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]

"I certainly shall not judge you, this is to be a spar between friends," Galadriel assures her, the light in her mood restored. She watches as Herian moves the load of firewood aside and then glances to the bag upon her back.

"Are we to battle with swords, then? You will have to forgive me, I expect, for I am long out of practice with such things."

[dashing]

"Do you have a weapon you favour?"

Herian looks up, satisfied with having cleared the area sufficiently to be safe, and shrugs the bag from her shoulder. "There is no required in learning, or re-learning - simply diligence, I think."

She fishes out not two, but four wooden swords, slightly differing sizes and weights. and she holds them out to Galadriel in offering, so she might pick which to use first.

[laurenande]

"Polearms and staves," Galadriel says and looks over the weapons. She picks the longest of them though it is still, by a great margin, shorter than what she prefers to weild. She stepa back and swings it, tests its weight and relishes in the difficulty her wrist has at holding it. This will be a challenge, then.

"But I was trained in the use of these once, many, many years ago."

[dashing]

"I will look into securing what I can of those. Useful to be able to disarm a mage of their staff, at the very least."

At the very least. Herian takes another weapon, perhaps heavier, but not so lengthy. "I think perhaps we start with a bout to see where your skills lie, and where we can begin with improvements"

She sets down the bag and the remaining wooden swords, so as not to see them damaged, and leads the way further into the courtyard. "The purpose is not the endless clashing of swords. Some prefer to make a fine show of it, but the reality is we seek to make our enemies yield or incapacitate them, and defend those that stand at our side. The more efficiently we can do each, the better." A look back to Galadriel. "Pray do not concern yourself with holding back your strikes for my sake. I will not take offence."

[laurenande]

Galadriel's smile is abnormal then, just slightly this side of wicked. It is not a look tbat belongs on her face, but there it sits as she lifts the sword and tries to recall the last practice she had. Her stance is off, she has not seen front line combat for several centuries, but she can compensate.

She holds the position until she is certain that Herian is prepare for an assault, or has had time to prepare. Once that threshold is crossed, Galadriel lunges forward with a sharp, whipcrack swift thrust that makes much use of her long limbs.

She has never been the strongest opponent on the field but, for long years, she was handily the fastest. That speed has not left her just yet.

[dashing]

Herian blocks, with a loud crack of wood against wood. Galadriel may be out of practice, but she has impressive speed and a long reach. Herian is hardly slow, speed has been a necessity to survive, but she does not match Galadriel's reach, that much is certain.

She twists the blade, meaning to throw Galadriel's arm and blade up with the action and leave herself room to step closer, without following through to strike - this is still a test of strength, a means to gauge how much is acceptable and what is too much.

[laurenande]

The deflection would have worked on the battlefield and Galadriel would have been left open, vulnerable, and ultimately stabbed.

She is deeply accustomed to having the other hand to redirect her weapon and without it her sword goes wide and high, but in its absence she still behaves as though she is wielding a polearm. The whole of her torso twists as she brings her sword in a tight circle and back around. Herian had stopped without following through on her strike but Galadriel offers no such quarter; her sword comes down across the woman's side, the flat of the blade striking against her ribs and catching her arm in the process.

It is not a hard strike, there is little behind it but momentum, but it is enough to jar Galadriel's wrist when it lands.

slowly crawls back 2 rp

[dashing]

The strike gets a nod of acknowledgement from Herian. They could begin again from stance, but this does not seem the circumstance, and it is easy enough to be struck in battle and need to carry on.

Instead of suggesting they begin again, Herian pushes on; she drops her hand to grip the wrist of Galadriel's sword arm, and lunges forward to drive her elbow into Galadriel's gut. High up enough to wind her, perhaps, though not the strike for the sternum that Herian might use on people more matched to her own height.