[OPEN] - Ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when.

[laurenande]

WHO: Galadriel and Various
WHAT: Galadriel before her arrest, for those who would like CR before this Civil War plot is underway, her being arrested, and Galadriel in the cells for anyone who wants to come visit her or attempt to break her out. This post is super, duper open to anyone who wants to tag in. Please, have at.
WHEN: Late Guardian to early Drakonis.
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: No warnings yet, but have a link to the IC thread that happens amid all this: Cassandra interrogates Galadriel.

Pre-Interrogation/Arrest Prompts.

The Emprise du Lion was a dreadful place, and spending more than a fortnight within its borders had taken a toll on Galadriel. She arrived back in Skyhold only a few days before her conversation with Seeker Pentaghast, and she spent them taking what rest she could find. Sleep did not come easily to her, even at the best of times, so it was hardly a surprise that she spent long hours in the peace of the garden, watching the horizon on the battlements, or embroidering in the Rotunda.

(OOC: The above is the State of Galadriel, it's mostly for those who want to do something I haven't included, but it applies to the below as well. If you'd like to use a prompt for a specific scene, there are several options below to choose from. If the prompts don't appeal, please feel free (and encouraged) to write up any scenario you'd like, anywhere around Skyhold.)



Garden -

The winter chill that crept through the fortress was not as biting nor as pervasive as the wind outside the walls. There was something dull about the cold in Skyhold, something muted and gentle, but it was a feeling too fleeting for her to place. The sun chased the cold away just after dawn. Though the air was not warmed by the sun, the plants in the garden stretched toward it, green and vibrant as spring itself.

She adored spring and lingered for long hours in the gardens, relishing the sunlight that crested over the mountains. She spent each morning in the garden, watching the distant rise of the sun before tending to the plants. There were others who trickled in, as dawn passed and the fortress awoke, and she would leave the plants to them as they began their tasks, but she enjoyed the peace and stillness while she could.

The Emprise had been a grating, awful place but new growth and tender green leaves made her glad. More than once she found herself singing as she worked, and the plants grew quickly under her care. In only a few days, the grass would be renewed and the first small buds would open. She was thousands of years old and yet, despite that, she could hardly wait.



Courtyard -

Galadriel had not taken stock of the yard after the rift had closed. At the time, there had been more pressing matters to attend to, and she hadn't the patience to wait and search for subtle things. Now, without anything to pull her attention elsewhere, she devoted time to examining where the rift had split the veil.

Skyhold was a place with many curious sights to behold. The Orlesian nobility who visited the fortress were bedecked in feathers and quills atop gilded silk and stiff, polished leather. There were dwarves who quietly skirted the sunlight whenever they darted out of the fortress to their carts; their relief as they dove back to the keep was palpable. There were even a few humans clad in mud and fur who insisted on carrying goats. Truly, she was not so strange a sight that she merited recognition, standing in the courtyard with her staff in hand, simply peering at a space in the air. That she stood in place for hours on end, without moving a hair, was barely worthy of note.

The crowd moved and bustled around her readily enough, as though she were simply a fixture of the fortress, and she was glad for their disregard. A few mages slowed as they passed her, but they did not stop to speak. They would regard her oddly (a few of them frowned) and then they hurried away to see to their tasks. They were gifted mages, Galadriel noted silently; the majority of people who walked past her could not sense the slow current of power that rose against the veil. Those who could feel the pull of magic seemed disoriented by it, particularly when she shifted it or allowed it to ebb, but her study did them no harm.

If it had, she would have refrained from such tests in Skyhold.


Rotunda -

Galadriel's notes were artful and fluid things; they were not terribly numerous, but her time in Thedas had generated a few dozen pages of them. She hid none of them when she left the fortress, though she tidied them and tucked them out of the way when they were not in use. When she was using her notes, as she was now, she spread them out over the table as one would spread a map.

The unfamiliar letters of the tengwar curled over the sheets of cast-off vellum and pages of pressed pulp; when they were set side by side they were more drawing than words. She added to them as she read, writing between the older lines of text with habitual ease. Occasionally, amid the layers of tengwar, a word in the trade tongue appeared, but they rarely gave much clarity to the text around them.

It was early afternoon when she took over the space in the rotunda again. She had gathered a few clean pages and carefully written out the whole of the tengwar. She had promised to teach Sina these letters, and she intended to extend that invitation to all the elves of Thedas, but teaching required patience and materials. It had been centuries since she had last instructed anyone in their letters, but the memories were so fond, so filled with delight, that she couldn't repress her smile as she sat and carefully created a chart.

She could have stopped after writing them out, she supposed, but drawing the pictures that accompanied the letters was half of the entertainment of it. Sina was too old to need tales of lamps and ships and golden treasure to learn letters, and Galadriel did not need them to teach this lesson, but needing and wanting were very different things. In this instance, she wanted them and there was no reason to refrain.





Galadriel being escorted to the cells.


Courtyard - Under Arrest.

Galadriel rarely used her height to intimidate - it was cruel and largely ineffective - but she had drawn herself to her full height as she stared down Cassandra. The guards had not offended her so direly, but as they took her by her arms and lead her down the stairs and into the courtyard, she gave them no quarter. They were wary of her, as well they should have been, and she towered over them like a great looming shadow.

