faderift | 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

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Galadriel listened to Adelaide's explanation politely, even as she reached for the bottle nearby, the one that smelled distinctly of flowers and, though she didn't know it, was painfully Orlesian. She refilled her mug and, as she returned the bottle to its place, considered the information she'd been given.

"Iced wines are rather rare in Lórien, but meads? The elves have a great fondness for them, myself included. I doubt there is a day when meads do not flow through the heart of Elvendom," she said and savored the smell of the wine in her clay cup. "In Aman, the finest mead was a drink of golden flowers; it tasted of sweet songs and sunlight. Ours is not so well made as the Valar's, I fear, but the miruvor of the north and of Lórien is not without its merits."

She took a sip of this new brew and seemed to savor it.

"It is a pity I do not know how to make it, else I would share the art," she added and shifted her shoulders in a subtle shrug.

"We had been working on a better means of brewing ice wine and mead in the Spire before....well. Everything. I think most of our notes are likely still there if they have not been burned." Much as she would like to go home again- it wouldn't be. There had been too much death, too much violence. The Spire couldn't signify duty and safety for anyone anymore. Maybe in a decade, maybe in a century- but for now? No.

She puts those thoughts from her mind, content to rest against Galadriel and consider her as she considers the wine. She glowed. How did she glow? Was it the magic? Was it the ring? The wine?

"We would be glad to know of it, I should think, if it is so fine as to bring you to smile." Was that flirtatious? It might have been. Oh dear.

Galadriel would have asked about the Spire, if she were of a mind to, but it seemed a great deal of unspoken catastrophe had happened very recently, and the evening was going far too well to risk such dark conversation. No, she wanted to enjoy herself and, as Adelaide leaned against her and spoke, it took the elf a moment to recognize the woman's tone. Such flirting was not unknown to Galadriel, and the fact that she had only just told Adelaide of her husband meant that it was a friendly thing, free from misunderstanding.

She rested her shoulder against Adelaide's as she let out a short laugh--inebriated as she was, it was more akin to a giggle than she was usually wont.

"My lady," Galadriel admonished quietly. "That nearly sounded like an overture."

Her smile was kind and small.

"We do not need miruvor," she added. "Your company is more than enough to kindle my smile."

Galadriel being married made this safe. How it made it safe she couldn't put into words, but it did. Nothing would come of it. That they are friends, that they can sit like this and drink and discuss wine or life was more than enough for her. The words had tripped out and that? She blamed on the wine. But she couldn't blame it all that much when Galadirel giggles in turn.

Like bells. Tolling bells in a winter's morning. Cold and clear and bright and-

Wine and infatuation made a poet of her. She hid her smile in her cup, blushing and shrugging it off. "Then I shall content myself with that and ask for nothing more, yes?"

It was not so sad a comment but, as she made it, Galadriel felt a twinge of sadness all the same. Her smile was apologetic and, close as they were, it was impossible to miss the softness in her eyes.

"It is not so sad a thing, to have a friend and love them dearly," Galadriel assured her and, in a moment of melancholy, she shifted one of her hands off of her clay cup and rested it on Adelaide's forearm. "Friends are precious, especially for those as old as I, and I would trade one for nothing."

"No, not at all. I would call it practically joyous." To have that esteem, that affection? Was nothing short of miraculous to Adelaide for she still remained somewhat uncertain what it was she'd done to earn it. But it was earned and it was deeply appreciated, Galadriel swiftly becoming a soothing presence in what would prove to be a horribly chaotic life in Skyhold. Be it the wine, the warmth, or the light of her, Adelaide could not say, but the touch earned no flinch, no tension. "Then I am doubly glad and honored that you consider me as such."

A bottle of white, a bottle of red

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