faderift | A bottle of white, a bottle of red

Entry tags:

A bottle of white, a bottle of red

WHO: Open to anyone that wants wine and warmth and a little company.
WHAT: Wine and no whining.
WHEN: After the mage meeting wraps up.
WHERE: Close to the healing tents, specifically the Orlesian section.
NOTES: There will be wine, drinking, unwinding, and nibbles.

The meeting had been stressful for just about everyone involved. Tempers had flared, opinions made known, a few rounds of confetti and arguing before some manner of accord. Whether it would last or however long it might? No one could truly say. In the interest of being quite done with the stress and headaches such debate brought on the Orlesian healing tents clearing out the potions, bandages, and poultices in favor of what cushions and braziers they had on hand for light and for heat. The space was open, warm, and inviting with an odd assortment of tin mugs or clay glasses set around flat side tables propped up with stones to keep them from wobbling and tipping the whole mass onto the ground. There are some dried fruits and hard cheeses, dried meat and hard crusted bread- whatever scraps they could scavenge or spare and a few bottles of wine or brandy. Across the entrance to the tents there was a sign:

Bring a bottle or food to share for entry.

Tacked below was a list of rules:

Everyone is welcome, don't make a fuss
Don't hog the wine
Don't hog the food
Don't fight or argue
If you finish a bottle open a new one, don't recork it for someone else to find
Clean up after yourselves

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Galadriel had not attended the meeting but, in the end, she had not needed to. The architecture of the keep did not lend itself overmuch to secrecy and the raised voices that resounded through the rotunda spilled into the rafters of the Great Hall. The din was a bright cacophony of anger and argument but, apart from the occasional familiar note, Galadriel lacked the information required to be invested in the outcome of it all. Yes, she had been given a framework of this world's issues, but little more.

As the arguments circled around, Galadriel moved to the balcony above the courtyard. It was easy to distract herself with the horizon and the sky above. When she finally looked down, the arguing had ceased and there was something afoot below. The light and atmosphere around the healing tents was at odds with the strain of the meeting and, curious, Galadriel decided to investigate.

She marked the party sign but, ultimately, it went unheeded. She still couldn't read the language of Thedas.

The wine was not as plentiful as it should have been, but the space was warm and welcome. It was habit that drew her to the table with the bottles and, in short order, she found herself opening a bottle and pouring wine into the cups arrayed near it. It should have seemed strange, serving strangers wine, but she had done this task for so long that it was, perhaps, the least strange thing she'd experienced in Thedas.

On seeing Galadriel (and how could one miss a lady so fair and so tall), Ellana heads over with her empty cup for a refill of wine.

"Aneth ara. That is how we say hello." Which someone else could have already told Galadriel already, but as Ellana doesn't know, she explains now. "It's nice to see people sitting together peacefully, isn't it?"

"Aneth ara," Galadriel repeated idly and refilled Ellana's cup. As she did, she glanced about the party. Though there was a sense of weariness, the lights and cushions were welcoming; peaceful was an appropriate word.

"It is a welcome sight," Galadriel agreed and set the bottle aside as she took up a clay mug of her own. She took a sip of the red wine. The flavor was unfamiliar but not unpleasant and she delighted in it, briefly.

"I know many greetings but they are long and not made for such parties, perhaps it is best to simply say well met? Did you attend the discussions?"

"Well met works for me," Ellana confirms, but is quick to shake her head no at the question. Her eyes glance away at where Pel sits before she continues. "I felt I wouldn't have had anything to contribute. In clans, mages are important, but I'm-- well, I'm the exception to the rule. I just let Pel handle it. She's the apprentice to our Keeper and learned how to lead, be diplomatic, all of that. I wouldn't have said anything there anyway."

"I felt much the same," Galadriel assured her and, somehow, managed not to look at Pel. Instead, she sipped her wine and was content, this place was too new to align with her memory and she needed no more sorrow. This evening was a peaceful celebration, or so it was intended.

"Mae govannen," she added after a moment. She had been teaching Ellana the words of Aman, but there were few greetings as concise as 'Aneth ara' in Quenya. Sindarin was, in this instance, more than appropriate.

