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

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?"

[justnice]

"No, cousin," Not his, save that someone's looked at them both and seen only ears for it — "I don't think so."

He inches forward, the way he might corner a loose dog; hands spread friendly, and wary for the chance of a bite.

"I'm Finch. What's so important about the wood?"

[laurenande]

No.

They most certainly have not met.

Galadriel would have remembered any elf bold enough to call her cousin--she regards him silently and her expression shifts, becomes some strange mixture of longing and delight, and does little to dispel the suspicion of her own instability. He approaches her slowly, looking wary but moving still, and she cannot help but watch him.

"Finch," she repeats and stresses the 'i' a bit more than she ought. His question is ignored briefly--she intends to introduce herself in kind, but he cannot free her hand to set it over her heart. If she does, she will drop all that she has lifted and it will become a terrible mess. She frowns and shifts her weight, leans back and then forward again until it becomes comfortable.

"The wood? Ah, nothing. Do you require it?"