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!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh, no," Ellana answers. "Once you crossed the mountains, you entered the Empire of Orlais." She doesn't think much of Orlais, since all the stories she'd heard growing up had been about the Orlesians going on an Exalted March against her people, but she does have a wish to see the Dales. Surely there will be elven ruins there.

"There are plenty of Orlesians here in the Inquisition." And, adopting a fake accent, adds, "The ones who talk like this." But then she goes back to her normal voice which, to any who might have slipped here from Earth, could be recognized as vaguely Irish, like most Dalish elves tend to sound.

"I come from the Free Marches. It's across the sea from Ferelden, north of it."

The accent she affected was both unexpected and entirely alien to the Noldo and it pulled an amused smile across Galadriel's face. This elf's descriptions were useful, though the map in Galadriel's mind was still vague and incomplete. She had not heard of the Free Marches, but the admission that it was her homeland did inspire another question.

"You are Dalish are you not?" Galadriel asked politely. The word was one she had learned only recently, but it seemed to apply to all of the elves she had encountered thusfar. While they were, all of them, different from the elves of Arda, they were still elves. Knowing the location of their homeland, the heart of Elvendom in Thedas, was something that appealed greatly to Galadriel.

"The Free Marches, then, are the lands of the Dalish?"

"I am," she replies, pleased the woman has heard of her people already. The Dalish in the Inquisition are doing good work, just as much as anyone else, and she hopes that means people will open their minds and view them in a better light.

"No, we are a scattered people. In ancient times, the elves had an empire, but it was conquered by the Tevinter Imperium. Our second home was in the Dales, but the Orlesians went to war with us and when we were defeated, we refused to submit to humans and worship their Maker. Since they took our land, we became nomads. Other elves chose to stay in cities and towns, and thus had to worship the Maker. You'll see elves descended from both here. We Dalish mark our faces to honor our gods."

Despite her wish for her people to better their lives and find a way to settle down, she's still proud of all they've endured, and enjoys speaking of their strength.

"And you? What are your people called?" Really, she can't resist any longer. She wants to know more about this woman who is so beautiful and regal looking.

Galadriel was taken aback by her description and, while her face was mild, her surprise was clear enough. The prospect of nomadic elves was so utterly unbelievable to her that she could not fathom it. Her wits failed her and she could find no questions to ask. As she regained herself, she inclined her head and answered.

"I am Galadriel, of the Amanyar, Noldor and steward of Lothlorien," she answered almost distractedly. As she finished, she realized how little that would mean to the other elf, and considered her words more carefully. In the back of her mind, she took careful stock of the suffering the Dalish elf had detailed, and with each slight, saw how they had been diminished. It both terrified and unsettled her.

"Forgive me. The answer to your question is...very long. I have never before given it." Galadriel settled her hands in her lap, gently twining her fingers as she regained some measure of distance and composure.

"We are the Eldar," she began again and stared at the other elf. "Your people would be counted among us, by each clan as well as by the race of men, who call us only Elves.

"Countless years ago, ere the breaking of dawn, the Valar came to our people and brought us across the sea to the Undying Lands. Those who traveled with the Valar are Amanyar for we are of the lands of Aman. Those who did not travel to Aman are Úmanyar, Moriquendi, for they did not see the light of Aman.

"It is not a slight, that name, and I ask you take no offense. Many are counted among the Moriquendi now, as I expect the Dalish would be, because the light has long been extinguished." Galadriel's smile was a bit sad, but it was a truly ancient memory. It held very little sway over her heart and was difficult to become lost in. "We are all kin; we are all Eldar, and I lament the losses the Dalish have suffered.

"Tell me, are your people taken with craft and song? Do the trees sing and the stars guide you?"

Surely, they could not be so different? They could not be so apart and still so similar. It was not possible, that they could have no love of these things and still call themselves elf. She had taken measure of them and found them to be kin, had she become so distracted by simple ears? No, it was impossible.

Though Ellana doesn't understand these words, these titles and places, she's struck by how beautiful they sound coming from Galadriel's tongue. She draws up her knees, wrapping her arms around her legs as she listens, enraptured.

When her gaze settles on Ellana, when she calls them kin, the younger elf's pale face goes pink with a blush. They are alike? Galadriel thinks them similar? How could Ellana ever compare to such a person, who looks like she has hair made of finely spun golden thread, and whose eyes are like bottomless pools, clear and crystal? She's never seen any elf to compare to the one seated before her now.

