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

[laurenande]

His offer is abrupt and complete in every sense that it can be; Galadriel is a bit taken aback, but she does not voice it. She does not know this man, both his face and name escape her, but already he is assisting her considerably. How kind...if a bit forthright and pompous.

Apparently he has earned the right to both; knowledge grants much leeway, after all.

"I am studying the history of Thedas," she admits and, with some hesitance, appends it: "And translating the accounts I find valuable."

She lowers her quill to the page and gestures to the chair across the table from her. It is a short distance but it is unblocked by books and she would like to hear more of his opinions on the tomes she has selected.

"Would you care to join me? It seems I require some input else I translate a mistranslation by mistake."

[degenere]

"Oh, I would not say you require the input, of course." But he would imply it, as he is making his protest while taking that seat across from her. "I would be first to admit that history is not my discipline of choice. There are many, many other studies for which I would be a most excellent resource. That being said, I did attend the great University, and I have learned my share and much more, as it applies to these studies of mine. If nothing more, I will be able to provide a learned context that few others in this Inquisition might boast of--and the other two who would boast of it are dear friends of my heart."

So.

What Val offers in forthrightness and pomposity, he makes up for in his earnest smile and intent. Well--some would say so, anyways. He can be charming in the right setting. A library has often been one such setting, a natural habitat for a scholar of Val's experience. He cranes his neck a little, to get a look at her translation work.

"What tongue it that you translate this history into?"

[laurenande]

"Quenya, the language of the Eldar," Galadriel answers and wonders for a moment at how straightforward she is being. He has boasted much and said very little to her; he has not told her his area of expertise save that it is not history.

"It is for my own reference, and that of my kin, should they desire it," Galadriel explains and turns the notes to face him. The page is a solid mass of the tengwar and looks rather like a sheet of music from this angle.

"Under normal circumstances, I am quite expert on the histories of the world...but these lands are unfamiliar and circumstances are far from normal, now. I must rely on the accounts of men, much though I am loathe to do it."

She settles her hands on the table and peers at him, interest clear on her face.

"Tell me, what is your favored discipline? And, indeed, your name? For I have not yet heard it spoken aloud."

[degenere]

Val looks at the page. And then Val looks at the page. Were he not so focused on the curious play of the letters scripted there, she would surely be able to see the light that kindles to life in his eyes. By Andraste's sword. This is--

"A rifter tongue," he says, full of awe and appreciation. He looks to her to confirm for him, even as he reaches to turn the page more toward his gaze. "Yes? This script, it is is beautiful, like none that I have seen. I must beg you to write me a sample so that I might show it off to my friends. They will be struck as speechless as I."

So, not very speechless. And in case there was any doubt, he launches in to an explanation of his favorite topic: Valentine Nicasius Maxence Mérovée Olivier de Foncé.

"You must permit me, then, my harsh eagerness. In it, I have forgotten to make my introductions. I am Val de Foncé. There are a great many other names that go with it, only to be used in the most formal of settings and when I am claiming credit to some essay. You may, of course, call me Val. And my favored discipline is, we will say, many. By name we call them: demolitions, architecture, and zoology--with specific focus on Antiva, Rivain, Tevinter, the Donarks--and I boast having personally obtained some of the greatest bits of what is known of the Arbor Wilds. Now, please," and he smiles, with Val de Foncé charm which, charm--while not named as a favored discipline--remains a strength, "you must honor me with your name in return. And why you would not trust the accounting of men, who have lived the words they wrote, or else know some man who did once live them."

[laurenande]

His enthusiasm is not abrupt, he was equally energetic in his refusal to permit her translate the last tome, but the shift of it is unexpdcted and being suddenly upon the recieving end is certainly an experience. If he is this enthusiastic about script, she is tempted to recount tales and descriptions of Arda for him...but she refrains.

His smile is so charming and his question so easy that, shockingly, she finds herself disarmed.

"A pleasure, Val, I am called Galadriel," she replies and leans back, allowing him full access to the book of her translations.

"It is not so much that I believe their accounts to be false, as I expect they omit more than is tolerable. In my long years, rarely have I found any history of men that can truly be relied upon as complete."

It is a large ask, but one she is comfortable making.

"I would be happy to write something for you. Would you prefer a poem? Or some phrase."

[degenere]

Val nods with a measure of distraction at her critique, as he examines the translations. He is admiring the stroke of the pen when he realizes what her critique truly was. Hums, thoughtfully.

"Omission. A grave sin, my friend. A true scholar of history would permit nothing of the sort. He would look with honesty and forthrightedness upon history itself, and present the fact of it. But of course, he can only write as he knows. The bias of the written word is often one that cannot be untangled from the bias that comes of the writer's own position in nearly anything, yes? In life. In stature. In position, in country, kingdom, religion, race--education-- Surely a man must not be held accountable for such matters that lie outside the control of his hands. And indeed, a biased history often makes for the more interesting history. How neatly it fits together with its fellows, and how strangely it contradicts its enemies. It is in those contradictions, that--how is it said? The white places, we would say, in Orlais--the places in between--that will often tell a reader more"

Lecture concluded, he turns the book of translations back toward her, with a smile.

"And--a poem, I think, as a sample. It would be a great kindness to me."

Long years. She does not look as if she has seen long years. It is an honest judgement, and one that he would encourage her to be flattered by, if he were to voice it aloud. Perhaps he will yet.