faderift | (no subject)

The encampment in the valley was not a place Galadriel was wont to linger, for many reasons. Foremost, perhaps, was that it contained the bulk of the Grey Wardens in these lands and she was...to put it mildly...not overly fond of their order. Unfortunately, the man she sought council with resided in the valley, amid the wardens and those who could not be housed within the walls of the fortress...so, to the valley she traveled.

Her templar guard were left behind, abandoned and addled for the duration of her journey; she walked alone, clad in a plain grey cloak that was all too easily overlooked. Unfortunately, concealment was only a valuable asset when one knew their destination--once she arrived in the midst of the new buildings, Galadriel drew back her hood and began her search properly.

Her task was not a dire one but in the presence of so many Grey Wardens, her expression became grim with some speed.

Just like when they first met, Barkley is the one who finds Galadriel first. He's larger now but still has a ridiculous looking, flowing tail. He's also not any less excitable, barking happily and racing up to Galadriel as soon as she stands still. He then proceeds to race around her in a circle, but at least he's not jumping on her, up until he rolls over on his back to show her his belly and quietly demand belly rubs.

Merrill, from her aravel, comes over with a laugh. She's been drawn by the excited barking, wanting to see what is going on, but she's delighted to see Galadriel and goes right for her (save for any potential belly rubs).

"At least he's not winding himself in your hair this time."

Galadriel is so focused on her task that the sudden approach of Barkley catches her off guard. For a moment she's left scowling in confusion at the excitable dog--fortunately, that moment passes and, with Merrill's approach, a smile spreads across her face. She crouches to pet the dog, as it clearly wishes her to, and offer's Merrill a nod of greeting.

"Truly, of all things that have ever become tangled in my hair, Barkley remains one of my favorites," Galadriel says and regards the other elf. "Greetings, mellon nin, I did not expect to cross paths with you this day."

Flipping back over, Barkley licks at Galadriel's hands before flopping on the ground beside them, tail still wagging. He's perfectly content to watch the pair for a while, and Merrill is perfectly content to reach for one of Galadriel's hands, dog slobber or not.

"There's not a lot of room for an aravel up in Skyhold, so I tend to stay down here," Merrill explains, gesturing toward it -- it's set a bit away and the sails are down, but it's definitely not the tents or Kestrel House of the rest of the camp. "You should come and see it!"

Just don't mind the painting of David Bowie inside. That is not, in fact, a cornerstone of Dalish culture.

Her task is not urgent, not terribly at least, so she does not resist as Merrill takes her hand and leads her toward her aravel. The structure is small but unique and, inside, it is surprisingly comfortable. Galadriel is, at first, uncertain how to comment on it--her own feelings about ships are complex and not easily translated to the aravels of the Dalish, and she is not terribly fond of small spaces--but her smile persists.

"This is a remarkable home," Galadriel says. "Did you build it, or travel to Skyhold with it?"

"Built it!" She's terribly proud, as a matter of fact. "I mean, I had help, but-" Her own smile flickers for a moment and she glances down, watching as Barkley settles himself on some furs.

Her free hand brushes her bangs out of her eyes and she shakes her head, then perks up again. "I thought it would be good to have a mobile place for everything. The Dalish are used to having to pick up and go at a moment's notice, and- well. Did anyone tell you what happened to Haven, where the Inquisition used to be based?"

She's not waiting for an answer. "Corypheus attacked with his army and his dragon. The Herald had to set off an avalanche for people to escape alive. She didn't. I never met her, but- I mean, it's not as though we're in a space less prone to natural disasters."

"I was told, though not in so precise a manner," Galadriel says. "I arrived in Haven; while the threat of such devastation persists, it is wise to have a home that can be moved."

Galadriel's gaze drifts from Merrill to the various things kept in her aravel, to her painting and her furs and, as she looks, she pauses to pet Barkley once more.

"You are a skilled craftsman, Merrill. Do you intend to build more of these aravels for the other Dalish that reside here, or have they chosen another path?"

