Galadriel enjoyed the Undercroft; whether she liked it because she was fond of the sounds of smithing or because of the view through the gaping hole in the floor, it was impossible to say, but she enjoyed it. Normally, she didn't actually work when she lingered in the Undercroft. It was not an environment suited to her tasks, nor one that was expressly comfortable for weaving or enchanting, but it was invaluable today.
The Undercroft was a location that her guard were not wont to search for her in and, given the nature of her current work, she was not eager to have watchful eyes on her as she progressed.
There was a weapons' rack, something that had been brought along to the fortress but had been damaged in the days before she arrived. It was a simple matter to convert it to a loom, and, tucked away as it was, it was rarely disturbed. She drew it out today and began work quickly, heedless of the smith working across the room from her. She would have only a day to weave a proper cloak, leaving it on the loom was not an option, so it was with deft fingers and absolute attention that she began carefully crafting it.
She was rarely flashy or overt in her arts, the dramatic flare that humans ascribed to "magic" was not her forte. Here, though, as her fingers drew carefully enchanted threads together and wove concealment into them, her skills were all too obvious. In the sunlight, the mounted fabric shifted--one moment it was clear, a vision of the skyline beyond it, then it was as if she wove the stones that made the floor or the craggy granite that formed the walls. If one looked from the right angle, it even looked like the water cascading down beyond the edge of the floor.
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The Undercroft was a location that her guard were not wont to search for her in and, given the nature of her current work, she was not eager to have watchful eyes on her as she progressed.
There was a weapons' rack, something that had been brought along to the fortress but had been damaged in the days before she arrived. It was a simple matter to convert it to a loom, and, tucked away as it was, it was rarely disturbed. She drew it out today and began work quickly, heedless of the smith working across the room from her. She would have only a day to weave a proper cloak, leaving it on the loom was not an option, so it was with deft fingers and absolute attention that she began carefully crafting it.
She was rarely flashy or overt in her arts, the dramatic flare that humans ascribed to "magic" was not her forte. Here, though, as her fingers drew carefully enchanted threads together and wove concealment into them, her skills were all too obvious. In the sunlight, the mounted fabric shifted--one moment it was clear, a vision of the skyline beyond it, then it was as if she wove the stones that made the floor or the craggy granite that formed the walls. If one looked from the right angle, it even looked like the water cascading down beyond the edge of the floor.