[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

[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.

[liberalum]

[ Dorian is listening, taking note of titles, names, houses, implications of family and history and culture that sound in themselves staggering in scope, all the while recapping wine, setting it down, and lifting his own cup to nurse as he settles. One leg over the other. Casual as you please, more of an assumption of space than an assumption of rapport.

Her expression changes into delight, an unguarded ripple across her poise, and she's rewarded in turn with a quick smile from Dorian, subtle though his tend to be, more around the eyes than anywhere else. ]

Wine is one of Antiva's more redeeming exports. Don't tell an Antivan that, of course, you'll hardly hear the end of it. I'm glad you like it.

[ He sips as well, savouring, before continuing; ]

There're a great deal of elves in our lands who don't even have a last name. Some, not even a first. I doubt I'd be the only one to have mentioned as such to you, granted, but I imagine-- well. I know something of being in a strange land wherein one's title counts for little.

[laurenande]

[Galadriel's expression shifts as he speaks; it doesn't go grim, as one might expect, but instead adopts a note of confusion. It takes her a good deal of time to realize what he is implying when he speaks of first names, longer perhaps than it should. For the briefest stretch, she isn't sure if she lacks information about the elves here, information that he has and assumes she does as well. The context of the comment, however, is strange enough to make her dismiss that notion. He spoke of it as though it were a pity, to lack a first name.

Once she understands the euphemism, a somber, practiced sort of calm overcomes her.]

Strange lands indeed, and so far from home that I can scarcely comprehend how they became as they are.

[She sets the drink aside on the table and turns, in her seat, to face the human mage.]

Fortunately, this is not the first time I have found myself so far afield. This time, whether for good or ill, my name and house mean nothing; I am afforded no boons nor protection, but there is little that I require protection from.

I imagine this place is more difficult for you than I, given what I've heard of Tevinter?

[It's not all that hard to guess what she's heard.]