Her expression was rigid and thunderous, filled to the brim with deep, consuming fury masked only by the cold veneer of disdain. She walked with sweeping grace, despite the indignity of her situation, and the guards that led her avoided her gaze as they opened the door to the cells. They had made a spectacle of her and it was another slight she would not forget.





In the cells.


Day -

The cells were barred, with heavy iron gates and thick, artless locks. The stone of the chamber was crumbling, despite the efforts to reinforce the mortar and the floor. Half of the cells were unusable, collapsed or filled with rubble, and the other half were bare things, small and littered with chunks of rock and dried hay. The only objects that had been placed intentionally within the cells were a threadbare, unclean bedroll and a wooden bucket.

The chill that moved through the fortress was keenest here. Wind cut beneath the far door and the torchlight twisted wildly in the drafts. The single fire that burned in the middle of the room was barely sufficient to heat it; the brazier that held the fire was large, but it was unshielded and not well fitted to its current use. The two guards who had accompanied her devoted the majority of their attention to keeping the brazier lit. Between the bare nature of her cell and the build of the room, it became very clear how the people of Thedas dealt with captives.

Galadriel rarely lauded Mirkwood for its splendor, but her current trappings made even Thranduil's deepest, darkest cells seem kingly.


Night -

Twilight was an ordeal in these cells, one that dragged on for far longer than it had any right to. The cells that had collapsed and were open to the sky leaked grey light for hours; when they finally darkened, the far door lit the room in much the same way. Eventually, when the sun finally dropped away, a deep darkness settled over the room. The guards were attentive, but the night was cold and she unnerved them in the dark. They stood farther from her, behind the pillars that lined the walkway, and spoke only in hushed tones.

The fire required less attention at night, but without the wind threatening to extinguish it, the guards stoked it far less frequently. It burned low, dancing red and orange in the darkness, and Galadriel was left with the option to watch it or sleep. She chose to watch.

Comments

[thelastking]

Aragorn hadn't noticed he was being watched until he heard the faint footsteps of another. His hand fell to his sword again as he greeted the lurker with a tense glare. Blue gazed upon silver as Aragorn peered into the darkness to get a better look at the speaker. The words that were spoken won a look of surprise from Aragorn. He knew them to be a greeting of some kind since the newcomer wasn't brandishing steel. Uncertain as of how to reply, Aragorn switched to Sindarin and hoped not to offend.

"Mê le 'ovannen." He replied with a bit of formality in his tone while wondering if the other could understand him. The Elvish of this realm sounded so foreign to his ears but Aragorn could see some similarities between their languages. However, it's not enough of a similarity for him to have a full-fledged conversation with this elf in their native tongue. He was grateful once the elf spoke in the common tongue.

"I should be asking the same." Aragorn replied quickly. Those long elven-like ears gave away what this boy was but Aragorn could almost see no resemblance between this elf and those of the Firstborn. The Elves of this realm were smaller than normal men but still taller than Dwarves. The elf before him now was a small little thing no taller than five foot three give or take. He almost looked like a child to Aragorn if he hadn't noticed the obvious signs of aging under the eyes.

"I am Aragorn." He answered once he allowed his gaze to drift away from the small elf. "Friend of Galadriel."

[samahl]

Cyril comes closer at him saying he was a friend. "I am Cyril of Clan Ashara. Lady Galafriel..." he trails off, looking towards where she was taken. He wouldn't call himself a friend of hers, not in the same way. He was in awe of her more than anything. He looks back to the human and there are clear signs of concern on his face.

"She's important. What happened? What prompted them to take her?"

[thelastking]

The concern he had for Galadriel was telling enough to show that Aragorn spoke true but his concern revealed nothing of his true relation to her. Allowing his thoughts to stray to his brief encounter with the Lord & Lady of Lothlórien, Aragorn remembered the words they shared within the ethereal beauty of Caras Galadhon. Galadriel had known of Gandalf's passing and had known of the evils that lurked within the hearts of men. She prophesied all that soon came to be and yet, she couldn't foretell their coming to this strange realm.

'The Fellowship is breaking...' Her words still haunt him even now for it was the bitter truth voiced by the ghostly whispers of her thoughts.

'It has already begun.'

Aragorn was jolted out of his somber thoughts when the little elf drew nearer. His gaze was as unreadable as a blank page but as ominous as a waning moon. He eyed Cyril for a long moment as he pondered idly as of how Galadriel came to know of Cyril and his clan. It didn't take him long to envision Galadriel befriending these poor elves in their plight against the obvious oppression that plagues Thedas. How could she not feel some sort of sympathy for them? Even from what little Aragorn had witnessed since his arrival to Skyhold, he felt remorse for what the Men of this realm had done.

"That I do not know." He answered quietly upon a whisper. "At the behest of another, they took her. Not a word was spoken."

[samahl]

Cyril's jaw tightened but it wasn't directed to Aragorn. He hated that there were no clear answers to this. Galadriel was more than just a sympathetic face to Cyril. She felt like a symbol of what elves could be, what they might have been before they started to quicken.

To lock that away without explaining why was offensive. "I'll try to find out," he promised. "She has done nothing wrong. They can't just lock her away."