faderift | We come from the land of the ice and snow

We come from the land of the ice and snow

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: Thedas' strange new guests are delivered to Skyhold
WHEN: 25 Harvestmere (October)
WHERE: Skyhold main gate & courtyard
NOTES: This is Part I of a two-part intro event, Part II will be posted tomorrow.

A long uphill tromp through the snowy mountains ends at Skyhold, the distant fortress finally before them in all its tumble-down glory. There is time to admire the drop into the river gorge far below as they cross the only bridge into the castle; it is briefly backed up with traffic, several carts bearing supplies and visitors stalled as the portcullis is raised. Those coming to help catalog and unload the shipment and greet the guests, or otherwise present near the front courtyard, will find themselves witness to a far more interesting arrival.

Guards at the gate carry the word quickly, and more gather, though they make no move to imprison the strange people who fell out of a rift. They just line the perimeter and keep a close watch. Perhaps this adds a level of tension to this first encounter, but it also reassures the many who are unsettled by the uncertain turn of events and keeps in check those who might attack first and ask questions later. Others will no doubt soften the Inquisition's first impression, offering food, information, and other assistance.

Medical attention is available in the tented-encircled corner of the courtyard where the wounded from Haven are still treated. The quartermaster's assistant is called upon to provide spare odds and ends of clothing to those in need, and to issue blankets for all, though they are left to fend for themselves to find places to sleep.

Any mage willing to help is called in to do so and a cluster forms in one side of the courtyard to examine the rifters. They are objects of curiosity in general, but the marks on their hands are of particular interest, resembling smaller slivers of the Herald's famous mark. Despite their best efforts, no mage will be able to provide any real insight after this initial assessment. What the rifters and their marks are is a question they cannot answer today.

But one question is answered: in the midst of all the commotion, another Inquisition agent arrives from Haven, rushing in red-faced to announce that the Herald's body has finally been found.

OOC

It will be decided (partly for OOC reasons, admittedly) that the rifters will not be imprisoned at this point, but they will be watched carefully, and the guards are on alert for any strange behavior by people with glowing hands or strange attire. And of course, their freedom can be revoked at any time if they're deemed a danger. Though there are some OOC considerations at play here, you're welcome to ICly lobby for more or less freedom for the rifters, and things may change based on IC action/consensus.

Also: Part II, aka the log for the funeral/wake/etc. event, will go up tomorrow!

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She had listened while travelers moved around her, the hesitation in their steps as they turned away was clear as the dawn, and let her linger in memory. When a set of steps approached and did not deviate, however, Galadriel knew her moment of peace had drawn to a close. It was inevitable, all such moments had to end, but she let out a slow breath as she lowered her face and opened her eyes.

She did not expect to see an elf with plaited silver hair and bright grey eyes. Caught as she was, between the distant past and the strangeness of this present, her surprise carried a memory she did not wish to recall. The sight of this girl, with her high, round cheeks and gentle steps, drew an expression of adoration across Galadriel's face. For just a breath, her heart sang and then, as quickly as that joy had come, it was chased away by a wretched, profound sorrow, and a look fathomless longing.

"Hínanya."

The word was spoken without her leave. It was little more than a startled whisper, just loud enough to carry the ache of her heart, and hearing it was enough to pull her from the depths of memory. Suddenly she sucked in a deep breath and, very briefly, closed her eyes. She banished the vision from her mind, or attempted to, but it was too late. The damage had been done. When she looked back to the elf before her, she could not unsee what she'd remembered. The small differences, of which there were many, were not enough to separate this woman from the memory of Celebrian in her youth.

Galadriel's smile was sad but resigned as she spoke.

"I am sorry," she began softly, "I was apart from myself; I do not recall your words. Would you repeat them?"

To be the subject of this woman's attention is overwhelming. Pel feels wretched, ashamed of her own vanity and plainness. Surely if one of the Creators came to walk among them, they would look like this lady. Pel bows her head and sees how very dirty her feet are.

What is wrong with her? This woman is flesh and blood like anyone else. Or perhaps she isn't. It's not her beauty that strikes Pel the most. It's something else, something she can't put a name to. Something makes her feel like a peasant before her. If this woman came through the Fade, she could be anyone, or anything.

She takes a breath and raises her head.

"Andaran atish'an, Hahren, I have been sent to examine your hand. I'm a mage of the Dalish."

Edited 2015-10-26 13:00 (UTC)

Her head bowed and Galadriel was unable to see her face. She reached out, to raise the girl's head once more, but she drew it up herself. Galadriel was left, hand outstretched, as she explained her purpose again. Her accent was unfamiliar, as were her words, but the lilt of her voice was not so unlike her daughter's. Over different words she would have sounded so very similar. Perhaps that was what broke Galadriel's resolve.

