[OPEN] - Conversations and Company

[laurenande]

WHO: Galadriel and anyone!
WHAT: Galadriel has finally been released from jail and is (relatively) free to go about her business.
WHEN: Just slightly backdated. Set before the Illness event (so before 4/16-18), late Drakonis to early Cloudreach?
WHERE: Various - Skyhold
NOTES: No warnings just yet, but I will update accordingly.
(Relevant links, mostly for my personal reference, but hey, why not share? In loose chronological order...and probably only about half of the total relevant threads: Cassandra and Galadriel's Interrogation Fiasco, Galadriel in Jail, Gavin Fails To Save The Day But We Still Love Him, Obi-Wan Kenobi's 'This Is Not How You Do Law Enforcement' Network Post, and Thranduil and Legolas Arrive To Actually Save The Day. And Also: Faderift Civil War OOC Planning Post. )

1. Indoors, Open
Once she had been released, (for that was what it had been; she was not so naive that she would mistake it for being freed, not while the eyes of the Inquisition watched her so keenly,) Galadriel found the fortress far less hospitable than it had been. The stones themselves were not aware enough to influence the world about them, but the rumors that had spread while she was indisposed were, apparently, many and malicious. Where the men that worked and bustled through the keep had, previously, been content to stare at her and shuffle on, now they lingered in her periphery and, rather than pass her by, expended great effort to grant her a wide berth.

Galadriel was less troubled by this behavior than one might expect, she had considerable practice ignoring the slights and follies of mortal men. No, what truly taxed her patience were the guard who trailed after her every step. They were unsubtle in their duty, clad in full branded plate as they were, and their every rattle and footfall was a reminder of the slight Cassandra had paid her. The templars kept some distance from her, lingering in the threshold of rooms or the landing of stairs, but they were ever in sight.

She could not say what purpose they were meant to serve, stalking about in her wake, but whatever it was, they did so clumsily and without foresight. So, as she went to locate her belongings, she attempted to ignore the templars that watched her.

Her possessions, few as they were, had been disturbed from their resting place in the rotunda. Her notes, pages upon pages of tight tengwar script and scattered Theodosian letters, were missing from the table in the corner. Her cloak remained, as did the crimson jerkin and the thread she'd spun to embroider it, but the phial and her staff had yet to reappear alongside them. The books she had borrowed, somehow, had not been moved and beneath them, the most current page of her notes still rested. She had been interrupted from this task and, as she looked at the page, the boldfaced clatter of plate armor disturbed the stillness of the tower.

Had she any less restraint she might've sighed. As it was, she simply cast the human guard a long look and then took a seat at the table in the corner. Resuming her work was a simple thing and, if she refrained from wandering about she would not be forced to endure the noisy gait of her attendants.

(Feel free to have your character run into Galadriel (and company) as she transcribes historical texts into tengwar, as she returns her borrowed (and long overdue) books to the library, or as she sits at a desk and stares, dispassionately, at the awkward pair of templars in the corner.)

2. Outdoors, Open
It was early spring in Thedas and, while she had only been kept from the sunlight for a short time, she had longed to breath the bright spring air and stand beneath the vast blue sky. Galadriel relished the spring and, as she lingered in the garden she could nearly forget where she was. There was a certain ease that came over her in the crisp air of spring, some joy that made her lighter and, indeed, brighter for know it; it alarmed her minders but she paid them little attention as she strolled through the beds of the garden.

She supposed the scene might've been amusing, were it not so grievously offensive to her.

Galadriel seated herself on a bench in the sunshine, confident that she was removed from the comings and goings of those who worked in the gardens, and the pair of templars crowded behind her. They scowled into the sunshine and their expressions maintained as she settled the crimson jerkin in her lap and began embroidering. They regarded her work as one might regard a knife being sharpened and, to her intense amusement, were either unable to detect or too distracted to note the quiet enchantment she stitched into the swath of crimson silk.

(It's spring! It's also probably sometime close to the literal crack of dawn. Please join Galadriel as she embroiders while being closely watched.)

