Seven Thousand Steps

[laurenande]

WHO: Galadriel and You
WHAT: Galadriel is getting bit stir crazy with all this winter and has decided to work in the library when she's not getting pumped. Open Wintermarch post/catch all.
WHEN: Throughout Wintermarch
WHERE: Kirkwall, The Gallows
NOTES: There will be a gunshow.

I Library

The Library at the Gallows was considerably larger than Skyhold's; it is not a feat to be overly proud of, considering the remote nature of the other fortress, but it is worthy of note. She crosses into the room and spares a moment of wonder for the rows of books, the tall shelves and the tables that litter the place, and then sets about her work.

Today she is not cloaked, not as she has been wont during the rest of her time in Kirkwall, and wears a dark brown dress of Orlesian brocade. Her brooch with its shining emerald is pinned at the lowest point of the modest neckline and it glitters as she passes through the shafts of light that the windows provide. She carries a stack of parchment and a small box, all of which she abandons on a table before she moves toward the stacks.

Galadriel spends some time wandering the books, plucking familiar tomes from the heavy laden shelves. None of them are exceptionally rare, nor are they of any real interest--histories, Chantry tomes, books on the places and peoples of Thedas. She stacks them on her table and moves out to locate more. Once she has amassed nearly a dozen, she finally takes her seat and begins her translations anew.

II Training (Stairs)

The stairs of Kirkwall are a remarkable feature, if somewhat depressing by their nature, and Galadriel is drawn to them. For so many thousands of years she has had ready, constant access to stairs and the steep climbs to lofty heights--without the trees of Lorien to demand it of her, she is beginning to grow soft. It is a luxury she cannot abide, not while she rests powerless in this human city, so she has decided to train.

She has not trained, not truly, since the days of dawn and the sudden rigor of her old routines catches her up quickly. Still, she is not a woman of idle resolve and she takes the stairs with speed and determination. It does gall her to be seen, to stand in the open so very plainly and without concealment, but she will tolerate it, if it will return to her some semblance of power.

Galadriel begins ere the sun has risen, in the frigid cold of the early morning, and starts down the steps. Icy and snow-laden, they are a struggle and one that mounts quickly and with great satisfaction. Then, once she has reached the foot of them, she takes them again, and again, and again. Six full trips is her goal so she runs.

Her acquired clothes are similar to what she wore when she first arrived in Thedas, in a winter years ago, and they fit her in the loosest sense of the term. The pants are short, the shirt is long in the body and the shoulder but short in the sleeve and tight across her chest. She looks very odd, with her hair bound back dressed in such a fashion, running up and down stairs, but no one has halted her progress yet and she can spare little thought for appearances.

III Training (Courtyard, yes, on the ice.)

a. Tai chi
It is mid-afternoon by the time she finishes taking the stairs and, to ease her heart back down from the stress of that, she falls into an ancient rhythm. The forms are familiar to her, but they lack something without a weapon in hand. They are worth the effort, even bare handed, and she does them as she was taught. She moves slowly, almost excruciatingly so, and loses both herself and the time to the meditative nature of the activity.

b. Pushups and strength training

After running, Galadriel finds a corner of the courtyard, a place where the sky still hangs above but that is outside the area where ice-skating still occupies the time of those that live in the Gallows. The cold is bracing but she is not hesitant to drop to her hands and toes and push herself up from the ground. She does this with an almost worrying dedication before shifting to her back and curling up over her bent knees.

When her skin is cold enough that it has begun to pink from the bite of ice, she rises and gathers up bundles of the firewood that are kept outside the quartermaster's office. She hoists them over her shoulders and holds them just above them. Her arms strain at the strangeness of the angle, but hold fast as she moves them from one side of the yard to the other and then back again.

Wildcard~!

Anything else. :D

Comments

training.

[elegiaque]

If nothing else, Coupe will have to approve of the results of so much time spent in the company of her newest cousin; often as not, with little in pressing need of her attention in the Gallows, Gwenaëlle can be found alongside Galadriel in slightly better dressed miniature. Up and down the stairs is relentless, exhausting, but in truth she finds the real challenge is perfecting forms far less familiar to her when she joins her in the courtyard—to force her limbs to be still and smooth and obey her at that slow, deliberate pace. Easier said than done.

Practise improves everything, in time. Gwenaëlle, hair braided down her back and breath turning to clouds in the cold air even as sweat tacks fabric to her skin, is diligent.

“I am going to lie in the heated baths for the rest of my life,” she says, most cheerfully, “cursing your name to the Maker.”

