Like some soft minister of dreams the snowfall hoods me round

[mythalenaste]

WHO: Pel and YOU
WHAT: Open log
WHEN: Wintermarch
WHERE: Skyhold and surrounding areas
NOTES: Description of winter in a positive manner may be triggering to people who are really really cold right now.

Outside Skyhold

Pel loves the winter, especially here. So high up in the mountains, winter is especially wintery, and lasts longer than in the Marches. It smells of ice and pine and woodsmoke, sharp and fresh and properly cold. The snow is dry, not the kind of thing that seeps into the seams of your boots and soaks your stockings. Not the crunchy kind that leaves things slippery after it melts halfway then freezes overnight. This is proper, powdery snow that scatters evenly when kicked, like white fairy-dust. You could leap headfirst into it and come out sparkling from head to toe, but you can dust yourself off before it melts. It's snow that's lovely without being dangerous like a wet snow is. During her times of prayer to Mythal, she wades into the snow and takes deep breaths, feeling it permeate, watching both dawn and sunset cast a play of light and shadows over the surface. There are animal tracks, a little unclear as to which animal because the snow is so powdery, but they definitely point in a specific direction. Pel is not on the hunt, but someone else might be, tracking prey that is most active in the waxing or waning light.

Skyhold

Another thing about winter here in Skyhold is that when you've had enough of it, you can go inside where there are stone walls and huge fireplaces. When you're an elven savage, you can't just hang out in the main hall where the posh guests can see you, but there are other places with big fires and fewer nobles. Most of the time when she is in one of these places, Pel is writing her book. Then again, sometimes she has her (growing, bare) feet propped up in front of the fire while she takes an impromptu nap in a chair. Her hair is disheveled and she snores like a dragon.

Barracks

She can't stay in the barracks forever. Once the baby comes, she will need more space and fewer roommates. But for now, she is doing well in the room nearest one of the privies, living with three other people who were kind enough to make room for her during a time in her life when she is peeing for two. Perhaps you pass her in the middle of the night when she is on her way back to her room, looking very cross and sleepy.

Training Grounds

It has been about two months since she encountered the spirit which taught her the dirth'ena enasalin, and two months since she began intensive sword training with Iskandar. His is not the only training she has relied on; the memories given to her by the spirit have been well-preserved. One evening, she finishes doing her stretching, picks up a sword, and settles into a relaxed stance.

"Fight me," she tells you as you also finish your warm-ups.

Stables

She hasn't had time to do much of this, but she sits close to the large brazier in the stable and holds a big stick between her knees and ankles. Those who look closely might see that this is not a branch, but a young tree stripped of its bark. She has sanded it smooth and is now carving a design into it, something that appears to change as she fancies. She will never accept some famous staff as being better suited for her than one she made with her own hands, which carves a picture of what and who she is in the moment she is using it. The loss of her old staff to Clan Grymusseth has given her the opportunity to make one that represents who she is now that she has left Clan Ashara, now that she is a scholar and mother-to-be. The young tree was one she found in the Brecilian Forest, a place where ancient magic lingers and where Pel felt oddly at home.

The current design on the staff is of a dragon, fashioned with minimal detail but a deft enough hand. She likes to keep things simple.

Wildcard

Comments

[mythalenaste]

Pel glances up mid-sentence and smiles, turning back to finish the thought quickly before setting the book aside and folding her hands in her lap to give him her full attention.

[samahl]

Cyril grins a bit and holds up some maple candies for her. "Interested?" he asks, clearly a little pleased that he's manged to get a hold of some of them even with the weather being what it is.

[mythalenaste]

Pel's eyes light up. Lately her cravings for greens and red meat have been transitioning into cravings for fruit and sweets. And nothing is better than maple candy, not even tiny cakes.

"You are the perfect person," she says, taking the candies and beginning right away to nibble at one.

[samahl]

Cyril preened a bit. "Well, yes," he agreed easily at her description of him as 'perfect.' He means it in a playful sort of way but there's also a real expression of his vanity mixed in as well. He hands over the candies, after taking one for himself of course.

"How are you feeling?"

[mythalenaste]

"Fine," she answers, and she has informed him enough just how hard-won that status is. Unless she is religious about exercise, she is constantly feeling sick. As it is, fine amounts to being tired and nothing worse.

[samahl]

"That's good," Cyril says cheerfully. He has been worried about her well being, and the state of her stomach. He moves a little closer. "I found a mixture that could help with sore muscles but I wasn't sure how you'd handle the smell." He didn't want to make her feel even more sick because he used something that had a strong scent.

[mythalenaste]

"Is that what that is?" And now that he's mentioned it, it smells even stronger. The candy gets tucked into her palm and she's going to wait for a bit to make sure she has no unforeseen reaction. "I could smell that, but I'm not sick from it."

[samahl]

Cyril nodded at that. "Okay good." After a moment he goes digging in the pack he brought with him to find the cream. It's in a nice little jar. He pulls it out and carefully unscrews it. It smells almost minty.

"This is it," he says. "Any bad effects? I can try something else if it makes your stomach angry."

[mythalenaste]

Now that it's open, she winces.

"No. No, can't breathe." Her hand goes to draw her neck handkerchief up to her face.