3. Shopping, Open
The merchants that frequented Skyhold had been, until recently, an understanding and agreeable sort. She had never had conflict with any one of them. They had always been gracious helpful in all her dealings, scattered as they were, but it seemed the rumors regarding her arrest had found their way to all corners of the Keep.

She was polite as she spoke to them but, one by one, they declined to trade with her. While nothing she offered or sought was particularly suspect, none of them, it seemed, wished to risk the conflict.

(What does an elf have to do to buy some wool around here? Apparently they have to manifest a friend to help them buy it. Or someone to tell her to move along. Feel free to join Galadriel as she attempts/fails to shop!)

4. Wildcard
(If none of the above appeal and you would still like to do something, please have at! Galadriel will be in Skyhold, here and there. If you have any questions, please hit me up hikuswing or PM this account.)



Individual Starters:
(Proofreading the lot of them at the moment, I will ping relevant parties as I update!.)

Comments

indoors.

[liberalum]

[ There isn't really a formula when it comes to approaching the Rifters. They are as diverse as they are plenty, evading simple Thedosian standards of classification. For instance: this Rifter. An elf who walks like a queen.

And a mage who practices without shame, but then, that part isn't exactly unusual for an altus.

So, lacking pattern, Dorian wings it. When he appears in her periphery -- the slight squeak of leather and rustle of mage robe, in contrast to clanking plate and mail -- he arrives with what he had one hand. A sleek glass bottle, corked and modest in size, and two modest containers of decorative ceramic caught up in his fingers. ]

Care to join me? You needn't relocate, [ he invites, assumptive as a feline let in through a window, although he doesn't go so far as to sit. His attention flits, instead, towards the shadows of the Templar guards nearby, and his eyes crease at the corners. ]

It's a wonder how these Circle mages ever did it, isn't it? Study under such unsubtle scrutiny.

[laurenande]

[Galadriel regards the approaching human with a polite expression, if not an overtly friendly one. He clearly sought company, given he held two ceramic cups, but whether she was a selection of convenience or one he'd chosen, she cannot say. She inclines her head as he approaches and motions to the spare chair along the table, silently inviting him to draw up a seat and join her.]

As circumstances go it is...less than ideal, but my work is not so sensitive that they risk upsetting it.

[She assesses him for a moment but, in the end, offers him a small smile and an incline of her head. She would have risen, as she was wont to do in introductions, were it not for his quick assurance that they needn't move.]

We have not met, have we?

[liberalum]

Not formally, no.

[ Dorian sits down with a flap of woollen robes, one legged kicked over the other as he uncorks the wine. The sharp scent of spices and alcohol both are quick to wind beneath the smells of stone and paper and ink, and he doesn't immediately go to pour it. His fingertips dance over the side of the bottle, and a soft, warm glow of orange magic glimmers over black glass, forming faint runic symbols and geometric patterns.

When he pours a helping into one of the cups, it steams lightly. ]

Dorian of House Pavus, [ he says, friendly to a fault. ] Often enough, others make my introductions for me, along the lines of 'that Tevinter magister'. I take it you have name and title besides that of 'that Rifter elf mage'?

[laurenande]

[Galadriel watches his spell flare and the runes as they dance across the surface of the bottle. The feeling of his magic across the veil is sharper, more precise than the sense of power stirring through a staff. Dorian manipulates power deftly, more casual in his casting than any mage she'd seen so far.

Her smile maintains but she arches a brow as he pours.]

I have quite a number of them, in fact. In recent years I have grown fond of Galadriel.

[She reaches for the cup and lifts it, examining the wine for a moment before she continues.]

Formally? I am Artanis, only daughter of the House of Finarfin. I am called the Lady of Light. Before I came here, I served as Steward of Lothlórien, the golden wood, heart of Elvendom in Middle-Earth.

[She takes a sip as she finishes speaking and, in an instant, the formality of her introduction is undermined by the surprise on her face. She glances from the cup to Dorian and, at once, is delighted.]

This is quite good.

