faderift | Player Plot: The Arlathvhen

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Player Plot: The Arlathvhen

WHO: A big pack of elfs
WHAT: The Arlathvhen
WHEN: Vaguely Solace
WHERE: A Secret Elven Location
NOTES: OOC Plotting post here, and a special thanks to Ema for the header image

In the ordinary course of life, Dalish clans rarely encounter each other. This isolation is a protection; their diaspora is as much of a blessing as is a curse. Only once every decade or so do the Dalish clans all meet together, and their Keepers, the elders and leaders of the People, who are responsible in keeping elven lore and magic alive, will meet together and exchange knowledge in a meeting called the Arlathvhen. During such a time, the clans will recall and record any lore they have relearned since the past meeting, they will exchange goods, people, knowledge, news, and culture, along with reiterating what lore they know already to keep their traditions as accurate and alive as possible.

Today is the day.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There is nowhere in this event that Galadriel loves more than the Market. It is loosely arranged but full of life and light and the song of hearts. She does not try to overhear them, but it is impossible to rein in the ability now that she is finally surrounded by elves again. She is too tall, she draws far too much attention, she glows even in daylight, but she feels infinitely more aligned with these people than those in Kirkwall. This is not Lorien, it is not Imladris, or even Mirkwood, but this is something not entirely unlike home.

She has shopped often in the stores of Kirkwall, walking from booth to booth acquiring materials. She weaves and works and dyes and whiles her time with the manufacture of cloth for herself, for Thranduil and his wife, for no reason other than the love of working with the threads. Shopping here is different, no only because the money she has brought is of little use, but because she is even less welcome. They are kinder than the humans, to be certain, but their stores are limited and they are unwilling to give her what she wishes to acquire.

She had brought something to trade, a bold of fabric bound in rough broadcloth, but she cannot find someone who carries similar wares and ends up wandering lost but not unhappy through the market.

The Dalish are a people of the world. They live down among the trees in homes built of natural materials and bent along lines and curves formed in service to the nature of wind and water, wood and force. The whole of the camp is only a little removed from the forest it inhabits, living trees overhead that bear no greater weight than their own branches, and perhaps a scout, lookout, or adventurous child.

There are indeed many children. They are the friendliest of the lot; where adults turn away or openly warn Galadriel off, the children peek around corners or charge right up to her to get a closer look, or to try and jump to tug at the trailing end of her hair. They're mischief itself, the only bare faces in the Arlathvhen that did not travel here with Sorrel's party, and reverence is a notion none of them seem to possess.

Or perhaps, they just don't associate a bare face with authority, or pointed ears with any danger. Ah, youth!

Galadriel has likely been wandering thuslywise, being well-observed and remarked-upon while simultaneously ignored by all she meets, when Sorrel happens upon her. He blends well with the elves here, a sparrow among finches, but like everyone else, he looks up at her approach. Unlike everyone else, he doesn't turn away, only concludes his business with a formal clasping of arms. The woman he'd been speaking to stares openly at Galadriel for a moment or two, eyes like chips of ice in a face nearly black with ink, then she picks up her bundle and vanishes into the nearest Aravel. Sorrel goes to Galadriel.

"Andaran atish’an, Galadriel. I see you've been ah..." Busy doesn't seem the word for it. None of them had much in the way of baggage, but in particular Galadriel's burden had remained remarkably unchanged, for someone walking the exchange all morning, "...Seeing the sights. Any trouble?"

"None at all," she answers, her tone merry and delighted as the children running between the aravels and the legs of their clansmen. She smiles at Sorrel and stops her wandering to chat. She does not begrudge the Dalish their privacy, but she has longed so dearly for conversation.

"But neither have I had success," she explains and shifts the bolt beneath her arm. The weight was negligible, at least to her, but it did wear on her over time. "I had wanted for some Dalish fabric, some leathers perhaps, so that I may make something more like this world. I have found none who would trade with me."

"Ah, yeah. That would be how it is, trading with," He reached out, almost thoughtless and touched the bolt— then kept touching it, in surprise, "Oh. It's really good."

Actually, that was probably rude. He laughed, to cover the embarrassment, and then kept grinning. It was really good, actually. They could use this.

"I think I know what's the problem. This is the Arlathvhen... you don't trade here like it's a market, you trade like it's a family," He turned that smile from the cloth to Galadriel herself, "Have you tried offering it as a gift? I know the People always need good cloth."

