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WHO: Galadriel and you!
WHAT: Catch all for Firstfall/November, specifically includes Sulevin Blade/Mirror of Galadriel adventures.
WHEN: All of Firstfall.
WHERE: Various, largely Skyhold but also the Warden Camp.
NOTES: To be edited if needed.

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Hardie rises when Gwenaëlle starts to shift - forward, drifting a bit closer, not quite joining Galadriel but certainly facilitating further conversation. He isn't unfriendly, but well trained enough - even in his tender years - to keep close to her and refrain from barking excitedly at a new person. Where is this restraint when he's trying to get better acquainted with the personal area of men of her acquaintance, she wonders.

"I don't know any magical arts very well," she says, unabashed in her own ignorance; it isn't unique or unusual. The few mages she'd ever encountered before Skyhold were circle mages (she wouldn't say she'd encountered Morrigan before here, not truly), and her experience of them limited. They weren't offering lectures on magical theory to noble girls with a curious bent. "I don't know many mages."

After a moment, thoughtfully, "My uncle was one." Is, maybe, but - she holds out fairly slim hope for Enchanter Vauquelin's survival of the White Spire. "And I know Morrigan. Scrying means looking for things, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it is what men call far-seeing, I believe," Galadriel answers and gesture with a nod to the bench beside her. If Gwenaëlle wishes to join her, she is welcome to.

"I do not search far, not intentionally, but the languages of men lack words to explain searching for what has been, or is yet to be."

Galadriel shifts the bowl in her hands and the surface of the water ripples, breaking the perfect reflection of the sky.

"Thus far I have found neither, but I hold out some hope."

The ripples catch her eye - nothing more complex than being drawn to movement, but she lingers on it, thoughtful. She'd be drawn to water if it didn't have magical potential, all told, both for its symbolism and for the fact she finds it soothing; there's been not enough soothing, lately, and she grasps at nearly anything for steadiness.

"Divining," she offers, after a moment. And then, wry, "I don't know magic, but I know words."

"Divining?" Galadriel repeats sounding mildly curious at the term. Her brows rise as she considers it and a thoughtful sort of frown settles across her features, briefly.

"I had not considered that it counted as divine, but associating it so is not so surprising," she says and motions her hand idly over the bowl of water. For a moment the motion seems to have little effect but the ripples still and, after a beat, the water is rendered utterly motionless. The surface is glassy and perfect once more.

"Despite my years I often find words, at least the words of Men, to be dreadfully confusing," Galadriel admits without much bashfulness. "Their meanings shift readily and often; in the span of only a few years entire dialects can arise and fall into disuse. It is terribly difficult to keep up."

"Language is a living thing," with a shrug that's - not dismissive, really. She's fascinated by the use of words, the small and subtle and even almost invisible ways that you can change the way someone responds to something by altering the wording. By being aware of the connotations. "For instance, I didn't mean that it's divine."

That would probably be some form of heresy, although the thought crosses her mind more analytically than out of concern. (She abides by the Chantry because it's necessary to do so and out of long habit, having been raised that way; not faith.)

"It's a word that, used in the right context, simply means what you described not having a word for. We do. You just didn't know it. Probably," lightly, "because of that whole 'moving so quickly' thing we do with everything." Words included, as Galadriel notes.

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