[laurenande]

Gwenaëlle has done well to keep time with her, she has almost a full foot on the woman and most of it in her legs. That Gwenaëlle had not fallen behind as they ran the stairs, nor collapsed in a heap at the end of them is a testament to her growing fortitude. Galadriel is proud and Gwenaëlle's comment only amplifies the feeling.

"Ah, a new deity that shall dislike me," Galadriel replies as she stretches her arms out and balances on one foot, carefully. This move would be done with the speed of a striking serpent, with a polearm in hand, thrust forward, but she holds the final form of it for several seconds instead. Her legs are burning and the ice beneath them is not sure footing. It assists this exercise very little.

"You make me feel young again, gwanur nin," she says. "Raise your hands up and lean back to move out of this, else you will fall."

[elegiaque]

The advice is good, and she heeds it—carefully, correcting herself when she'd have followed it too fast, and fallen anyway. A tenuous moment where she might go in any direction, and then steadiness, and something sufficiently alike to precision. Imperfect but promising; Gwenaëlle all over.

“I'm not persuaded He exists, but in the event He does, He will know your name,” she promises, far lighter than she'd been days before, before Thranduil's return from Orlais. Then she had taken to the stairs with bloody-minded determination to run from her own thoughts, too, had grit her teeth on screaming muscles and worked herself to exhaustion rather than self-examination.

The fire fades. The lessons of it settle. Today, she can jest and stretch and take more from this than a good reason to sleep.

library.

[dirth]

It has been some time since Solas glimpsed Galadriel; he can still recall seeing her, wondering about her and her nature, their few interactions offering enough for him to recognise something great within her, something along the same vein as what he witnesses in Thranduil even now. It has been difficult to be near the two of them at times, nostalgic and uncertain in equal measures, but he knows he cannot keep his distance without bringing attention to the very fact that he has been avoiding them in the first place. It is a difficult balance, and one that he himself must manage before anything else.

For now, he is respectful. They're not close enough to be anything else, he thinks, and that gives him room to breathe - it has been long enough that there is distance between them, one that he nods even as he makes his way to the library.

"It has been some time." That is what he says in lieu of a proper greeting, moving forward with the books heavy in his arms more than obvious. They had been left at Skyhold, but they had also made the journey with him; he might not be capable of keeping his distance, but making an alliance of sorts might be beneficial. Dangerous, but perhaps worthwhile, in the end. "You forget these, I believe."

[laurenande]

Galadriel is halfway down a page, the curling shapes of the tengwar at odds with the Orlesian script she translates from, when Solas approaches her. At first she does not look up, braced for some form of harsh acknowledgment that harkens back to Skyhold. She half expects he is a templar, but he does not clank with the sounds of heavy plate. When he addresses her, politely and too quietly to truly be aimed at anyone else, she glances up from her work.

She knows his face, both from passing and very old conversation. His name is Solas. There is something odd in the fact that his name reminds her of a drawing, but she lets the thought pass, smiling politely as he approaches. The books he carries are obvious but she pays them little attention until he directs her to them.

At once she sets aside her quill and rises from her chair. Her eyes are wide and some combination of delight and shock takes her features for a moment.

"Ai, but I have, have I not?" She asks, her surprise echoing in her quiet exclaimation. She moves around the table with some eagerness. "Where did you find these? I had assumed they were destroyed in my absence."

[dirth]

He would wait patiently for her attention, he thinks, and it's a somewhat shocking revelation; the idea that he would hover, awaiting her to turn her gaze... It reminds him of a time long passed, but of something shorter, briefer, too, hovering in Haven, hovering in Skyhold, waiting to be consulted and quizzed, questioned on his knowledge and expertise. It hasn't been so long that he has quite forgotten the feeling, even if it brings something of a smile to his lips.

It has been some time, at least, since he and the lady Galadriel were face to face with one another - and he has not forgotten her beauty, the wonder of it, how much she reminds him of a lifetime long lost. His mask is kept in place and he nods his head in lieu of a bow, turning to move closer once she has recognised that he's there for her, to offer her something, rather than to ask her to move.

"They were left with my other books. I thought fit to bring them with me, in case they were needed." A kindness that he had barely thought about, he supposes; he simply packed them up with the other tomes that he thought might need to make the journey from Skyhold to Kirkwall with him. Offering them out, Solas waits for her to take them from his hands.

"I would not have let them be destroyed."

library

[degenere]

"That translation is utterly worthless."