Galadriel laughs as he strokes the cloth wrapped around the exterior of the bolt. It is not a cruel sound, but she does shoot him a look of apology as she reins it in. Her smile is broad and appreciative as she shifts the fabric and draws back the grey cloth from the surface. Beneath the cover, the cloth on the bolt is a stark, almost startling shade of white and it shines in the sun like morning dew. The broadcloth atop it is rough and ungainly by comparison.

"I covered it to prevent it from dirtying," Galadriel tells him quietly and silently offers him the bolt to hold. "I had not considered offering it as a gift, I would be glad to give it; it is of no particular use to me and I should hate to see it waste away on the spool."

"...Mother Mythal on the mountain," He whispers, when the proper fabric comes into the light. It is terribly shining, possibly the worst a thing could do to be stealthy but if it could dirty it could take dye, and even if it could do neither, it could fetch such a price when traded to the Shem'len.

"Oh don't let anyone hear you say that," Sorrel mutters, then lifts his voice to a more normal volume as she passes the shining weight of it into his hands "It's a shame, really. It would have made such a nice dress. But of course, you can't just come to Arlathvhen emptyhanded."

This lamentation much to the interest of the Dalish all around, who were trying not to seem as if they cared much, while also trying to catch a glimpse of the light on Galadriel's work. Sorrel's smile was becoming downright smug, and the whispered rumors were already flying ahead of them like swift little birds.

"Actually, I do know someone who might like to see this. Would you walk with me, a little ways?"

Galadriel is not given to performance, she rarely orchestrates anything in her favor or otherwise, but she is not unaware of what Sorrel is doing. He makes a show of her cloth and the interest around them piques as he does.

"Of course, please, lead the way mellon nin," Galadriel encourages and gestures in the direction he is already walking. The fabric in his hands is what she might've worn in Lorien, given the chance, and it glimmers in the sunlight as they walk.

"Halesta Dahlasanor is here," He tells her, as they walk, both because it seems right to mention it, and to keep up the pretense of a casual stroll, "She's the first mother her clan will have had, in such a long time. There aren't many of them, but she's ready to add another, soon now."

Which is, all of it true. Halesta's time is drawing near, and when Sorrel had looked in on her she had been round and fat-ankled and weary with childbearing. Everyone around her doted like birds crowding around a particularly strange egg in an equally unique nest. He went on like that, describing the likely news of the day, until they came upon a particular aravel hung all over with animal skins placed artfully so as to represent the appearance of a shopfront while also plausibly being someone just airing out their supply.

All of their supply.

You know, just in case it should get musty, or have pests. One can never be too careful, after all. There's a Dalish woman there, bent over a rough table, tapping away at one of the skins with her tools. She's old enough to wrinkle, with a long, thick white braid dangling over one shoulder and down nearly to her waist. She looks up as they approach and in quick succession takes stock of Galadriel, the cloth, and Sorrel himself, as well as the interested glances trailing after them like a secretive comet-tail. Her vallaslin is a series of deep blue stripes that might be roots, or branches, or might be something else; the mark of June the Craftsman.

"Sorrelean Ashara, as I live and breathe."

"Hello, Hahren Ionni," He replies, politely enough, but then has to hold a hand up in surrender when this earns him a threatening jab from her hammer.

"None of that, boy. I'm not old yet, I'm only—" She begins, in a heavily-accented growl that Sorrel seems not to take any offense at.

"Eight children and enough grandbabies not to bother counting their ages, Ionni?"

"I ought to pound you flat, da'len, and send you back to your Keeper as a pair of elf-leather shoes, which at least might have a use and some purpose to them."

"Well, before you do, let me give you this, as a gift to make up for all my cheek."

There is, without a doubt, a moment of absolute calm, when Sorrel puts his burden before her. At first, she simply steps back, as if to give it room, or prevent the cloth from grabbing at her. But then, with a caution more suited to handling a strange dog, Ionni stretches a corner out, tests it between her fingers.

"Well, now," She murmurs, "This is a generous gift indeed. But surely you'll be needing it yourself."

"Please, I'm in Kirkwall for now; I can get all the robes I need. And anyhow, it was made by Messere Galadriel here; I can get more if it's needed. You and the grandbabies, then?"

"Oh, yes. Well. You know how it is— How is young Halesta?"

"She's doing well. Any day now."