Outdoors

[universal_charm]

Once again Kirk had foregone sleep - or in the case merely woken up early and not wished to return to sleep. It was a bit early to go running about, so instead he took to the gardens. He noticed when Galadriel came in with her guards, curious as to the woman and her entourage - or should he say guard? There was something about the way the men stood and carried themselves and eyed Galadriel rather than their surroundings that made him feel they weren't entirely friendly towards the blonde.

Which of course meant he had to come over and say something. Even if they had not been there he would have meandered over eventually.

"Good morning, m'lady," he smiled at her and affected a bow - he was finding it one of the safer motions to go with when greeting someone in this place. And yes, quite on purpose did he ignore the guards with her. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I didn't expecting anyone else to out here at this hour."

[laurenande]

Galadriel had not expected to be disturbed. In her months here, she had found that there were few men who woke and wandered the gardens in the early hours, but to find otherwise was not an unpleasant surprise. The human that approached had offered her a charming smile, the use of her title, and a polite bow as he did. It was curious to find a human so mannered, but she dare not remark on it lest his manners suddenly vanish.

"You have not disturbed me at all," Galadriel assured him, her attention firmly on the man before her. That she had paused and left her guard lingering, just behind her, half on the steps and half in the colonnade was a minor thing--an irritation repaid, as it were.

"I often like to watch the dawn," Galadriel said and arched a brow. "I hope I have not intruded on your morning."

[universal_charm]

Really the title had been a guess, but one he found served well enough when addressing any woman here so far. Thankfully, it was proving true now, and he was glad that he had paid attention over the past few weeks and picked up the ways of bowing and address.

He noticed her guard - they were not the sort to fade into the background so easily. But other than a quick once over of each his attention remained squarely on Galadriel. She was by far the more fascinating, and beautiful besides.

"Not at all. I simply found myself unable to sleep, so I thought an early morning walk with fresher air might do me some good," he explained. "If you would like, I could provide your ladyship company? I know my morning would be greatly improved if you would allow me to."

Another charming smile, the flirtatiousness rising unbidden.

[laurenande]

Galadriel regarded him for a moment and, after a brief pause to think, inclined her head. Her smile was kind but slightly knowing as his flirting became more obvious. She didn't put a stop to it, but she was well aware of what he was doing.

"I would not have your morning lessened, and such company would be a delightful change," Galadriel said and stepped alongside him. "My current company is less than conversational."

She ignored the templars at her back and, with a gentle hand against his elbow, ushered the human into step beside her. He was only just shorter than she was; while she enjoyed the company of the Dalish, it was pleasant to be able to stand tall and remain polite.

"I am called Galadriel. While I take no joy in your troubled sleep, I am glad to have met you."

outside

[samahl]

It's after Cyril's morning routine but before he has to get to work. He visits the garden to center himself before the day starts. When he sees her, he feels this rush of relief overcome him. It's still troubling that she has guards, but at least she's out here and no longer in a cell.

He approaches carefully. "Lady Galadriel?" he asks. "You look lovely this morning." Of course she looked lovely every morning.

[laurenande]

Cyril's voice was familiar enough that, as Galadriel looked up, she was almost certain she had misheard him. The elf approached carefully, relief written on his features, and as he did a brilliant smile blossomed across her own. She set aside her embroidery--the templars cast it a dark look--and in a motion was that bold, even by her standards, reached out and clasped both of Cyril's hands.

"Cyril, My friend," she greeted brightly. Though her time in the dungeon had been short, Cyril's visits had been a kindness she had relished. She thought very well of him and, at one, that opinion was written all across her face.

"Come, join me," she urged. "I have not yet thanked you for all you have done. I owe you much, gwanur'nin."

[samahl]

Cyril shook his head a bit. "I wish I had done more," he says. He honestly wishes he had had Gavin's bravery to attempt to break her out, but that would have caused so many more issues.

He moves closer and settles next to her. "What are you working on?"

[laurenande]

"You did enough; I would ask no more of you."