"If they ask, I suppose." Barkley leans into the touch, snuffling a little in the furs. Merrill shrugs slightly, purposefully not looking at Galadriel or even her own dog.

"I don't- know. I don't know if all of them will go back to their clans, or if they want aravels, or..." She presses her lips together, tight. "My clan is dead. All of them. I wasn't welcome among them or other Dalish even before that, but after... I'm only welcome to the ones that know the full story, and not even to all of them. I grasp for the remnants of my culture and I'm abandoned by the living pieces of it as a result."

There is a little sniffle. Sorry, Galadriel; you likely had no idea this was such a loaded question. Merrill didn't realize it, but as soon as she started speaking, she couldn't stop. Galadriel reminds her of a Keeper, a mother, someone who cares. Someone she hasn't had in some time.

"I've lived among elves in the city for the past ten years. I'm not- it's my path that's different."

Merrill's answer is unexpected, insofar as any answer could be, and Galadriel pauses her wandering to return her attention to the young Dalish elf. Her clan was dead? She was unwelcome among her kin? It is a terrible fate and one that has heaped sorrow onto Merrill's shoulders. Already she's bowed, just slightly, beneath the weight of it.

Galadriel turns back to her and pauses a moment before reaching out to settle a hand on her shoulder. It seems she must do this often, so many of her kin here suffer unduly, but she finds she doesn't mind it in the slightest.

"Do not despair walking a different path, mellon nin," Galadriel says quietly. "It is hard, but all paths diverge eventually.

"Will you tell me of your troubles, or is the hardship too near?"

The hand settles on her shoulder and Merrill leans in immediately, seeking out more touch, more comfort. She tries so hard to not be seen like this, to be the one who is upbeat, who offers smiles and brings them. But here she is.

"Does it ever seem farther away?" There's a faint, sad laugh, but Merrill lifts her head. "My clan found an eluvian in ancient ruins. It had the Darkspawn taint, somehow; we don't know how that was even possible. It killed two of them, but it was a powerful artifact, something amazing left from days so far past. When we fled from the Blight to Kirkwall, I took it with us."

She takes a breath. "Sundermount is a mountain with a lot of history, where the Veil is thin. Our clan camped beneath it. There was a spirit -- and I say spirit because they are considered the same, to the Dalish, not mortal and therefore always with the potential to be dangerous, just as fire can help or hurt. He taught me ways to work on the eluvian, including blood magic. But my clan was scared by the taint and by my work. When Hawke met the clan, Keeper Marethari asked her to take me with her. So. I went."

She takes a breath, rubs a hand over her face. "A few years later, I went back. Keeper Marethari still considered me Dalish and let me invoke the right of vir sulevanan -- the right of any Dalish to claim the property of our people in exchange for an errand. We killed a varterral, ancient guardians created before Arlathan, that had killed three hunters. But- one member ran from me on sight, right into it. All because the Keeper had told them I might bring the taint back with me. And then she tried to get me to return, to abandon my work, to abandon something of our people and I just- I couldn't. And I couldn't leave the friends I had made, either."

Now she shuts her eyes, trying to will the tears back. It doesn't work, but she manages to keep her voice steady, even as they fall down her cheeks.

"I still wasn't able to fix it. I wanted to ask Audacity, who said he had seen the eluvian made. But I couldn't reach him. So we went to the top of Sundermount, where he was contained, and found... we found..."

Now she sobs, all but crumpling into Galadriel.

"Marethari released him and let him possess her, fearing that he would use the eluvian to possess me. The things that had been my teachers attacked us and we- we had to defend ourselves. She was killed. And then the clan came, and they wouldn't listen when we tried to tell them what had happen, and then they attacked, and I-"

It was her. It was her fault. It was always her fault and they hate her and they are right to hate her, and Merrill sobs as she drops to the floor, face in her hands.

"I killed them. I killed all of them, somehow, and I never, never wanted it, I just wanted- I wanted to reclaim what we had lost. And I lost it all."

Galadriel listens as Merrill explains, as she speaks of her clan and the events that caused their deaths. To be parted from her people is a steep price for any cause, to fight them to the death because of fear, of distrust, that is beyond imagining. Galadriel cannot help but feel for her, for the sorrow that poured off of her as she wept in her new home.