"Hm. Well, why don't you just take something from around here, will you?"

This line was delivered with a casual air, seemingly distracted by the quality of the fabric and its color under the sunlight, but Sorrel was quick enough not to trip over the presented trap.

"We couldn't!"

"No, da'len, I must insist. It's the least I could do! And you up in Kirkwall, why all they'll have is cow's leather. Or pig, more likely, rotten shems too good to sell you proper, eh miss?" This last to Galadriel, as if someone so tall and shining could be so easily subjected to the same privations as a Dalish elf. It was a clear an unsubtle sign of acceptance, to commiserate over shared slights, "I won't have it! Not for a friend of our Sorrelean. You take something fine. Mind, not the Halla, I'm reserving it special, for the winter. But anything else you like."

"You're too generous Ionni," Sorrel grinned as she took the bolt and tucked it into her waiting aravel with swift and practiced efficiency.

"None of your cheek, da'len, or I'll have it in your Keeper's ears don't think I won't!"

"Yes, hah'ren."

Edited 2018-08-15 05:45 (UTC)

Galadriel watches their exchange with absolute delight, savoring the back and forth as one might take in a show. Their familiarity, their kindness and the nature of the exchange is poetry to her. She barely realizes she has been addressed before the conversation is over and, quite certainly, not quickly enough to reply. The woman, Ionni, seems unbothered by her silence and accepted the fabric readily.

She is uncertain when the game ends, or if this facade must be maintained, and so she settles for resting a hand against Sorrel's shoulder as they are given access to the pelts.

Her voice comes to him without words, spoken in whispers against his mind.

You are quick and clever, Sorrel of Ashara; you have my thanks. She steps alongside him and her attention is on the pelts, the array of them is staggering. Will you help me choose something? I am not given to leather-work as I am to weaving, it need not be terribly fine.

As she speaks to Sorrel in confidence, she strikes up conversation with Ionni. It is polite and tentative; she will not be shocked if she is turned away.

"I have yet to find a human crafstman who will make anything of quality for me, or even supply me parts that are not half worn with water and rot. How lovely all of these look in comparison. Tell me, if you would, what might be best for fine tooling?"

"The doeskin."

"The doeskin."

They both say it at once, in the same moment. Sorrel speaks with an almost apologetic air, and Ionni with the stern, businesslike manner of a woman used to issuing demands and having them followed. They glance at one another, and Ionni raises an eyebrow.

"Cheek."

"I'm only trying to help."

"And again, child," She only says and regards the sky above them both, as if searching for patience, "Creators above and beyond the veil..."

"That doeskin," Sorrel repeats, to Galadriel directly, indicating the leather in question, soft and thick and a fine pale-tan color, scraped clean and somewhat squared from the scraps, which are tied in a bundle and attached on one end. The Dalish use everything; they have little else to use, "It's not Halla, but Halla are sacred. It's pretty nice, though."

"What kind of a person doesn't know Halla?"

"Galadriel is a Rifter, Ionni. They don't have Halla where she's from."

"Huh," There was pure judgement in that one, short syllable. All of Arda has been weighed and measured, and by dint of its contents found sorely wanting, "No Halla. What kind of a place is that, then?"

Their tandem answers are recieved brightly, Galadriel smiling as she moves to the skin they suggest. Their argument, however, short, does little to dissuade her delight.

"A poor and deprived place," Galadriel answers with a perfectly straight face. "I have seen Halla in my time here; they truly are beautiful creatures."

In truth they would not be out of place in Lorien; their white coats shone like the stars and they would look so lovely beneath the mallorn trees. Galadriel does not say as much, if only because pondering the state of Lorien too long will make her melancholy--there is too much joy abound for that.

"I can understand why they are sacred, though I would not mind hearing the tale that tells why?" This she directs at Sorrel as she tugs the doeskin down and examines it.

Ionni nods once, firmly, as if pleased to see that Galadriel has sense enough to know where the advantage lies, when it comes to Halla. That she is pleased to have them complimented is obvious. But she has her pride, at least, and turns away with an impatient wave to Sorrel. Children's lore, old stories, these are far behind her, and so the old woman goes back to her work, tap-tap-tapping away to emboss the leather with an arrows-and-ivy motif.