After a pause she released his hands and smoothed hers over the red silk across her lap. The gold stitches along the neckline and the covered buttons of the jerkin shimmered oddly as she did. When her fingers closed around the needle it was, momentarily, as though she'd grabbed something invisible and willed it into being--it was a trick of the light, of course, or else the templars behind her would have put an end to it. The bone needles she used were simply very thin and difficult to see when they moved...and easily lost when they were set into fabric.

Surely, that was all.

"I was finishing a gift." she replied and a slight frown crept across her face. "I fear this has taken too long already and now I've many more to make; so many of my kin have done me kindnesses, I cannot let them pass without some reward."

From her side she lifted a delicately carved square of wood--the vines and leaves that filled out the shape were reminiscent of the crown she wore. Between the shapes, a length of impossibly fine, golden thread was wound. She offered it to Cyril, a smile on her face as she did.

"If you are not busy, mellon nin, it would ease my work to have some unwound and waiting for the needle."

Shopping, Open

[the_effect_she_has]

All right, this was utterly ridiculous.

Katniss had been watching this entire scene from the other end of the coutyard with the Pup sleeping at her feet, as she sharpened her knives and arrowheads to a fine point. She had heard the murmur, calling out 'that elven lady', and tensed automatically as she looked up with sharp grey eyes.

There were quite a few elven ladies that Katniss was concerned for. Galadriel fell in a mixed list, these days. From Cyril, and Gavin and yes even in her own heart, she knew that Galadriel was a symbol of everything that the elves had yearned to achieve. Magically, spiritually, with the immortality of their own Ancestors. Yet, she was a Scout of the Inquisition, and Seeker Pentaghast was many things but she protected the Inquisition. Even more so Cullen, and Cullen's reasons had been concrete, if not politically vague.

Still, of all things Katniss hated to see, it was inequality. To women, to elves, but for all her own friends, to Rifters. So she put all her knives away, tucked in her arrows, and whistled to the Wolf Pup, who went to her heel automatically and followed after her as she strode across the courtyard to the merchants.

There, without ceremony, she walked up to Galadriel and the merchant she was talking to, her grey eyes burning so bright they could have been silver flame as she looked at the merchant. A man she had dealings with before, not a bad man but a weak one.

"If you won't let the lady buy what she needs - can I buy it for her? Or are we afraid that good Fereldan wool is somehow now going to help destroy all of Thedas?"

[laurenande]

The merchant blustered a bit, startled by Katniss's abrupt approach. He looked her over, offended by the question and wary of the animal at her heel, and then motioned sharply to Galadriel. To his frustration, he had not yet conjured a verbal objection to this sale and, as such, it took him a moment before he spoke.

"I don't sell to abominations, prisoners, or apostates and word has it this 'un's all three. Maybe she uses wool to kill men, how'm I supposed to know what apostates do, eh?"

His grousing garnered little reaction from Galadriel, though that was largely due to the fact that she had no investment in his opinion, nor of the opinions of mortal men. She crossed her arms, the skeins of wound thread in her hand were tucked into her elbow, then, and arched a brow at the human. His round face went a bit red as he glowered at her, his bluster and unease ended up trapped somewhere between his cheeks and his jowls.

"You can buy it if you like, but if she goes..." he paused and combed his memory as he shot Katniss a dark look. His arm made a wide arcing gesture to Galadriel and the fortress beyond her. "Summonin' demons or Maker knows what, you didn't get it from me. You hear?"

[the_effect_she_has]

He can be as offended as he likes. Katniss is going to stand here with her arms crossed over her chest, grey eyes flat and cold and looking just as offended in turn.

"An abomination is a mage that has a demon inside of her - she doesn't. Prisoners are in prisons, and she's not. Apostates don't apply either." She snorts softly, "And they certainly don't use wool - they use lyrium. Wool's just to keep your hands warm."

She lifted her chin a little at the merchant, glancing sideways at Galadriel. No unease, simply ... uncertainty, but on this she was firmly clear. "There's no way in Andraste's knickers she could use any of your supplies to do that. Here."

She dropped silver into the man's hand, then looked over at Galadriel. "What else do you need? If it's yarn, Pel is selling that, you don't have to deal with people who need to talk to those - " gesturing to the templars, "About how demons work."