"Gohenna'nin," Galadriel said and, despite herself, crossed the remaining distance and held the side of her face. Her touch was excruciatingly gentle, as though she expected the elf before her to vanish. When she did not, Galadriel was overcome. Her eyes darted across the girl's face, expression gradually breaking apart as she did.

She leaned forward but the clatter of armor, the shifting of the warriors that watched them, was sharp and sudden enough to stay her. To embrace a stranger so suddenly, without cause, while she was watched would be most unwise. She refrained, despite the difficulty of it, and pulled herself upright once more.

When she withdrew her hand, there was the slightest tremor in it.

This grief had not been so near in a long time.

"Forgive me," she said abruptly, repeated in this common tongue. "You are the very image of--" She halted herself and abandoned those words. There was no conclusion there, nothing that could explain her outburst without forcing another, and this was neither the time nor the place. She swallowed and inclined her head. "Of course, examine it as you will."

She extended her marked hand even as she drew the other to herself. The heavy fall of her sleeves did much to hide how tightly her fingers curled into the fabric.

Pel doesn't push. She takes the offered hand and opens it like a letter. The mark is completely alien to her, though it bears a glint of fade-light any mage would recognize. She releases the (slender, exquisitely perfect) hand with a bow of her head.

"Thank you, hahren." She glances up. "Are you...where do you come from?"

The girl before her examined the mark carefully and politely. Though her assessment was brief, the pause gave Galadriel time to collect herself. When she released her palm and bowed her head in thanks, Galadriel was far more composed, if somewhat removed from the here and now.

"A distant place," Galadriel answered vaguely. She had steadied her voice and her expression, but her eyes refused to look away from this elf's face. It would be disconcerting before long, that much she knew. "Before I found myself here, I walked the woods of Lothlorien in Middle-earth."

Already she had given that answer and already she knew that none in Thedas would know it.

"Tell me: what is your name?"

"Pel." It's such a minute, unglamorous name. But Lothlorien must be as beautiful a place as it is a name, mustn't it? Middle-earth.

"Are you one of the elvhen?"

"Pel," Galadriel repeated and was immediately charmed. Unfortunately, the elf's second question gave her pause. She had not heard the word elvhen before. It was very similar to elven, but it was not the same, there was enough emphasis in that word that she could not be certain what she wanted to know. Was she asking if Galadriel was an elf? Gavin had already wondered as much and seemed resistant to her claiming she was.

"I cannot say," Galadriel replied after some thought. "I do not know the word. I am one of the Eldar, I am an elf, of that I am quite sure."

"What is elvhen?"

"We are elves." Pel's heart skips a beat. Surely the eldar and the elvhen must be kindred. "Elvhen is what we call ourselves. Our people--we lost our homeland, long ago. Our culture. Even our gods. Legend tells we were immortal, though that's...a stretch, probably. Now, we just...wander the wilderness."

Galadriel's brow pinched as she regarded Pel. She had been told to seek the history of these elves from an elf, but as she heard this account, the prospect of seeking more was worrisome. Her heart dropped as she considered what they might be, and how her own people could so easily become them.

"If that is how you call our people, then yes, perhaps I am Elvhen," Galadriel confirmed slowly. If they had dimmed so far, if they had been separate for so very long, perhaps these elves were not eternal. Such a fate was cruel, it would have been difficult to face coming from anyone else...from her, it was a terrible joke.

"Are you bound to mortal lives?"

"We are mortal as anyone else." She shies away from the people say we spent too much time with mortals so we caught it explanation because she thinks it not only absurd, but that it does little to foster understanding.

"But if we were once immortal, I should think some of us would still be around to tell the tale of it."

Her answers were firm and clear, Galadriel could ask for no more than that. The information was not as she would have liked it, but she could not change what was. This elf was mortal and that simple fact was deeply distressing. Her gaze lingered on Pel's face and, at last, she was able to turn it elsewhere. It listed toward the ground as she thought and remained there as she spoke.

"If I knew the tale of these lands, I would tell it," Galadriel said. "But in my long life I have not heard of this place, nor have I met an elf who was so bound."

The breath goes out of her at those words. Pel blinks quickly, moisture threatening.

"Mythal'enaste," she breathes. "It can't be coincidence. Oh--"

She sits down hard on a stool, face in hands.

"You are immortal?"

The word was not entirely accurate, but Galadriel had neither the will nor the desire to correct her. As she sat, Galadriel stepped closer, maintaining the scant distance between them as best she could. Pel had her head buried in her hands, the alarm in her tone was clear.

Galadriel settled a hand on her shoulder, just the barest pressure of finger-tips against her arm, and leaned down.

"It is not my wish to distress you," Galadriel said and fell silent for a time. "But, yes, as you mean it, I am immortal."

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We come from the land of the ice and snow

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