faderift | Seven Thousand Steps

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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.

At the moment she lacks even the energy or resolve to suspect him of malicious intent. She takes his hand and all of her muscles scream, weak with pain and fatigue, and she grimaces openly. Her fingers are beginning to turn blue, her nails might as well have been painted for all they have become colored.

"I am ill," she states, clarifying what must be obvious as she moves to lie down. She hates to permit herself to become to lax around the song of discord but she cannot be otherwise.

"My energy fades and now I am left exhausted, perpetually, and shifting shades," she says and is breathing more heavily now than when she took the stairs of Kirkwall for hours at a time.

"Is there a cure for such afflictions?"

He supports her over to the cot in the room, gently helping her down as he frowns at her fingers. The symptoms say lack of oxygen or extreme cold but magic confirms what he'd already been pretty sure of: it's neither. Despite that, he's pulling a blanket over her once she's settled. Warmth always helps.

"We have yet to find a cure for this one," he says with regret. "But you can try to get some rest here, and I can alleviate the symptoms a little, for a time." It doesn't seem to last, and that bothers him. This is what he does. If he can't help... Maybe it's another reason to prioritize working with mages, really. "Would you like me to cast? The respite seems to be nice for some, but the symptoms return after and because of the break they seem more severe to the sufferers."

"Do it," Galadriel replies without thought or hesitation. This twilight sensation is dreadful, intolerable, and she cannot abide it a moment longer. Pain would be a welcome change from... this .

"I will suffer the consequences once I am better rested." She adds, in mild assurance. The cot is more comfortable than it ought to be but she feels overwarm, almost stifled by the blanket. She does not throw it off but only just.

"All right." The patient gets to make the call, with this. Anders casts, sending creation through her to ease her symptoms as much as possible.

"Rest does help a great deal, I find. And a break from the pain allows the whole body rest." Easing is about the easiest casting there is, finding the inflammation and flare ups and countering that rather than going for the cause and fighting there. In a couple of minutes he's done and stepping back.

"Can I get you anything while you rest? Water? Quiet?" He can continue his work without talking or making much noise save the rustling of paper.

For just a moment, with power coursing through her, she feels like herself again, truly herself, but Anders's power eases her pain and calms the heavy, disjointed aches of her muscles. When he is done she feels completely lax, as though her limbs are dead to sensation, and it is everything she wished it would be. Her mind is foggy still but the heat doesnt rile her and the sensation of distance is more confortable.

Without other distractions, suddenly, she is so terribly thirsty that she cannot, for a second, even comprehend it, let alone express it. How long has it been since she drank...or ate? She cannot say.

"Water, if you have it," she replies and grimaces as she swallows.

"Of course," he says, quickly getting up and grabbing the pitcher. One of the cups is filled just as quickly before he's bringing it over and holding it to her lips with care.

"It's very cold, it was summoned ice an hour ago that I've let melt naturally." While that's how he likes it, she might like a warning.

She drinks it slowly at first but then with the eagerness of a woman dying of thirst which, to be fair, she nearly is. She takes the cup from him and nearly chokes as her throat constricts around the liquid. She coughs, shoulders shaking with the force of it, and forces down the rest. By the end, there is a sharp pain behind her eyes, a headache borne of cold and thirst in tandem, and she squeezes her eyes shut very tightly as she resists it.

"More," she croaks and holds the cup out blindly.

She has not drank water in days, at the least, and it is all catching her up now.

He refills it quickly, and will keep doing so every time she asks. Had she ignored everything due to the disease? Had others? He's going to have to make a note of this and get it spread around; they don't need people dropping due to dehydration on top of everything else.

"I'll make sure it won't run out, just don't drink so fast you get ill and undo all the good the water will do you." Had she not felt thirst? That's another possible symptom to note down, to see if it's shared by others. Maker, how many symptoms are there? "I'm here to help."

Galadriel heeds his warning insofar as she is able. Her thirst calms after the first two glasses and, halfway through the third she slows and takes a moment to breathe deeply. Her stomach rolls, twisting painfully at the sudden fullness after so long without, but she focuses and keeps it down. He is staring at her with open confusion and she is uncertain what to say.

"I forgot to drink, it seems, and to eat," she adds and shakes her head. She tries to drink more water but, as it hits her tongue it is suddenly repulsive. She swallows it but sets the glass aside immediately.

He nods, studying her.

"Get some rest. I'll have food ready for you when you wake." She hadn't felt so weak that she'd need it right now, and the break may not be that long.

"We'll get you back into fighting shape," he says with a small smile that turns a bit more amused. "Or whatever shape it is you wish to be in. I don't know if you spend much time fighting."

Seven Thousand Steps

Anders - Mania 10/10

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