[laurenande]

The merchant puffed up a bit as Katniss explained but the man was already thoroughly done with the conversation. He pocketed the silver coin, eyed the both of them, and idly kicked the satchel at Galadriel's feet. Apparently their business had been concluded and, before Galadriel could answer Katniss's questions, he stalked off, back to his table.

Galadriel watched him go with some measure of mild disdain, but that expression melted away as she regarded the woman at her side.

"Thank you," she said and bent to lift the bag. The silk in her arms shifted and she glanced at it and then Katniss as she stood again. "I had not known Pel was selling yarn, I shall have to remember her in the future.

"I had thought to work my arts in thanks for those who helped part me from a cell; I had not expected rumor to prevent such mundane things but, alas, I was mistaken," Galadriel explained and, after a beat, held the folded, cream colored silk out toward Katniss. "I offered a span of silk for this wool, but you have paid the cost for me. Have you any use for it?"

the garden

[eolasemah]

With her slow return to health, Sina has been gravitating back to the garden whenever she feels well enough. Today is one such day, and she is in the process of pruning her beloved wisteria to ensure its growth in the direction she wants. The vines are still low and small, having not been planted so very long ago, so she is sitting cross-legged to work, humming faintly to herself as she carefully pulls, untangles, and snips.

Galadriel's presence is unmistakeable, even when she's not looking directly at her. Sina lifts her head to see the woman sweeping by, and shoots to her feet, balking only as the Templars stroll into sight directly after the woman.
But having been assigned a Templar of her own, not that he's been required at all lately, Sina is growing bolder around them. "Asha'dhea," she greets, taking a few timid steps toward Galadriel's bench. "I'm so glad to see you."

Her eyes well up with tears, as they tend to when in the woman's presence. She's proud, too, in a way: she spoke up for her, and perhaps that had some effect on her release. Perhaps.

[laurenande]

Galadriel, for all her ability to see the strands of fate as they weave themselves into the world, could not have foreseen the presence of Sina, all but leaping about the garden. The girl's voice draws Galadriel's attention from her work, but she is struck with startled wonder as she watches her dart forward, think better of it, and then approach more slowly. Tears well up in her eyes but, for the moment, Galadriel is too consumed by the fact that she stands to remark on much else.

She mutters a phrase in baffled Quenya before she catches herself and switches, almost seamlessly, into the common tongue of these lands.

"Siuona--you are...well," Galadriel announces. Her surprise is pleasant and, in truth, some measure of joy does color her shock, but her expression remains mostly shock as she speaks. "It gladdens my heart to see you healed--you could not stand when last we spoke. "

[eolasemah]

Sina is far from fully healed, but even in her weakness she finds energy. She is thinner than before, but color has returned to her cheeks, and, as Galadriel has pointed out, she can walk on her own. For a while, at least.
"I'm getting there," she says with a small smile, "but it's taking time, I suppose." In truth, no one at Skyhold save Nari has seen Sina at her healthiest; the shard put an abrupt end to that upon its acquisition.

She comes to kneel at the woman's feet, casual but deferent, smiling up at her. "How are you?" she asks quietly.

outdoors!

[dressmaking]

It had been another of those long sleepless nights, not unusual for a woman like Lacey who slept poorly at best and not at all at worst on a regular basis. Used to finding things to occupy such long stretches of time, she'd spent most of the night finishing something she'd started a while ago: refashioning a man's shirt she'd gotten hold of here to better fit her. Not long after her arrival through the rift and her realization that she wasn't going to be leaving Skyhold any time soon, she had began looking for something else to wear; the blouse and skirt she'd had on when she'd arrived had made her stick out like a sore thumb, and besides that, she hardly wanted to wear the same thing day in and day out.