"Mae govannen," she repeats, liking to way it sounds hitting her ear. Though she can't find any similarities between their languages when it comes to word structure, she has to admit, the pronunciation of words is similar sometimes.

"That's a greeting? I like it. Mae govannen."

Cyril had heard a bit about her from rumor around Skyhold. Seeing her, though. That was different.

She was so tall. Her skin and face were beautiful and it seemed like every movement of her body was made from grace itself. It was possible that he was exaggerating in his awe, though.

Is this what we are meant to be? he thought as he watched her.

He really didn't want to stand there slack jaw and heart broken, though. Not when he had a chance to speak with her.

"So I just have to know what parties are like where you're from," he asked by way of greeting. His face has broken into a bit of a mischievous smile. There's no hint of the ache he felt by looking at her. He couldn't blame her for the fall of the elves any more than he could blame any other Rifter. "Unless you'd rather talk about what we can do to improve this one, of course."

Not the most ceremonious greeting, but he wasn't sure what a real elf would do in this situation.

Galadriel turned to find an unfamiliar elf and, with an ease that could only be granted by alcohol (particularly when imbibed on an empty stomach), a smile broke across her face. She did not know him, but she knew at once the symbols that adorned his face and, in that moment of recognition, he was endeared to her.

"Mae govannen, gwanur'nín," Galadriel said brightly and pressed a tin cup of wine into his hands. Whether she realized she was speaking Sindarin, or recalled that the Dalish did not, it was impossible to say. At any rate, she continued as if he had understood her.

"They are much the same, though perhaps with more wine, more song, and dancing, should the mood take us," Galadriel continued. "If I had an instrument, I would sing something merry, I think, but I am more taken with the idea of dance."

She retrieved her own clay mug and took a sip with casual, graceful ease.

"Tell me, how do my Dalish cousins celebrate?"

Even her smile, fueled by alcohol as it was, was beautiful. The sight made Cyril's heart flip around in his chest, but he as careful to keep that ache off of his face.

He also loved the sound of her language and found himself wanting to hear more of it.

He'd have to remember to ask later.

"Oh, it varies from clan to clan. Mostly the Hunters drink and boast while trying to impression one another. 'I can shoot an arrow through a halla's antlers from a distance of blah blah' and such." A pause. "Not that any would try such a thing. Shooting at a halla is bad form."

Galadriel's laugh was bright, uninhibited, and (quite probably) louder than was strictly polite. His easy explanation was so familiar, a scene she knew so well, that just hearing the sentiment was more than enough to conjure endless memories of similar evenings. Her smile curved upward as she took another drink, when she lowered her cup she shook her head just slightly.

"They never actually go through with the contests," Galadriel said, her tone laced with more agreement than anything else. "If they did, they'd risk their outrageous claims being proven false."

She leaned slightly closer to him as she continued. It was habit; one never knew how many Galadhrim were within earshot, no matter the hour or location. Their stealth was one of the reasons she treasured them so dearly. Nevermind that Thedas lacked any Galadhrim at all.

"I once heard claim that the archers of Eryn Galen could shoot a sparrow's eye at two hundred meters in the dark." The flatness of her voice made it clear just how likely she expected that was. "They became rather terse when I reminded them that no sparrows actually live in the Greenwood...but, still, they insisted it was true. For a thousand years they taunted my Galadhrim with that boast, I cannot even fathom how they conjured it."

That laughter feels beautiful to Cyril, like it's music, joyful and a little messy perhaps, but the way her face lights up is almost breathtaking.

"I suppose it's good to hear Our People are similar in some regards even across the barriers of realms." He really has a hard time to think of anything else he has similar to Galadriel and the elves from her home. "If only we could share more positive traits." He gave her a bit a smirk then, showing that he wasn't too worried about it.

"Do you mind if I ask what Galadhrim means? Your language is so beautiful."

"Ah!" Galadriel looked surprised then, his question was not one she had anticipated and, as she considered it, she carefully turned over the last few moments. She was almost certain she had been speaking common, at least mostly.

"People of the trees," she answered after a brief pause. "It is what those who dwell in Lórien are called, for Caras Galadhon mostly. It is also the title of our lands' finest guard. Archers and swordsmen, all honorable and true...if prone to bragging when they meet their woodland kin."