Worthless, spoken in such a tone as to get at Val's actual meaning, which is: shit. A clear subtext, given the sneer in his voice.

Passing by the library table, Val had glanced at the spines of the collected texts, to see if this woman was hoarding one that he was looking for. The Gallows library is so disorganized, it is a wonder that anyone is able to find any of the texts that they are looking for. The system of categorization has been completely disregarded, lost to time. In other instances, this disregard for tradition and organization Val could support, but for the fact that this is a library. Nearly holy ground.

So: the woman does not have a text that he seeks. But she does have Évariste du Bois Thibault's collected essays on modern Nevarra, and that is the text that Val is pointing to with such disdain. The deep red cover, the gold filigree of its title. All a sham, like a disguise.

"Thibault is best read in Orlesian. The man who translated that version was of no account. I shall not even speak his name. Do not flip to the frontispiece to read it, please. The hack, we shall say, substituted whatever words he could think of, like a man taking a hatchet to a dictionary. You must secure the original Orlesian or you shall come away with such unjust and clumsy impressions of Nevarra."

In case she was wondering. She clearly was. That is why she is sat in a library: to wonder, and to learn. How lucky that Val was here to save her from herself.

[laurenande]

At first, there is a fleeting moment where Galadriel is certain he is speaking of her own translating, impossible though such commentary might be. She lifts her quill from the parchment and glances up, hackles on the rise and prepared to dismiss this man...only to find him gesturing at one of the tomes upon the table. She had collected an array of new books, to add to her notes once she had finished replicating them, and his issue seems to be with one of those.

His tirade is strange and unprompted but, overall, somewhat helpful. It is a combination Galadriel is uncertain how to address and so, for a moment, she simply regards him. When she does speak, it is with the slow cadence of one duly chastised and curious about the correct course. It is a demeanor and tone that is extremely uncommon for her and she is understandably awkward in its employ.

"I was unaware it was a translation," Galadriel admits and sets her quill aside. "Do these libraries hold the original?"

[degenere]

"If they do not hold the original, than they are two shades toward worthless themselves."

A cruel judgement, perhaps. One that Val will confess to Jehan later, and be pardoned for it, as they share a sad laugh over the state of affairs in the Gallows. Val glares at the offending book.

"It can be borrowed from the great library, of course. I know many of the librarians there, quite personally. Some more personally than others. And if you are truly interested, my friend, I would be happy to write to any of them on your behalf and request that they send a copy most immediately. We must seek always to the purest form of words, the purest intentions of the author. Especially one so esteemed as Thibault."

He regards the woman herself quite second to the tome and the impromptu lecture, and thinks, oh. An elf. Yes? She has a different look about her, if he were to be categorizing. Her voice is most pleasant: that registers second.

"If I may ask, what is that you are endeavoring to work on?"

iii a.

[thunderproof]

Adalia is on her way from the library to her room, Charis flying above her and out of sight, when she sees the woman she'd found on the field, when they were both newly ejected from their rift. The exercises she does seem almost meditative in nature, and Adalia is loath to interrupt her, but... well.

"Galadriel? That was your name, wasn't it?"

You're supposed to check on a patient after you heal them, right? That's what people do.

[laurenande]

Galadriel recognizes the voice before she sees her face and knows her name with speed, it is an advantage that comes from having been within the mind of the person who addresses her. She will never be unknown to this elf. She moves her arms, her rhythm unbroken by the interruption and draws back into a very delicate stance her hands aligned before her as if awaiting a staff.

"Yes, I am called that," Galadriel agrees with her and her eyes glance sidelong at the woman. "And you are Adalia. How fare you, my dear?"

[thunderproof]

"Oh — you remembered."

That makes Adalia smile, and she shrugs in response to Galadriel's question — she fares better now, certainly, now that she knows she's not forgettable. Though really, no part of what happened on the field that day was forgettable, so maybe it's not that much of a feat, all things considered.

"I'm well, thank you for asking. I was wondering about how you were doing, actually — did that wound heal up alright? I did my best, but I'm more of a bruiser than a healer."

Wildcard - Mania 8/10, lets go knock down trees.

[laurenande]

Galadriel is restless and bordering on frustrated. She has all but run a groove into the steps of Kirkwall, her path so well trod that the snow and ice cannot retake it. Her limbs burn with exertion but have formed no strength. They will trim down but they will not become powerful, not as she desires, as she requires them to be.

In place of running she has taken to lifting, to chopping wood and hauling large pieces of it throughout the gallows. It is different work and certainly taxing, but it does not strain her limbs in any satisfying way. Another solution must be found but her thoughts dart by too quickly to consider where and what it might be.

