faderift | Put on your sunday cloak, we're gonna get lost in town.

Entry tags:

Put on your sunday cloak, we're gonna get lost in town.

WHO: Galadriel and You
WHAT: Catchall for December
WHEN: After the return from Nevarra
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Galadriel around Kirkwall and the Gallows, not generally obeying curfew because clearly that is for other people without magic cloaks. ~~This can't possibly go awry.~~

Gallows - Early Morning

Galadriel rose with the sun.

She was given to watching the dawn and, despite her latent need for sleep, her body had become far too accustomed to the early hours to permit her excessive rest. When she ventured forth into the halls and through the courtyard of the Gallows, she found that Kirkwall could be a peaceful place, after a fashion. The sky was grey and dreary, the air was thick with the cold fog that only the ocean could provide, and everything was deathly still. The world was supressed by the night stillness and, all too gradually, the sun would burn the fog away and the day would be renewed.

She savored what she could of the early morning, but did not linger long in the open. This place made her uneasy and while she was not evasive, not truly, she did not tarry between tasks. Her first task was breakfast and she made her way to the silent kitchens that were free of staff. She expected they would also be free of any other occupants at this hour as well.

(If you want to catch Galadriel kicking around the Gallows at freaking-early-o-clock, please have at. She will be baking in the Mage Tower kitchen area, and then probably learning the layout of the building before she scrams. She will be leaving before nine a.m..)

Lowtown - Day

It was hard for Galadriel to truly gague the wealth and prosperity of mortal cities. They functioned so strangely and with such inconcistancy that identifying affluence was often a gamble. Halamshiral had been no challenge for her--the poor lived in startling poverty and the wealthy lived in opulence that was equal to the highest courts she had ever known. Here, the lines were not so exaggerated, but they were decidedly present.

Lowtown, then, between its name and the dilapidated state of it, must have been where the poorest lived. The streets and alleys were in disrepair, the buildings loomed with presence rather than height, and there was something--not desperate but not entirely unlike desperation--that wove its way through this section of the city.

Galadriel disliked this place, it was a stark reminder of the ways of Men, of how they worked the world in their short time, and is distressed her. Unfortunately, when compared to The Gallows, or even to Halamshiral, it was far preferrable. It was brown, void of most growing things, and filled with noise and chaos, but it was no darker than it pretended to be. There was no pretense here and, if only for that, she was thankful.

Hooded and cloaked, Galadriel traveled the maze of alleys and storefronts, past hovels and dark, silent windows that stared down like the eyes of a dreadful beast. She was ignored, by in large, and found few things of note until she stumbled upon the Alienage. There she found a painted tree, the Vhendahl, and she was so glad to see it she embraced it.

(Run into Galadriel shopping around, being suspicious in her full cloak and hood, getting hopelessly lost in alleys, or hugging a tree. Or maybe you could try to mug her, your call.)

Hightown - Afternoon

The climb up the steps was a telling journey. Galadriel had seen few cities with a feature so dramatic and each of those had been made to defend against a siege. Kirkwall had never been designed to withstand siege and, at first, the point of these stairs confused her. Then she recalled the statues that stood in the harbor, the chains they towed and the way they bent toward the waves, and she was far less confused.

Hightown was, by comparison, a beautiful city. The buildings rose above the streets and into the sunlight. The roads were clean and the stonework in good repair. Green things and decorations grew in small, decorative plots along the roadside and where the stairs plateaued. It was a place of ease and beauty, but it was still very much the same city as the one below.

Galadriel wandered a while and avoided the stationed guards as only someone with a gift for concealment could. She walked through the streets and the crisp air, and tried to decide if Kirkwall was tolerable. It was, perhaps, a bit much to ask from a stroll beneath decorative features, but it was one she asked all the same. Eventually she stumbled upon a plaza with a fountain and took a moment to wonder at it. In Orlais she could not enjoy them, too great was her disgust, but here she seated herself and watched the water a while.