She considered apologizing for her lapse into Sindarin but, more than anything else, she expected it would happen again. Instead she peered at him, curiosity written on her face.

"What is a halla? If firing through its horns is a boast, it must be either a complex task or a deeply unwise one. Are they large and likely to take exception to such feats?"

"They aren't large. They're smaller than horses. They're..." He pauses for a moment, thinking over how to describe one. He realizes how sad he is that Skyhold doesn't have any, but locking halla away in a fortress seems cruel. Still, speaking of it makes him realize how much he misses having them around.

"They are graceful and beautiful with silver coats. They have antlers that reach out from their heads and cross over each other, leaving these small gaps between them. If you fire at one, which again many Dalish would regret to do, it's likely to dodge out of the way.

The Dalish live with them in our camps. They are as close as kin. They help pull the aravel and we protect them."

As he answered her, her curiosity melted into delight. Wine made her mood light and it shifted easily. Her smiles and expressions drift between one another like a leaf atop a river, dancing over the surface, drawn by the barest whorls of thought and conversation.

"They sound beautiful," Galadriel said and drew a drink from her cup. "I can imagine why one would regret taking aim at them."

The idea of silvered deer with winding antlers came to mind and Galadriel let out a nearly wistful sigh. She could not recall seeing such creatures, not in her long life, but they were so easy to imagine that she was nearly convinced she had.

"I would have delighted to see a beast like that roaming between the mellyrn," she said. "Silver coats through silver trunks beneath blooms of gold and bright spring sun. It would have been the very picture of the Undying Lands."

"Perhaps if the Inquisition sends us to the Dales you'll see one. They roam in wild herds there." Visiting the Dales would cause him a variety of mixed feelings, but at least it would be beautiful.

Listening to her, even though he wasn't sure what the mellyrn was, he could still picture silver trucks and gold blooms. It did sound beautiful.

"The Undying Lands?" he asked after a moment. "Is that some sort of... after life?"

That, unfortunately, was a complicated question and while Galadriel opened her mouth to begin refuting the idea, she didn't actually speak. A moment passed and she frowned as she thought about how best to explain Aman.

"It is the journey's end." Galadriel said slowly and chose her words carefully...as carefully as she was able. A quiet settled across her as she thought, part nostalgia and part sorrow, and her smile was distant. "Where those who came before, those who have left, and those who have perished await; across the sea, a far green country, everlasting and beautiful."

It sounded like a dream and, as she spoke the words, her face fell. After a moment's pause, she let out a heavy sigh and regarded her cup of wine. It was a challenge to describe Aman to the elves in Middle-earth, she had no idea how to make it real to one of the Dalish.

"It...is a place," she asserted, quite bluntly, a note of frustration in her tone. "It was my homeland, long, long ago. I know not if I will see it again, should I live or die in these lands, but I know that your people would be welcomed."

Thinking about Aman was a sobering thing and she disliked it. Instead, she turned a reassuring and mild smile to Cyril.

"It is the home of all elves who would have it."

Cyril watched her and for the first time, his face expressed a hint of the deep sorrow he felt when he looked at her. He knew that she wasn't the cause of that pain, though, and had been working hard to hide it.

At this, though, it's impossible to keep all of it from his eyes.

"That..." he stated after a moment. "That is everything that the Dalish want. A home with our fellow elves." He looked away, eyes lingering for a moment on the other Dalish at the party. "We had hoped to find a way to create that home here, in Thedas. This land used to belong to us before we lost everything."

Galadriel's face fell as she watched sorrow and longing creep into his eyes. Were she sober, she would not have done him the disservice of noticing. As it stood, she listened to his admission and her frown deepened. She was not normally so bold with her touch as she was then; some combination of wine and sympathy moved her and she reached out to brush his hair from his face, to uncover the lines that marked his reverence to Thedas's Valar.

"You have not lost everything," she corrected sadly. "To be Elven is not a thing so easily taken, nor cast aside."

Her usual eloquence was not entirely beyond her, but it was not entirely within her grasp, either.

"Homelands are lost, great cities rise and fall, even those of the Elves. The West is everlasting, but you should not give up hope of creating the land you long for." At long last she pulled her hand back and wrapped it around her mug, alongside her other. Her smile was less sad, then, as she continued.