There is much of the story that Galadriel does not understand, details that have caught her curiosity, but she refrains from asking. It is not the time, nor the place to question the contents of Merrill's admission.

"I fear this is a pain that does not grow distant with time," Galadriel says gently and kneels alongside Merrill. "It is a pain that all of my people share, in one fashion or another, and I am sorry that you know it, even despite your short years.

"I could offer you council, if you wish it, but I would rather offer something dearer if I may," she continues and reaches to take one of Merrill's hands in her own. It is damp with the elf's tears and Galadriel's heart breaks for her--it is, perhaps, too easy to see a shade of herself in Merrill.

"I cannot abide an elf left so alone; if you wish it I would welcome you as kin of mine and name you one of my people. Already our tales are too similar for comfort or reason; if you would take me as your cousin perhaps some of our misfortunes could be explained away.

"At the very least, neither of us would be quite so alone any longer."

The grief feels almost new every time she feels it, the tears as hot and sharp as they were that first time. Galadriel is a new presence in her sorrow, and she offers a new balm: one Merrill does not think she has heard correctly, at first. As a result, Galadriel gets a rather bewildered, tear-ridden stare as she tries to work out what else the other elf could have possibly meant.

Finding nothing, Merrill immediately begins sobbing again, throwing her free arm around Galadriel's neck to embrace her.

"You would call me a member of your family? Even after what I've done?" It wasn't her choice, to kill them all, but she still did it. She can't ever forget that. "I can't say no to such a- such a kind offer, and I wouldn't want you to be alone." Galadriel has Thranduil as her cousin, but they are two in a sea of strangers. Merrill may be just as strange and new, but at least she would be Galadriel's piece of strange and new.

Funny, how much easier it is to allow ones self something when you can say it's for the benefit of another.

Edited 2016-12-03 21:53 (UTC)

It has been many centuries since an elf last threw themselves at her as Merrill does now and yet, despite all that time, Galadriel's reaction is reflexive. She wraps an arm around the young woman and settles a hand against the back of her head, drawing it against her shoulder as she sobs. She whispers words of comfort, assurances that her offer is genuine, and it takes several long moments before she realizes she's lapsed into Sindarin.

"Mine is a house weighed down by many tragedies and mistakes; we have turned out our kin and been turned out in kind many times over. You are in like company among us, mell neth," Galadriel says in the common speak and idly strokes her fingers through Merrill's short hair.

"But now we are one soul stronger, and I am glad of it." She draws back, just slightly, but doesn't release the younger elf.

"Had I told you that my mother's family built ships? They were not unlike your aravel, save that they traveled by water and were far less charming. I have neither seen nor spoken to those relatives in many thousands of years; coming to your home is rather like coming home to my own. Is that not fortunate?"

it is the rudest

chainlightning - 2016-12-11 19:19 (UTC) - Expand

He catches sight of her as he leaves the Kestral House, while heading for the fire. It's hard not to; she towers over a lot of people. For a moment he considers heading forward anyway, but it's been some time and he's been wondering how she's doing. Anders turns to head over toward Galadriel.

"Welcome to the Warden Camp. Or the shady camp, depending on who you speak with."

"If can hardly be one without the other," Galadriel replies testily. It takes her a brief moment to recognize the voice and then the face before her and, once she does, her expression softens dramatically with relief.

"Ai! I have found you at last, or you me," she practically exclaims and moves quickly to meet Anders. When she comes alongside him she stops at a distance that can only be described as...conspiratorial and leans in slightly as she speaks.

"I require your council, if you are willing to grant it, and my questions beg some privacy."

He stiffens at the snap, but when she turns and her expression changes he relaxes as well. Lowering his guard has backfired a time or two. This time, at least, it seems to be fine. Anders offers her a small smile and a nod.

"Of course." A glance around the camp shows that it's fairly well-populated with Wardens, Kestrals, and other hangers-on, but at least there's the woods nearby. "This way?" He starts to lead off, away from the gathered people.