[seawanderer]

They all seem to be. Unable to stay still for long. Needing to do something. Maglor and Elros have taken to building boats, but really they need more stuff. So he goes hunting, and comes across the sound of wood being chopped and the familiar song of a cousin.

"Hail!" He calls brightly, eyes fever-bright and mood fairly light. "Do you have a need of the wood which you are bringing so skillfully down? Or might I and Elros whisk some away? I offer song as payment, if you accept it?"

[laurenande]

Galadriel looks askance, over her shoulder, as Maglor approaches behind her. She does not pause her swinging, nor the splitting of the wood before her, even as she conjures her response. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is askew, but there is no tiredness in her.

"I do not, save perhaps as a weight," she answers and lifts her ax to swing again. The wood splits before her into halves and she bends to orient them better for the next swing. "I would offer some to you, but all of them have been quartered. None are long enough to serve as planks, nor of a quality to float for overlong."

She has seen Elros working and can guess what it is he needs wood for. She could be wrong, however and once she has split the log before her she turns to face Maglor.

"Unless you require firewood?"

Gwen gettin Bench Pressed, Mania 6/10.

[laurenande]

It is early, dreadfully early, and Galadriel is already wide awake and teeming with energy. Her eyes are bright, her steps are light, and she is nearly hopping from one foot to the other, unable to remain still as she shakes out her limbs and stares down at the expanse of steps before them. Gwenaelle at her side, however, seems far less eager to be out in the pre-dawn light of Kirkwall. She moves slowly, her limbs sluggish and her expression drawn.

She has done well, has kept up through sheer will power with Galadriel's long strides and the hours of running she undertakes, but it has begun to take a toll on the human woman. Galadriel knew it was serious when she stopped threatening to curse her name to the Maker. So, as she regards the steps today, an idea comes to mind, and Galadriel turns her assessing stare to her newest, youngest cousin.

"Do you wish to run?"

She asks in a tone that implies there is another option waiting in reserve.

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle doesn't spend enough time with the Inquisition.

From a lot of different angles, this is true, but today—Gwenaëlle has always been particular about the company that she keeps. In Skyhold, there had been more opportunity to stumble into Maker only knew who doing Andraste only knew what, but in Kirkwall she's been largely cloistered from the rank and file in her ivory Hightown tower; the crystals still act as more of an equalizing force, but it's rarer to cross paths casually. Lately, given recent events, her closest companions have been rather particular...

And it's this that's responsible for the brief, mildly despairing thought: is everyone but her suddenly inexhaustible?

Pride says of course I wish to run, but sleepless nights and aches that Galadriel would frankly rather not know about say—“Honestly, I don't know that I'm going to be much good to you, this morning.”

IIIb - during or before disease plot, whichever you prefer!

[justnice]

There's an insane elf in the courtyard stealing firewood, is what Finch's been told, and if that doesn't exactly narrow much down, it's still enough to send him out in search. Linnet's cousin needed minding after that horse kicked him; he can't think most of the Inquisition has the time to.

Not that he does, ought to still be at his work. But if someone caught chill (or ill attention) for it he'd never forgive himself, and if he takes a shovel out with it'll look like he's doing something.

"Hey," He calls, summons all the cheer his voice can muster, though his first uncharitable thought is: not an elf but a giant. The second sights her hand, and — "Where are you off to with all that?"

Not a giant, but a demon.

[laurenande]

She has earned a great many uncertain stares as she has gone about training, they have ranged from appaled to grimly fascinated and she has ignored the lot of them. This person is the first to address her and she pauses mid-lift to glance at him. Once she is certain that he is speaking to her, she completes the motion and settles the bundle across her shoulders.

"Across the yard, then back again," comes her largely unhelpful reply. She stands, her load balanced against her shoulders, and cocks her head at him. She has felt scattered lately, and energetic, and in her distraction a thought occurs.

"Have we met?"

Anders - Mania 10/10

[laurenande]

Her limbs are heavy, leaden, and sore in a way that is unfamiliar and bone deep. This feeling is distant, painful, and deeply unsettling; her skin is turning a strange shade of blue and the brooch on her breast is doing little to disguise it. She is worried; once she scrubs at it, fights against the bluing of her nails and her lips to no avail, she is terrified.

Unfortunately she knows but one doctor and seeking him out in the dead of night is no easy task.