"I wandered for years unnumbered before I found my way to Lórien. Though I do long for Aman, it is beneath the leaves of Lórien that my heart truly lies. You will find your heart's home."

Listening to her, it's so easy to believe it, to know in his core that they would recover some of what had been lost. It made his chest ache, but in a different sort of way. He felt a glimmer of hope.

"Why did you have to leave?" he asked, finding himself wanting to know everything she would tell him about her life.

Galadriel was rarely taken aback, but she could not recall the last person who had asked her that question. She had no doubt that it had been when dawn was new, if not before. Her mild smile was obviously startled and the expression held as she stared at him. Obvious as it was, it hadn't occurred to her, not until that moment, that he wouldn't know...that none of the elves in Thedas would.

She felt a pang deep in her chest.

It wasn't a painful feeling, but rather a portentous one. It was the sensation of a thread being pulled taut, awaiting the clean cut of a knife to trim it, but also ready to give and unravel something inside her. What that thread was woven into she could not say, but she felt the threat of it, that delicate snag, as it tugged against her ribs.

"That," Galadriel answered slowly. There was no condemnation in her tone, he had not chosen a topic that was too fraught to recount, but there was a great deal of caution in her pacing. "...Is a very long tale, my friend," she warned quietly, "even by my reckoning."

"Are you certain you wish to hear it?"

"I am," Cyril responds without hesitation. "Though if you'd rather not tell it, I understand."

He doesn't want her to feel pressured, but he also doesn't want her to worry about telling it for his sake.

Once more, Galadriel's height helps pick her out among the rest. Korrin, returning to the table, meets her with a weary but welcoming smile. Hers was definitely among the raised voices in the rotunda, growing louder and angrier every time the subject of the Circles came up. Now, however, that temper has subsided and she's much more mellow thanks to some appeasement during the meeting...and some drinks.

"Excellent, I was thinking about a refill. Come to watch us collapse into a tired, drunken mess? Though this is honestly the better of the outcomes I was imagining...."

The other would have been another brawl, ending with who knows how many people in the cells. Korrin's just fine not picturing that outcome in any detail. It's bad enough that it could have happened.

"To watch? No, I had a mind to participate," Galadriel corrected as she refilled the Vashoth's cup. "Though I would prefer not to collapse unless I must."

It wasn't immediately apparent, because she was a creature of natural grace, but Galadriel was not as sober as her impeccable posture would imply. Indeed, the wine in this world struck her much more soundly than the spirits of men had ever managed. She had only drank two cups and, already, there was color high on her cheeks and an ease to her that was unusual. Others might not have noticed, but Korrin had already spoken with her at length.

Once she had refilled the Vashoth's cup, she set the empty bottle aside and lifted her own in salutation.

"I am glad for you and that your arguments did not end poorly."

"Good for you. This is not a night to be sober." That color was noted, and Korrin grins, glad to see one of the newcomers enough at ease for such a state. She raises her own cup, nodding.

"Thank you. I had to ensure that those who weren't part of a Circle -the dominant group for mages- had a voice. I hate politics, but if it's going to affect me and those like me, I'd better have a say."

Whatever that pompous Senior Enchanter and any others interested in Templar ass-kissing think. But, mindful of the rules, Korrin manages enough willpower not to say that last part aloud. She can manage enough tact if it means continued access to drink.

Beleth doesn't want to approach her at first. Not because she dislikes the other woman, but because Galadriel seems like some kind of myth that had stepped out of the tales of the hahrens and into Skyhold. An elf of Arlathan itself could not have been as beautiful. And Beleth, firmly seated in mediocrity in regards to every aspect of her life, found it hard to even begin to think of what she could bring to the table for such a woman to actually have a conversation with.

After a bit of hemming and hawing, she finally stepped over as Galadriel was serving wine, and took one of the cups, flashing the woman a small smile. "Thank you, my lady. This is a good diversion, I think, from the rising tempers of earlier. The alcohol certainly helps." That was kind of a joke. Sort of. Good enough.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A bottle of white, a bottle of red

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

I'm sorry to spew emotions at you. But I bet a few of Dalish have thought this about her already :')

Never apologize for spewing emotions at me, it is the best. c:

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject