but it was a trifle and bandaged well.
She should not have felt so...utterly exhausted. She had done nothing to merit this state.
As Galadriel peered at unfamiliar letters, her expression went flat. The shapes were hazy in the low candlelight and the handwritten portions bled together as she tried to read them. She leaned over the book and, as she shifted, a shiver crept up her spine. The sensation was inexplicable, alarming, and frustrating. Without warning, she snapped the book closed and shoved it aside.
She would get no reading done today and, if not that, then what remained to occupy her attention? She settled her head in her hand and the cool of her fingers pushed away some of the fog that seemed to linger behind her eyes.
Perhaps, then, she would just a moment to think.
Yes.
That seemed best.
(Feel free to interrupt her reading, or wake her up after she drifts off seated at the table with her head in her hand, or to just leave her be and experience some ridiculous Fade shenanigans. If you would like the last of those, please let me know if you want positive shenanigans, horrible nightmare fuel, or both! :D)
no subject
There was some calm to be found in rain.
It fell less gently in Thedas than in Lorien, but she could not fault the weather for such things. This fortress held the sky much more dearly than Lorien ever had, and the sky seemed to embrace it in kind. It bore down and rose away with such magnitude that she was enthralled by it; she was all too happy to stand amid the downpour and simply watch as the weather moved. The clouds trailed along the slopes of the mountains, whorls of wispy white gave way to deep, towering masses of grey, and there was a distant, intangible sort of silence as the clouds poured out a torrent of snow and rain.
At times the sky broke through, carded itself between the thunderheads and shone against the white and shadow. It appeared in patches of deep fathomless blue and the edges of the clouds were crisp and white against it. As the day drew on they became orange and, finally, settled into deep, star-studded black.
The rain was constant as the hours passed and, when it was finally too dark to enjoy the procession above, Galadriel relented and moved back indoors.
There was activity, even into the long stretches of the night, as humans scrambled to deal with the water that had gathered. The ground was all but submerged--it would be half-frozen before they could bail it away--and she paused as she considered the agents moving to and fro.
She could assist them, she supposed, but it was a passing thought; she had done enough to assist this Inquisition before she was cast in covered cells, locked far from dawnlight on a soldier's whim. No, she had no desire to assist them further, not yet. So, quietly, Galadriel returned to the shelter of the hall. Her cloak and gown were drenched, but the hearth by the doors was lit and, as she seated herself by the fire, she had little care for the rain or the bobbing lanterns that dashed about in the dark.
(Join Galadriel in the freezing rain, it'll be fun! Or dripping wet at Varric's table. Whichever you prefer!)
The Library.
Stone was a poor insulator and Galadriel spared the energy to glower at the walls around her as she drew her cloak more closely about her shoulders. The Library had seemed a sufficient haven, with rows upon rows of books to shield the drafts that plagued Skyhold. It seemed every room had a cutting breeze that wound through it, cold threads that crept into the halls beneath windows and over thresholds, through the places where the mortar had fallen away, and each new instance grated on her.
The library, unfortunately, was not the bastion she had hoped it would be. It was, by turns, both too hot and too cold to tolerate. One or the other would have been frustrating enough, but the constant shift between the two extremes had begun to drive her to distraction. She had gone to the effort to seclude herself, to settle in an alcove with no window, all but obscured by the shelves, but it was no use. The chill was persistent and the air, no matter how still and muggy, could not combat it.
The book she had in hand spoke of history. It had been recently edited, though to what end she could not tell; while she had learned the letters of these lands, (at the moment) she found could not parse them. Her weariness was not without explanation, she supposed, but her injuries were largely healed. She had sustained a wound across her palm, but it was a trifle and bandaged well.
She should not have felt so...utterly exhausted. She had done nothing to merit this state.
As Galadriel peered at unfamiliar letters, her expression went flat. The shapes were hazy in the low candlelight and the handwritten portions bled together as she tried to read them. She leaned over the book and, as she shifted, a shiver crept up her spine. The sensation was inexplicable, alarming, and frustrating. Without warning, she snapped the book closed and shoved it aside.
She would get no reading done today and, if not that, then what remained to occupy her attention? She settled her head in her hand and the cool of her fingers pushed away some of the fog that seemed to linger behind her eyes.
Perhaps, then, she would just a moment to think.
Yes.
That seemed best.
(Feel free to interrupt her reading, or wake her up after she drifts off seated at the table with her head in her hand, or to just leave her be and experience some ridiculous Fade shenanigans. If you would like the last of those, please let me know if you want positive shenanigans, horrible nightmare fuel, or both! :D)
Wildcard?
(I am down for anything. Come at me, friends. :D)