She starts in the yards, seeking the Wardens, but they are scattered and difficult to track. She spends hours walking, trudging against the thickness of her limbs and the fever in her head, before she surrenders to the inevitability of failure and travels toward the infirmary. She has seen it but once, when Siuona passed from this world, and she is not eager to tread within it again...but she goes.

She can hear the song, distant against the rushing in her ears, and she follows it to a door alongside the halls of healing. There is a warden behind it, else some shadow creature, and she cannot say which she might prefer--a Warden might find Anders and summon him forth. A shadow might attack her and cause her real pain, real excitement, and drive out the malaise that has taken her.

Either is preferable to this.

And so she knocks.

[justice_is_blond]

It's been a busy few days. And while he knows Nate would be upset that Anders is working as hard and late as he is, how could he stop? So many are ill and they're not making progress. He's getting more tired, people are getting worse... There's a part of him that's very glad his husband isn't in Kirkwall right now even as he misses Nate.

At first he's not sure if the knock was real or not. It takes Pawdric tapping at the door with a tiny paw to convince him, and he opens the door to find... quite the sight.

"Galadriel." Anders' voice is shocked as he quickly holds the door open and offers his free hand. "Come in, lay down, please." She's blueish. There's no real question of what's going on, just a question of how to alleviate the symptoms.

this is extremely late, I'm so sorry - training/fever wildcard attempt

[dashing]

Herian is not encouraged by the sight of her training partner already at work. It makes her shoulders tense, a rigidity moving down her spine that is hard to trace given how upright she holds herself by default. Galadriel is observant enough that Herian would normally credit her with being able to notice most things, but then she would normally expect Cosima to realise her presence, to act sensibly, and she has been increasingly incapable of either these past few days. She wonders if Galadriel is already here because she has not rested at all, just as Cosima has not.

Her jaw tenses, and Herian crosses the courtyard, undisturbed by the ice.

"Lady Galadriel," she calls out, clarity not quite falling into sharpness. "Better to operate with more care, I think. Training with such weights is better done in pairs, lest we take on too much and fatigue overcome us, or we fail to move with sufficient care. Why risk injury to ourselves or those about us?"

(Bro, you don't lift without a spotter, bro.)

Herian's jaw is tilted upward. "Care you to spar, today?"

Yes, perfect, apologize for nothing because it's mania time.

[laurenande]

Galadriel looks back as Herian's voice resounds across the yard. They are nearly alone in the early morning and Galadriel relishes it. The cold is biting, the wind is pleasant, and the dawn light gives her a glorious amount of energy. Already she is sweating and flushed, but that is no surprise because she has been up and in motion all night. She shrugs the load of firewood off her shoulder and to the ground with a noisy clatter. It is not a safe maneuver to unload such weight but she pulls nothing this time.

"You are here now, so I shall be protected from such injury."

She stretches, drawing her arms high above her head and sighs a happy sigh of relief as her back pops. When she lowers her arms she swings them then begins her meandering walk toward Herian. The other woman already approaches, with more purpose than Galadriel employs, and Galadriel cannot prevent the easy, slightly exhausted smile that comes upon her. She looks happy but there is a jittery quality to her limbs.

"I would gladly spar, though I have not a weapon." She sounds rather put out by this, a thread of dark bitterness winding into the statement. She hakes her head. "Perhaps we can find some."

IIIb

[thorndergod]

Idleness does not sit well with Thor, but it is all he has while he waits for word that could be a long time in coming yet and he's bored. Setting up house was good enough for an afternoon, preventing Loki from harassing a woman was good for another, but it's not enough. Seeing someone doing multiple pushups is exactly the inspiration he needs and he plops down to silently copy them.

It's not until she's shifted to her back that he catches sight of her ears and gives her a confused look. Elves don't work out like this, with determination in this bitter cold, and they're not as tall as she clearly is. He continues doing quiet pushups, shooting looks her way that only continue as she grabs wood and keeps working out.

Thor stops the pushups to finally get up and contemplate if he wants to join an elf, if a strange one, or if he wants to go. His curiosity gets the better of him.

"I could carry you for a few lengths of the yard, while you held those. And you could try to carry me."

[laurenande]

Thus far, Galadriel was neither glad of her companion nor against him. He had joined her without asking or complaint and had done his exercise so diligently that she had been able to forget he was even there. Had he not said something, she would have continued regardless of his presence...but his offer is intriguing.

She looks him over and considers. He is larger than the people she has carried thus far, but she is energetic and certainly up for the challenge. When she meets his eyes again, she smiles, and hefts the firewood onto her shoulders.

"Alright, I could use a change of pacing, I think."