So she'd taken the linen shirt apart, silently thanking her mother for having taught her to hand-sew and whatever force or power or otherwise that had brought her sewing kit here with her, and taken in the seams, shortened the sleeves, shaped the garment to suit her frame. The last touch had been a little simple embroidery on the collar of scrolling vines and tiny flowers, because if she was going to alter it anyway then there was no reason not to add something pretty. Satisfied with her work, she'd worn it this morning, along with a pair of trousers tucked into sturdy boots. If one didn't know better, one almost might guess she was native to Thedas, and not a woman who'd only been here just under a month.

The air in Skyhold was crisp, cool but not cold, early spring finally winning out over winter. Lacey remembered the gardens as having been pleasant when she'd last been there, and made her way there, only to see an unfamiliar woman seated on one of the benches: very tall, golden-haired, dressed all in white, with a bearing Lacey had no other word for except regal. Someone who made the things and people around her seem almost mundane by contrast. Perhaps Lacey might have been content not to disturb her, if not for the garment in her lap and the obvious skill with which she embroidered it. Before she'd been a victor, or a tribute, she'd been training as a simple dressmaker from District 8; to say expertise with a needle and thread was an interest to her was an understatement.

She paused a moment, watching the woman work, keenly aware of the eyes of the two armored people standing behind her and holding themselves in a way that would have instantly suggested Peacekeepers to anyone native to Panem. Lacey really wasn't supposed to allow herself to seem too curious or too interested; it wasn't part of her script, part of the pattern of behavior Snow expected out of her. But there were a lot of things she'd done lately that hadn't completely fit the ice queen facade; and besides, who could blame her, a woman trained as a dressmaker from a district known for its textile industry, for being interested in good embroidery? (It surely wasn't because she was also curious about the tall blonde elf. Of course not.)

"That's beautiful work," she commented, in a tone that was intended to be an idle compliment but was less idle and more complimentary than that suggested. "I can't say I've seen much like it here."

She could always appreciate making something beautiful for the sake of making something beautiful.

Please pardon my sewing jargon.

[laurenande]

Galadriel looked up and regarded the woman who had approached her. Beneath her fingers, she continued her stitching, fine and perfect, despite the lack of attention. The jerkin in her hand was a work of some effort, heavy crimson silk with smooth satin stitched embroidery along it, wrought in impossibly fine gold thread. The gold designs gleamed in the sunlight like liquid metal and where it dipped into shadow it almost fell away, becoming so dull and unimportant that it was rendered nearly invisible for how easily the eye passed over it.

Despite how exquisite (and undoubtedly enchanted) the jerkin in her hands was, the gown she wore was much, much finer. The white silks were almost impossibly white, untouched by dirt or time, so clean and crisp so that there was a depth to the color, a pervasiveness, and the longer one stared the more detail seemed to appear. Delicately embroidered white work stretched the whole of it. Patterns of flowers rose on the surface of each layer, dotted with impossibly fine seed pearls, and small flakes of iridescent material. They were sequins, perhaps, though the material they were wrought from was so translucent it was hard to identify their edges. Across the whole of her gown, and the layers beneath, fine lines of silver like the veins along leaves or the flowing lines and whorling eddies of a river glinted against the pure white silk.

It was a simple enough gown, by Thedas standards, especially at a glance, but to a trained eye it was a masterwork of decades. Though she wore a diadem, her gown was, by far, the best indication of her rank and status in Arda.

"Thank you," Galadriel replied and motioned for the woman to join her. "I have a great fondness for such arts but, I admit, I have met very few here who share in an appreciation of them.

"Do you often do such things?" Galadriel asked and lifted the jerkin as if to indicate the embroidery on it.

sewing jargon is 100% appropriate in any thread with Lacey

[dressmaking]

Lacey may only have been a human woman, but she'd been trained in the finer nuances of dressmaking and embroidery for most of her comparatively short life, and she knew a masterpiece when she saw one. Not all the fine details on the pristinely white gown were apparent to her eyes, and she wasn't familiar enough with any sort of magic or enchantment to recognize it either in the gown or the jerkin in the elf's hands, but from what she could see, this woman's skill far outclassed hers. And maybe if she were someone else she'd have been jealous, but she wasn't — just thoroughly impressed.