(Hello, City Watch, there's a woman in a grey cloak outside staring intensely at my water feature and petting my roses. Please come take care of this.--Uh I mean run into Galadriel in High Town as she Judges It(tm).)

Docks - Dusk

In the end it was not surprising that she found her way to the docks. The sounds of the sea drift all across the city, but the sight of the water was another matter altogether. From Hightown it was too distant to truly enjoy, just a glimmer below, but Kirkwall has a number of docks and she managed to find her way to one of them. She was conflicted about the ocean, true, but standing on the waterside was something to be relished.

The setting sun was beautiful and, while the sounds of the docks were not exceptionally familiar, the overall din was nearly universal.

(Hey look a dock. Is she gonna get stabbed? Sing a lay to the ocean? Flip off the Valar? who knows?)

Gallows - Night

Returning to the Gallows was both a chore and a relief; the silence and relative quiet of them fell in sharp contrast to the rest of Kirkwall. Galadriel was unaccustomed to such constant dissonant noise and while the stones in the Gallows still sang, whispered the Old Song, that was faded and familiar. She lingered a time in the courtyard, beneath the stars and open sky, before finally traveling in.

(Run into Galadriel at night, or spy her glowing self when she ditches the hood to look at the sky. She's really terrible at hiding in the dark, just awful at it. Alternately, run into her in the halls, or getting dinner, or, if you're feeling saucy, in the baths late at night. She gotta scrub that Kirkwall off of her, afterall.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"He is," she replies simply, at first, and draws a slow breath. Has she truly taken this with calm and dignity--she has not come to blows with them, nor was she terrified to meet any apart from Elros, but perhaps that is not so strange. She had half expected to meet them all again, some day, though she had assumed it would be either after her own death or the death of the world.

"He is the only one who has survived the world longer than I," Galadriel says with some note of wistfulness to it, as though she finds the very idea humorous and sad all at once. "The others are Fingon and Maedhros, my nephew Elros wanders here and there as well."

She is not sure what inspires this bout of forthcoming, it is perhaps only that Herian has a dependable demeanor and a calm about her that speaks of stability. When Galadriel speaks again, she seems just a little tired, it shows around her eyes the most.

"None but Maglor lived even half my age, I suppose I have had enough time to truly come through the grief of their losses. They are so young, though, and they seem so terribly innocent to me...which is very strange to think, given who they are and... after a fashion, who I have become.

"Has Maglor sang for you?"

"I am very sorry," Herian replies, softly. "For all the time that can be passed, that does not mean the hurt is or was any less. Especially not when receiving the news of each passing." She hesitates, for a moment, before continuing. "I am— I found out only recently that my mother passed, some years ago. Though by rights the sting should not be all that it is, when I had not spoken to her in so long, I must confess myself struggling to maintain any semblance of functionality."

She speaks with the utmost calm, but there is an unhappy snag at the corner of her mouth that she soon smoothes away. "All losses are take from us, by their very definition. That they and you relate to one another perhaps... differently than you did in the past is not poor reflection on any of you."

But she has probably spoken too much, of things she knows too little about, and clears her throat a little, slightly unsure of herself. "No singing, no. I know Maglor only through Elros. He and I were assigned to a mission in Nevarra, and we decided to increase the scope of our party. Elros requested Maglor, and I another. They performed extremely ably in battle, and... I believe proved themselves a credit to the Inquisition and rifters, both." Though Elros seemed less than thrilled that their role was only to incapacitate to the dragons, and not to kill them, it was not a feeling she could entirely criticise. "Beyond that, though, we have spoken very little."

Hardly at all, in fact, or perhaps just not at all. She's not been in the best place for friendly discussions, these past weeks.

The weight of Herian's heart becomes all too clear as she speaks of her trials. There is some difference to it, knowing someone has passed for tens of thousands of years and learning it abruptly, but Galadriel doesn't correct her. Hers is the pain that cuts deepest and she will not steal any comfort Herian can find in camaraderie.

"Elros is a kind and...dare I say plucky soul," Galadriel explains fondly. "He is Maglor's son...after a fashion. Maglor...is...."