Galadriel follows after him with a promptness that borders on eagerness. Distance from the camp, by extension, means distance from the wardens and the terrible music that hums in their veins. They stroll some distance from the people and the sounds of the wood, the weight of mountain silence and snow, all of them settle into the spaces where that song lingers.

It is still louder than it ought to be, but Galadriel presses it to the back of her mind as she and Anders reach a distance that grants them reasonable privacy.

"My thanks," she begins, a bit of her earlier haste still clinging to her. It takes her a moment longer to shed it and settle into the moment.

"I seek to use an art that may not exist in these lands. It is no small feat and I know not the risks it may involve. Truly, it will not be the first time I have done such a thing, but weaving concealment is not as dangerous as far seeing.

"I could think of few to ask about such powers, here, and you have already born witness to one of my grander skills. Will you share your knowledge so that I might know the danger I face?"

Weaving concealment. Those two words have his heart beating a little faster, because if that's possible, if he's understanding what she's saying, then that could open up even more possibilities for mages.

"I'd be glad to share. There's... Do you mean hiding completely from sight, or are you looking for something else? I know of a spell by which one can blur for a short time, make people lose track of them, but doing more..." Anders shakes his head. "That's something I'd find important enough to experiment with."

Galadriel pauses, unexpectedly derailed by his agreement and questions. She stares at him for a second or two and, in lieu of explaining outright, simply shakes her head. She reaches to her shoulders and tugs at the ties of her cloak.

It is a pointedly unremarkable grey; the eye slides over it as easily as water sliding down the serault glass windows of Skyhold. As it comes away from her shoulders, the dullness of it shifts--it doesn't become bright so much as it seems to cease being in places. The shadows of it fade away and the impression of snow and the needle strewn forest floor are left behind. She shakes it out once and the effect is disrupted, like ripples on water, but it settles back in soon enough.

"It is an art I am quite skilled with," Galadriel says and extends the cloak to him. "I would hazard to call it enchanting, even in these lands.

"It shall not stop a bolt, nor a blade, but any who wear a cloak of my make need never fear being seen by unfriendly eyes." She pauses a moment out of something similar to hesitation.

"It is not a dangerous art, nor should it be difficult to learn. I would not say it needed magic were I in Arda, but here that might be changed."

He blinks as the cloak seems to fade and blend in, staring for a moment before reaching to take it. The moment his fingers brush it, though, there's far too much heat and he yanks them back with a quiet noise of pain. They're burned, he realizes as he looks at them. Not badly, but still burned, and there's some dismay in his eyes as he looks back at the cloak and starts to heal them.

"I... I don't understand." Here could be something that could give safety to a lot of people (while also allowing ambushers to do more damage, unfortunately,) and it's burning him? As soon as the pain is a little eased he's reaching out with magic and finding nothing that explains it. It's spirit magic, or a close relative thereof, woven in.

His gaze goes back to her as he finishes dealing with the damage, confusion in his eyes.

Galadriel's shock is a mirror for Anders's and she watches his hand as he withdraws it. There is no enchantment on this cloak to cause damage, it was not a weapon--not unless--

"You are corrupted," she says, her voice a bit distant with disbelief, and reaches out to take his recently injured hand. She can feel it, beneath her fingers and in her mind--she had assumed it was the proximity, the nearness of the camp, but it is clear as his pulse beneath her fingertips.

"You are a Warden? Did they taint you since last we spoke? Who did this?"

Her anger is sudden and crashes over her like the tide. The idea that someone in their order was poisoning the people here was beyond the pale. She could not tolerate it. If there were a culprit she would find and slay them this very night.

Corrupted. The word stings, but that's overpowered by confusion at the questions. At least her touch is merely oddly warm instead of burning, unlike the fabric.

"I've not... I'm a Warden, yes, but I've been a Warden for years. Over a decade. I didn't... I didn't have a choice, but it's what I am." She's angry about it and he doesn't understand why. No one in Thedas seems to have this poor a reaction to someone being Tainted, so maybe it's related to her world, somehow?