"In the old days, of Arlathan, the Creators walked among the People," Sorrel began, and his voice found the words like wheels in a rut; they were worn into his memory just as surely, "The chiefest among them were Elgarnan, lord of Light and mother Mythal, the Just and Righteous. Andruil, the Huntress, was their daughter, and it is said that while she wasn't the inventor of the bow, she was its first and greatest master."

He had always imagined Elgar'nan as being tall, as Galadriel was tall, but more golden, shining as the sun did instead of moonlike. He would have had been as stern as stone, and Mythal beside him, regally long ears, as graceful as a bird's wing. Andruil, fierce as flame, with her mother's raven hair and her father's gold-coin eyes...

Ah, but it was all a fancy. No one had ever seen them alive. No one knew anymore what they had really been.

"Now, among the People, there was a huntress of unparalelled skill, but even so, she was gentle. Ghilan'nain was her name, and her great joy was in crafting life, beautiful and terrible creatures, to populate the deep wilds and the far waters of the world," Sorrel continued, "So skilled was she that her creations began to challenge even the gods. That was unacceptable, and so with Ghilan'nain's help Andruil hunted, and eliminated all but a few of those first creations. In time, the two of them became lovers, and Andruil sought to make her beloved like herself, a Creator, a god of the People; she blessed sweet Ghilan'nain with life unending. Forever after, Ghilan'nain would not die."

Galadriel listens, even as Ionni returns to her work, and finds herself torn. Sorrel is a good storyteller, and his account is a useful one. It is a shame she knows the look and feel of these people, these gods he speaks of--she thinks, perhaps, she would have preferred they remained distant images.

She will not correct him, though, not for so long as he should live. There is little reward in endeavoring to destroy gods, particularly if they are only half-real to begin with.

"How nice, to think one could bestow that gift upon their love."

"I imagine it's more complicated a process than just giving a blessing. But then, maybe it's not. It was so long ago."

He falls silent a moment, one hand idly stroking along the edge of a strip of leather. Ionni clears her throat meaningfully, and he startles, and then continues. Sorry, hah'ren.

"...Andruil's blessing, that is how she came to sorrow. The god's favor, and Ghilan'nain's prowess, inspired terrible jealousy in another hunter, a man who's name was forgotten as punishment, for in his envy he took Ghilan'nain to a secluded place, and tortured her, left her for dead. With Andruil's blessing, Ghilan'nain could not die, no matter what was done to her, and so she lay until she was eventually found. They say that Andruil's grief was so profound that she went mad, and her last gift to Ghilan'nain was that she lift the old ban, and bid her beloved to create one more glory, and with the power of a god at her hands, even then the gentle Ghilan'nain did not strike to kill the one who had hurt her," His hands had passed, one after the other, over fur pelt, and deer-leather, over nug, squirrel, and rested last on the Halla. It was different from the others, finer and smoother, pale white, and instead of being thrown casually over the bench it had a cloth underneath, and was neatly folded, edges untrimmed. The Halla, even in death, were sacred, "She transformed herself into a new thing, a Halla, the very first of those sacred creatures. Now she is called Ghilan'nain Halla-mother, and all Halla are descended from her. They are one blood with the elves, through her, and we Dalish have never forgotten our distant cousins."

He looked up at Galadriel then, and smiled. But it wasn't happy, somehow, as smiles ought to be; rather, it was as if he were merely remembering happiness, and letting the shadow it cast fall across his face. A better time.

"Her vallaslin... Sina wore Ghilan'nain's mark."

Edited 2018-08-18 07:52 (UTC)

Galadriel's expression falls, just briefly, to something bitter-sweet. She is not sad for Sina, she believes very firmly in what she said to the young elf before she passed. Sina was welcomed in the House of Finarfin, in the ever-green country; she was not alone and everything Galadriel knew pointed to the truth in that belief.

It would, perhaps, be a faux pas to speak of it aloud, so she refrains.

"A lovely tale and well told, thank you Sorrel. I shall remember it," Galadriel says. One day, I should sing for you the lament I sang for her. And, perhaps, we may speak of her fondly. But today is not that day.

"And thank you for your generosity, hiril nin," she says to Ionni as she folds the leather she has...not bartered for but perhaps acquired? "I do so hope you enjoy that fabric, it will serve you well."

You may wish to tell her of the enchantment upon it...eventually.

Sorrel nods, throat tight, swollen with the memory of lost joy, indeed too full to speak. Galadriel's own words, spoken and unspoken, strike him like a blow.