She debates how to explain him, how to explain any of the Feanoreans or Fingon in relation to them, and eventually settles for an account that isn't sterile but certainly omits a great deal.

"He is one of the finest bards that has ever walked the world. His skill is unrivaled and, in truth, though he never truly passed, the lack of his songs in Arda felt rather like he had. He is...perhaps the gentlest of my cousins, for what that is worth, but he is older than I and we are, both of us, stretched very thin."

Galadriel regards Herian silently for a moment.

"Do not make our errors and allow your grief to consume you. It is a destructive path and grief cannot pass without expression."

For a moment, she feels as though she stands atop ice on the verge of shattering. She can feel it cracking beneath her feet, the strange groan of the ice and the weight of the water beneath. Herian has held her grief tightly in check for years, now - no span in the lives of Galadriel and her kin, surely, but enough of her life to have sculpted her into an entirely different shape than she might have otherwise held. Pieces of her that been taken away that cannot be restored, just as wax cannot hope to hold marble together. She seems almost stunned into silence.

I have been contemplating Tranquility crosses her mind, though it does not make it to her tongue. These are words unspoken to Saoirse or Cosima or even Coupe, and it seems perverse to even consider speaking them to Galadriel. Self-indulgent, by some measure, weak and obscene by others.

"I will certainly heed your words." Perhaps an underwhelming response, as the ice becomes steady beneath her feet once more. The Dalish, the Spire, Orlais, the Inquisition. She cannot afford to feel her losses, and they have never been hers alone.

In easier topics, at least for her, she collects herself: "Elros struck me as ready to take on any challenge laid before him." Including a surprise second dragon. "And Maglor's talents sound truly awe-inspiring."

But— a moment of consideration. "Is there any that those of us here might do to ease those strains?"

Herian's stunned silence passes and Galadriel nearly regrets her council, however pointed and necessary as it is. Her promise to heed Galadriel's warning is not a terribly convincing one, but she will not do her the disservice of looking into her heart this day. When Herian makes her own offer, Galadriel is startled and she laughs--the sound is more tired than she expects and, as it resounds around them and she glances sidelong at the crowd...she considers that casual offer of aid.

She is silent a long moment before she settles her gaze back on Herian.

"Do you truly wish to aid me?" She asks and then, at once, appends it: "To aid us?"

"I am bound by oath to serve the Inquisition, but I remain a Knight Enchanter. Even if the Inquisition did not stand to protect and to offer succour, that is what I must do." Quiet, but steady. The cracks are smoothed over. In this, she can be certain, in being a knight she can step forward and be useful. In service there is some hope, some salvation. Perhaps that is why Tranquility appeals - reprieve, but still in service.

Offering aid to those in need of it is part of who she is, who she must be. Galadriel and her kinsmen might not be vulnerable in the same way that others can be, but they are not in the same position of power as they might be at home, or immune to the dangers of Thedas and its people, as elves and rifters both.

Though— "I can claim no love lost between myself and Thranduil, I'd not deny him aid, nor can I deny his capability or respectability." She might not like him, but even were he not a member of the Inquisition, she would protect him had he need of it.

Galadriel listens to her assurances but, even as Herian gives them a deep sort of sadness settles into Galadriel's eyes. It weighs heavily behind her mild facade, and while her expression doesn't shift the whole of world seems to settle across her.

She has known two Knight Enchanters in Thedas and bot have been honorable to a fault, unfortunately she cannot ask this of Herian any more than she could have asked it of Vivienne. She knows not what Maglor might desire, she does not speak for him, but when she replies it is with a thread of longing and resignation regarding how it will not be realized.

"Indeed, a noble purpose," Galadriel agrees sadly. "I fear I was too tempted by the potential of what might be done, and for my eagerness I am sorry. You cannot bear my burdens and to ask it of you would be cruel...but perhaps we may do something simpler. As friends.

"Speak with me some mornings, let us be glad with each other and hope the world follows suit?"

"I shall gladly oblige."