"It's the only reason I'm alive. I'd be dead if I wasn't one, murdered, and I like not being dead." Realizing that he's babbling, Anders stops and takes a breath. "Does your spell, your magic, hurt the tainted?"

"A decade?" She repeats and, in the span of a few seconds, all the rage and color drain from her face. She had spoken with him, stood at his side, and hadn't realized. He was a servant of the enemy, of the oldest darkness, however unwitting, and she had ensconced him in true safety.

She hadn't sensed him before.

"A decade..." she repeats again and releases his hand. "I didn't hear it--how dearly has this world weakened me that I didn't hear it in you?"

It isn't a question aimed at Anders but her gaze remains on him as she speaks.

"I am the lady of light. I cannot abide corruption, nor discord. All works done by my hand will resist and drive out the shadow, so long as they or I remain." It is a speech that almost demands a sort of firmness and pomp, but she still sounds distant and a touch shaken. She is recovering but it plays across her face as she does.

"It is my will; I weave it and it persists."

Hear it. She heard the taint? How? That question's big enough in his mind that he almost misses her own, and her statements. Cannot abide corruption, and she's called him corrupted. Anders pulls his hand back, dropping it down, trying to not let what seems to be rejection hurt too much even as he figures out an answer to her question.

"Justice. Sometimes he muffled the... the sound of the taint when it was a lot." The False Calling, really, but he's not going to go into that. "When we've spoken previously, I was still possessed. I'm not anymore. He's gone."

Anders takes a breath, feeling a familiar dull ache in his chest.

"As you... cannot abide me, apparently, shall I go?" He has more friends now than he's ever had in the whole of his life combined, and yet losing a friendly face still hurts like an Ogre slamming into him.

"Justice?" The word seems out of place and only after a pause does she realize he speaks of a Spirit. A disembodied fea that had quieted the call of the discord in him. How it had come to pass was a mystery, and a tale she would desire to hear at some point, but the fact that it had come to pass explained much...it also made apparent just how dearly she required council in these strange lands.

"No, do not leave," Galadriel says abruptly, on reflex, and her expression shifts. A myriad of emotions filter through as her stare goes steely--a note of fear slides through her eyes before it settles into resolve. She consideres him with a heavy, consuming severity. The threat he poses is no jest, but it is also unavoidable. The Wardens are too old a threat for her to ignore, but Anders is among a precious few she can turn to.

"You must...understand," Galadriel prefaces, her voice tensed to hide how unsettled she had become. "The song that resides within you...it is the deepest shadow, the oldest fear, and I recall it keenly even after tens of thousands of years. To trust that song, to linger near it, pains me. I can hear every note as though they poured from the doors of night before me.

She takes a breath and draws the cloak back around her shoulders. Briefly a whole swath of her seems to vanish. She doesn't step back from him but it is a near thing. Knowing the song comes from him as well, that it is not a remnant of proximity to the camp, galls her...but she must ignore it.

"However, in this place, I cannot act rashly. I need your assistance and, indeed, have no alternatives. Your templars would greatly disapprove of my aims, no doubt, but I cannot forfiet power that has not been stripped from me. There is far more danger in that than potential danger in you.

"I believe you are genuine. I doubt you would attempt to lie to me, or that you have reason to do so. My need is too great to deny you, despite the poison I can feel in your veins."

She tries to look sympathetic but it is a difficult task--her expression is more neutral than anything as she regards him.

"Were I myself, I would purge that darkness from your veins and free you of its influence, but I cannot. And, because I cannot do such things here, I ask, instead: will you aid me? I know only old dangers, the risks of another world, and far-sight is too easily turned back upon those who use it for me to risk it without help."

Edited (there we go much better) 2016-12-03 19:26 (UTC)

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justice_is_blond - 2016-12-27 07:46 (UTC) - Expand

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Valley/Warden Camp

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sorry about the delay, my wrist decided i wasn't allowed to use it for 3 weeks :'|

No worries D: Bad wrist, hurt less and be cooperative.

it is the rudest

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/Slides in here super late, hey whatup.

woohoo!

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