"Ara seranna-ma," Ionni replies, and doesn't lift her head, "Dareth shiral, da'len. And to you, messere."

Sorrel swallows twice, very hard, and nods again, then clears his throat enough for a polite "Dareth shiral, ha'ren."

He doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry about the idea of a secret enchantment. But he knows he'll have to write a letter to Ionni's Keeper, at the very least.

"You're secretly a very wicked person," Sorrel laughs, as soon as they're far enough away not to be easily overheard, "Look at you, tall and shining with the fine, long hair. But there's teeth in you. You're like a white wolf in the snow."

Edited 2018-08-20 04:03 (UTC)

As they walk off, she is content, glad to have accomplished what she sought to this morning, but Sorrel's words trouble her as he speaks them. She is not unaware of friendly ribbing but the flavor of this is...unusual to her.

It is, above all things, a deeply accurate assessment of her. More accurate than she is strictly comfortable with.

"What a curious assessment," Galadriel says, her expression dipping with concern. "Does the enchantment displease you? It shall do them no harm."

"Galadriel, please don't think I mean you any disrespect," Sorrel tells her, half-turning to offer a shrug and a sheepish sort of smile to go with this sentiment, "But if I thought it'd be trouble, I wouldn't have helped. And I certainly wouldn't have let her take it off you— I'd sooner burn it myself."

Which was, of course, the absolute truth, as Sorrel saw it. He wasn't foolish enough to think he could take Galadriel in a fight, but there were many ways to defeat someone that had nothing to do with fighting them. The Dalish knew that, better than anyone.

"And anyways, I know you'd ever deliberately let anyone here come to harm. That's true of all you, that I brought along; I trust you here, with The People, and with my reputation, such as it is. All of you. Now that we're here, I... kind of have to."

Galadriel considers him, some of her fine mood replaced with a calculating air. He is flippant about this, about his assessment and the way he had phrased it, but there is no malice in him. Sorrel Ashara's heart is not calm, he is anxious and eager, even now, but he is not distrustful of her.

It takes a moment of study before Galadriel's expression evens once more and she continues walking alongside him.

"I would never harm another elf, to do so is to curse your own heart," Galadriel explains quietly. "But you have...assessed me more accurately than I like, Sorrel. I have spent too long in the wake of the shadow to be certain it has not had some sway over me...but I try to be kind, to be good, in all things.

"Your friends," she says, a bit more softly, "shall be shielded from unfriendly eyes, should they don that fabric. It is not so strong an enchantment as rests on my cloaks...but it will serve."

"...Lady..."

For a moment, Sorrel is struck dumb by the value of the gift. The bald, beautiful idea of it, Halla-white, and yet somehow enough to keep one safe. He will certainly be writing that letter, if he doesn't simply run back and tell Ionni in person. If the game of saving face is paramount, then Galadriel has, perhaps unintentionally, given not just a winning play, but a devastating victory. He wonders how often it is she does that, and if he ought to be more, or less, surprised.

He wants, very suddenly, to give something to her, not out of a desire for reciprocation, but real gratitude. That she's seen them, that she's understood, in a way he despaired of being understood, after his disastrous attempt with Solas the other night.

"The whole world is in shadow. It has been for a long, long time. In the histories, it says that when we walked out of Tevinter, we used to think we'd put all that away, and begun to live again. But that wasn't true," The Dalish did not look backwards out of joy, not truly, but out of a grim desire to remember their right to the pride they felt. The past was their road to the future, "That you try at all can be light enough, if you don't give up. Doing good is enough good for me. And probably the Dalish too."

He thinks about that, for a moment, then adds:

"...If you can get past our pride."

At this, Galadriel laughs. It is a quiet sound, amused but kind enough, and she only just refrains from setting a hand on his shoulder as she does.

"Similar warnings have been given regarding me," she explains, more than a hint of mirth in her. "But I shall endeavor, on both counts, if it means your friendship."

They walk a time, warm beneath the afternoon sun and surrounded by the voices of the Dalish. They are indistinct and clear, dropping in and out, as the sounds of crowds are wont to, and Galadriel savors them a time.

"You know much of your history," she states after a time. "It is strange for me, I have not often had to learn of events I did not survive, but I have tried to learn of this world. The Dalish, however, rarely feature in book or scroll.

"Would you tell me a few tales, Sorrel of Ashara?"