She wonders if she has made some misstep, as that unhappiness seems to shroud Galadriel a little heavier, akin to some fog descending, equally relentless in its intangibility. Had her own unhappiness been too obvious, that Galadriel thinks better of taking the offered aid? Galadriel had spoken of grief needing expression, but how can it be expressed? How can it be shown, when it can diminish your ability to serve, or other's willingness to share their burdens with you? But then, they do not know each other so well, do they? They are not intimate acquaintances. Perhaps it is base pride, now, that gnaws at her.

"If I may ask - potential of what might be done in what scope?" Surely there is little to be done for a friend - if she were to be so presumptuous as to call Galadriel that - that could be so terrible a burden.

Galadriel opens her mouth to answer, the words linger at the very tip of her tongue, but she finds she cannot actually bring herself to say them. She can advise Herian about expressing her grief but it is a hypocritical thing, it is one skill Galadriel has never mastered and, indeed, cannot master in Thedas. One day her grief will overtake her, one way or another, and she has resigned herself to that fate.

She might've asked for guidance from Herian, for the Knight Enchanter to temper her actions so that she does not corrupt her own soul further. But saddling Herian with that burden, even in part, would be a terrible curse. Already Galadriel is tainted by the allure of power, by the need for more, and even guidance will only stay her for so long.

In the end, she would only only compound the mage's sorrow.

No, she cannot ask these things of Herian any more than she could refute Maglor's desire to end his own life, should he choose to.

"I have friends here, but few dear ones. I find I miss the close council of my ancient friends...but I am a stubborn woman and I would not ask you for something I could not accept. It would torture us both." It is a partial explanation, but enough that it seems whole. "Simple conversation will be more than enough to gladden my heart--"

There is a beat as Galadriel regards her and, as though she has forgotten, she recalls that Herian is a fighter. She is a fighter unrelated to Galadriel, without the old world in her blood or a quiet amiable grudge.

"Actually, perhaps there is one favor I could beg of you. Train with me."

That she can better understand - or perhaps better accept is the truth of it. Is taking measures to spare another unnecessary suffering she, herself, attempts when she is able? Herian nods, allows herself a very slight smile in acknowledgement, and then— then she just looks surprised more than anything, though it's as subtle as her smile;

"Of course. We could begin whenever is to your wishing. Have you desire to train with physical combat, or is your interest more based in magic?" Herian can talk about swords. Herian is good with swords. Hooray swords.

"I'm focused especially in the way of the Knight Enchanter, but I chose to master the Champion school of combat as well, to make sure I am fully prepared for any circumstances where my magic might be denied me. Templars, Seekers, simply burning through her mana. It could, conceivably, be a little funny how she perks up with the thought of training.

"In my youth I was very formidable, an athlete of great skill, and very adept with a glaive," Galadriel explains a bit wistfully. "I have not had great call to train my body, but now--"

Without Nenya is what she wishes to say and she stops herself. She considers the words again and how to speak of this with Herian. Without much pause, she continues.

"I expect I will find more use of those skills in these lands," she settles on and smiles just slightly. It is a bit hollow, but a passable expression nonetheless. "I would not object to experiencing the way you use magic, but I have had little luck replicating the methods of Thedas."

"I fear you may be right on that count."

Even Cosima, peace loving as she is, had cause to know how to defend herself with a blade. There was no degree of certainty for safety in Thedas, though it could be very easily said that there never had been.

"At the very least, perhaps we can consider understanding how our techniques work as a means for being better able to defend yourself." Defending against magic for those without their own ties to the Fade, without the gifts of a Templar, was hardly an easy task. Understanding it, though, that might at least help.

"Consider me a ready and willing training partner. We can commence tomorrow, if you so wish? I've not doubt your skills will return to you sooner than you might anticipate."

"Tomorrow it is," Galadriel agrees, a bit of excitement settling into her as she does. "I shall have to visit the quartermaster ere we begin, but I shall be ready."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Put on your sunday cloak, we're gonna get lost in town.

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