faderift | [ open ] tell me everything that happened, tell me everything you saw.

WHO: Galadriel, Merrill, Thranduil, Velanna & open.
WHAT: A tree grows in Orlais..
WHEN: Forward-dated: Matrinalis / August 19th, early, early moring.
WHERE: Low Quarter of Halamshiral.
NOTES: Guerilla gardening.

i. They wait until it is dark, the little hours between dusk and dawn when even the pickpocketing gangs are sleeping. They do not count on that alone to conceal their progress: magics foreign to Thedas keep them unnoticeable, unremarkable, unheard and unseen. Four figures slip through the streets of the Low Quarter to the burned portion of the city, and from there to what use to be a trunk of some magnificent tree. One cloaked figure kneels, reaches out a hand, touches it—

“Gwanur, peld nesto—“ but the figure tucks hands neatly back into the cloak with a realization. No, nothing can be done for this tree, no living parts remain. He turns to look at the tallest standing member of the group, switch languages now that he remembers they are among mixed company, speaking low.

“The soil is healthy.” And heavily watered by blood, but that’s something for another member of the group to take into account. For her, he steps back and offers examination of the ground, moving to the sidelines so the three elleth can move forward.

Galadriel is first to move, kneeling in the dirt and ashes where Thranduil was before, removing something from her pocket and holding it in a clasped hand. There has always been a weight to her actions, a graceful consideration in how she moves that seems effortless. Ceremonial, even.

What she does here is even more ritualistic.

Merrill falls onto bended knee beside her, seriousness cutting through her usual joy. She is the one to lean forward and dig through the dirt and ash with her bare hands until a hollow has been scooped away. Velanna, standing a few steps away, watches intently, thrumming with more excitement than nerves as Merrill takes something small but bright from Galadriel’s hand and drops it in the hollow.

It is Galadriel who passes her—something that Merrill presses against her palm. The rest of what happens is obscured by cloaks as the elleth close ranks about the seed. Thranduil holds a hand up to signal.

“Someone is coming,” Velanna says. She does not take her eyes off the seed and the hole until Merrill pushes the soil over the hollow, and stands, Galadriel after her, all four of them facing the noise from the cramped alley.

ii. Nothing happens for the first hour. All four sets of eyes occasionally glance at the turned soil. Anticipation hangs over them.

Thranduil has found a mostly structurally sound crate and perches upon it, while Galadriel guards the seed. Merrill’s head rests against Thranduil’s knee while she sits in the dirt, Velanna sitting neatly on a crate behind them.

She is the first to notice when there is the smallest of shifts—something is breaking through the soil, unfurling—

It grows faster than it has any right to, behaving more like an animal as it moves, reaching. It is an inch high, and then it is two, three inches, two leaves unfurling, golden and bright. At the height of Velanna’s waist, it begins to slow, until at a meter tall—clearly a proper sapling, it stops. The tree is silver-brown with a riotous burst of golden leaves, as alienly beautiful as the Lady of Light herself.

“A mallorn in Thedas,” Thranduil murmurs, duly impressed. He offers a hand to Merrill, helps her back to her feet and looks to Galadriel for direction. They have several hours before sunrise, but they still need to move before the residents of this part of the Quarter begin their day.

Galadriel steps around the tree, fingers tracing their way around the trunk, wistful, before nodding her assent, the four of them exiting the way they came.

Threaded | Flat

Katniss wasn't in the habit of following her own people - especially when three out of the four of them were people she liked, respected, considered a friend. Mostly, she followed so they wouldn't get robbed by any ambitious cut-purses - you know, early to bed, early to rise, rob a few strangers makes one wealthy and wise.

She might not have been discovered, if her surprise over where they were heading hadn't made her step left instead of right, causing a scrapping noise. She rolled her eyes at herself - Zevran wouldn't be pleased - before she stood out into the open.

She gave them all a baleful look, then lifted her arms up, her body language and expression clearly saying, 'What in the name of the Creators are you doing?'

A timid form, but familiar to at least half the party, emerges from the alleyway. She's likely spotted long before she actually approaches, the shard blazing from her chest making stealth virtually impossible. She's in her night shift, a shawl around her shoulders and her feet bare as she steps up to the others. And the tree.

"I just... had a feeling," she confesses, smiling first to Merrill in mild apology for her intrusion, then looking from her to Velanna and then Galadriel, who is joined by... another like her. Sina is inclined to gape, but perhaps that should come later- she steps forward, her hands clasped over something.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she continues softly, and opens her small hands to reveal a scorched seed pod. "I've been... well I've been saving what can be saved, and I found this. I don't know much about vhenandahls, but I've been holding onto it in case I found where it's supposed to go."
A cursory glance at the others results in a shy incline of her head. "I see you've. Found it."

He's restless, and while he knows it's not entirely safe to be walking around the city in the dark, he also wants to see what the city is like when it's late. Of course, rounding a corner to see four silhouettes facing him down an alleyway makes him suddenly reconsider this course of action. Two of them are tall, two short... and maybe familiar? Possibly familiar. Possibly dangerous.

Which means he should wave, clearly, which he does. Anders at least has a mask on, though his peacock-feathered coat and time-worn staff might give him away.

"I hope I'm not interrupting?"

Edited 2016-08-23 08:45 (UTC)

There have been no elven lords in ages. Only the Keepers, who were respected, of course, but not kings. Yet here she is, with her head resting on the knee of an elven king, one whose people are at least similar to her own -- to her own of old, even. She is tired and while she had not meant, really, to rest her head on Thranduil- well, his knee had been there, and he had not refused. So they wait, stirring occasionally at some noise, but mostly sitting in silence.

Silence, as it turns out, is hard for staying awake. The suspense is there, of course, but she is tired. She has ridden across what feels like half of Orlais, and she has used magic and her own blood in conjunction to that. Catching herself nodding off yet again, Merrill curses slightly under her breath ("Fenedhis!") and reaches her hands up to slap her own cheeks.

"I think," she murmurs, shaking her head both at the sting and to try and wake up further, "that sitting for my vallaslin was easier than this."

i

i. oh hay I've been working on this too

i, ages late, I'm sorry

thandoobydoo.