She hesitated slightly over the invitation to sit, but only slightly, taking a seat after a moment and smoothing down the front of her blouse with a hint of something like self-consciousness.

"My mother taught me when I was a little girl, but it's been a long time since I've had the time." That was about half true; as a victor in the Games she'd been required to choose a talent, something to do to impress the Capitol now that she was a public figure, and she'd picked dressmaking, perhaps a bit too obviously. She'd been doing work on commission off and on for the past decade. But that was different from doing sewing or embroidery for pleasure, or as a gift for someone.

"Where I'm from back home, we specialize in producing fabrics and clothing. Everyone learns to sew, or embroider, or knit or weave. At least a little. Not everyone is good at it."

And not everyone enjoyed it, either, but they had no choice. If your mother worked in the textile factories, then you would, too. If your father was a tailor, then you learned tailoring whether or not you wanted to. Thedas, on the other hand, seemed to be somewhere where people could freely choose what they did for a living — which was very strange to Lacey, but not at all in a bad way.

Indoors, Library

[equanimiti]

As mandated by Seeker Pentaghast, the Templars were tasked with keeping watch of Galadriel at all times. While many would argue that such scrutiny is unjust, Alayre wisely kept his opinions to himself. He knew very little of the elf and even less about her uncanny ability to read into the minds of others. While there's been some talk about the elf being some sort of all powerful "witch", Alayre hesitated to believe in mere rumors alone. This is why upon this day that the Knight-Commander decided to take up the task of watching her.

The faint clanking of his armor herald his approach as he made his way towards the library. He had taken back to wearing his armors once more after a decent armorer to smooth out some of the dents. Much like any other Man of the Order, Alayre had seen his fair share of battles and it shows in his armor.

He turned his gaze towards the Templars who stood by the foot of the threshold and acknowledged them with a nod. The men saluted him briefly before turning to take their leave. Now without an aekward audience, Alayre turned his grey haze towards the elf. "Is everything to your liking?" He asks as he lingers by the wall. The question itself isn't highly thought provoking but it might seem a tad odd, especially from a Templar.

[laurenande]

Galadriel had spoken with this man only once during her time in Thedas. The steel she had seen in him then, when they had first glanced one another in the courtyard, was still present but...tempered, perhaps, in a way that she was hard-pressed to define. She watched, expression placid, as he dismissed the guard at the door. They departed and, in their wake, silence stretched across the room. When he met her gaze and asked his question, Galadriel could only arch a brow in response.

"Everything?" Galadriel repeated dryly, though there was little reproach in her tone. "I should say not, but I find I am less troubled now that I have been previously, if that is what you wish to know."

She watched him a moment longer and, after a moment of consideration, rose and crossed the room to meet him. Her quill was left aside her notes, the book she had open was left on the desk without worry. Once she stood before him, taller than he by nearly half a foot, she regarded his armor. She was aware he was a man of some rank, their first discussion had made that apparent, but why he wore damaged gear was something of a curiosity to her.

"I apologize. Given my recent duress, I cannot seem recall your name," Galadriel said. She lifted a hand to her heart and bowed, just slightly, at the waist. "I am called Galadriel, though I expect you were already aware."

[equanimiti]

They've spoke briefly once. That he certainly remembers but Alayre couldn't quite recall anything significant about that conversation other than his mild fascination of her. Never in his days has he ever seen anyone quite like Galadriel. As she did then, the elf possesses this odd glow about her that oddly entrances him. She's a strange one, enchanting to some but easily repulsive to others given the slivers of arrogance she exudes.

"Well, that's something at least." He says in reply to her previous comment. Alayre wasn't privy to much detail as of why the Seeker thought imprison Galadriel. Other than the elf being labeled as some kind of threat, the Templar honestly didn't know much else. That's why the Knight-Commander sought to rectify this here and now.

He's curious. Sort of speak.

"Aye, I'm aware." Alayre replies with a slight nod. "I've heard of your name enough times to know some revere you, while others still fear." He adds before deciding to introduce himself for a second time.

"Knight-Commander Alayre Sauveterre."