"Why does it not surprise me that your friends might feel the need to give a warning for you?" Sorrel retorts as they walk on, lapsing into a deep and comfortable silence as they go.

And then she just has to mention books.

"Oh don't read any of the books about Dalish in the library," Sorrel cautions her, leaping immediately to her metaphorical defense from such tomes, "Genitivi has the best information, but most of his sources were either lying or just messing with him for a laugh. So that's not saying much. What kind of story would you like?"

Edited 2018-08-23 05:57 (UTC)

"I know precious little about the Dales," Galadriel admits. "I bore witness to Halamshiral and what the Orlesians have made of it, but it cannot always have been so dreadful and gaudy.

"I was told it belonged to the People once, but I know not how it came to be nor how it passed from their hold."

"Ah. That's the truth. I haven't seen it myself, but Beleth told me all about it."

There was a style, among the Orlesians, for gluing bits onto everything, until the facade of every part of them was more buttons than substance. It was decadent, that much couldn't be denied, but in the way of a braggart more than anyone with sense. The louder your money spoke, and the more often, the less it had to say.

Maybe that was the point. Either way, it was ugly.

"Well. Most everyone knows about Arlathan these days, but it used to something everyone considered a quaint Dalish myth. We call the humans shem because their memories are so short and quick; they forget Elvhenan, and don't see why anyone else would want to do otherwise. But when Arlathan fell, Tevinter ate her, and enslaved every elf that survived, down to the last soul, as my Mother told it," His wry, sad little smile, and the helpless shrug tell their own tales. Was it really every elf, when so many elven ruins are found, in every country, and elves in every corner of the world? Likely not. But whether or not the truth is literal, the truth of it is real; it was the heart of the Elves that was enslaved, in Sorrel's faith, if not the whole of them, "We spent centuries, whole generations in chains. We became mortal, and even then short-lived, given the conditions. I don't know if it was losing the Creators that did it; many think just being around humans is enough to shorten the natural life-span, but everything except the memory and blood of Arlathan died in Tevinter. Then, one of the slave uprisings caught fire."

Ha, fire. Literally.

"Andraste would have failed without the elves. But we rose up with her, us and Shartan, who was her friend. We remember him, even when the shemlen choose to forget that an elf can be good without being theirs. Andraste promised the People the one thing we want more than anything; a homeland, a place to call our own. When she was burned and gone, and the war won, Andraste's left-behind followers tried to forget her promise to the elves, and then tried to forget that we had ever any claim to part of the victory. But..." And here Sorrel grinned, waggling a hand demonstrably about the ods of this venture. And then spread them to indicate the camp around them; small, for a gathering, but only a representative fraction of the Dalish as a whole, "...Even Andraste's army couldn't actually say no to that many angry, hungry people, when they're living right at the doorstep."

There is a truth universally recognized by all who wish to take power and hold it: any movement, regardless of its short-term power, can be killed in its cradle by the starving desperation of a peasant uprising.

"So they gave us the farthest, most unappealing part of the map they could imagine, and neither boat nor cart nor any other way to get there except walking. So, we walked. There are so many stories of people dying, and being left beside the road, starving, or being killed by bandits as they went. A lot of people never made it to the Dales, but when the rest finally reached the northernmost border, they founded a city there, and named it Halamshiral. The Journey's End."

Sorrel took a deep breath and held it, then was quiet for a few seconds, struggling, and then sighed and took another. He tried again.

"The palace there. It was supposedly the only thing left when they burned the city, and threw down the Dales. The Keeper would always say, it used to be a temple, a holy place that now only worships gold. The Chantry forgot that we had marched with Andraste, that she had called Shartan brother. So now they have the Dales, and we have... memory. And blood," He smiled again and shrugged. It was enough, really, and what would he do with hallowed halls and a city all their own? A question better left unanswered, truly, and not for lack of answers to be had, "And the vallaslin. So, it's not all hopeless, and as the last of Elvhenan, we do not forget, and we do not submit. Everything else is just politics."

"I did not know that was what it meant, Halamshiral," Galadriel replies. She had been unaware of both--the word and its translation and the meaning of the place. It is enlightening to learn this, it matters little if it is accurate or a complete tale.

"And the vallaslin, I know of, though I expect my understanding of them pales in comparison to yours. Their purpose is...to honor the gods?"

Player Plot: The Arlathvhen

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