"Moriquendi," she repeats, thinking the name holds a sadness to it, and it that way, it is perfect for her people. They are the displaced, the sorrowful. They have lost so much, and there is so much darkness.

"We have crafts, yes. We know how to craft weapons from ironbark, among other things. We are the only ones who know how. And though we craft beautiful things, they are often necessary items too. I've heard there are elven ruins scattered throughout southern Thedas, from the time when our empire stretched far and wide. I hope to see them someday." Her eyes lower and she sighs. "I'm afraid what few songs we've preserved in ancient elven are from after the fall, when we lived in the Dales. All are sorrowful and about what we've lost. All except a Dalish lullaby. As for the trees -- do they speak to you? I've never heard it, but I wouldn't be surprised if that's something else we lost. Once, we were immortal, but with the coming of humans, we lost the ability to go into Uthenera -- the long sleep -- where our souls cross into the Fade and our bodies wait for them to return." Or, at least, that's what she's always been told.

Her eyes now lift up towards the sky. "The stars do guide us. We have constellations, though the Imperium stole them and renamed them when they conquered us."

Her heart hurt, but there was hope that lingered in this elf's words. They were not so changed, despite the disappointment in this woman's voice, and that was some comfort. They had not fallen, nor had they diminished so much that they had forgotten themselves, they had endured. It was not so terrible a fate, despite how she sighed as she recounted it, and Galadriel was glad.

When she asked her next question, she was more puzzled than anything else, but the sorrow had lifted from her and her ease had returned.

"Your people slept?"

Ellana nods, refocusing on Galadriel. It's easy to get lost looking into her eyes, but the questions keep her on task.

"When the elders grew weary of the world, they would go into Uthenera. Many who did eventually decided they didn't wish to come back to their bodies, so they withered and died. But others did return, sometimes after centuries of their souls wandering the paths of the Beyond -- the Fade."

"How strange," Galadriel said, both fascinated and slightly aghast at the idea. To separate her fëa from her body, to walk a land of demons and the dead, was a choice she could not begin to comprehend. Sadly, this woman had no knowledge of the practice, not beyond tales, and she would not hound her with questions of motivation.

"I cannot imagine such a thing," she admitted. "But, perhaps, that is not so shocking. I have never dreamed, nor slept, not as you mean it, so the desire for such things is beyond me."

"Never dreamed or slept?" Now it's Ellana's turn to be both fascinated and aghast. To never know the peaceful nature of sweet dreams, or the restfulness that comes from sleep? It's a hard concept to grasp.

"Do you never grow weary? We sleep because we grow tired. But the dwarves don't dream either."

"I weary, yes, but it is a passing thing. I take my ease among the trees or in my garden, rest for a time, and am renewed."

It was simply part of being an elf, though she did not say as much to the Dalish before her. Her horror was a perfect mirror of Galadriel's and she needed no dismay heaped upon sleep or dreaming, Galadriel would not have her think she'd lost something more.

"For three Ages I have walked the lands of Middle-earth and never have I slept, nor dreamed, as men and dwarves do. Though, honestly, I cannot say if the dwarves of Arda dream or not; I have never thought to ask." Her smile was amused and mild.

"Above all else, though, I enjoy the stars. I cannot imagine forsaking the light of them to sleep."

Ellana feels a bit of relief hearing that Galadriel weathers her weariness and can rest in some way. She assumes the woman can't miss what she's never known, but Ellana would hate to lose her dreams and the feeling of rest and renewal that comes from sleep.

"Three ages? Are your ages very long? Here in Thedas each lasts a hundred years." If it's the same for Galadriel, that would make her around three hundred! "The stars are beautiful," she agrees. "Yours must be different at home too, aren't they?"

"A hundred years?" Galadriel asked quickly, once more surprised. She had not heard so many unexpected things in quite some time, the shock of it all was thrilling, in its way. Ellana confirmed her question with a gesture and Galadriel nearly laughed.

"No! Ours are not one hundred years. If they were, I fear I would have lost count long ago." She didn't bother to hide her mirth. Though she disliked the passage of time, when it was discussed like this it was an abstract thing. To speak of years was far easier than watching the spread of darkness or the quick, crushing blows of decay.

"They are not all the same, for they mark great changes in the world, but each has been nearly three thousand long."

She had not paid much mind to the slip of years, indeed she ignored a great many of them, but mortal men were meticulous in their counting of days. If she thought on it, a number would not have been beyond her to give. Fortunately, she doubted the Dalish elf would care to know such details and, thus, she was spared providing them.

"I have stared at the stars for all those Ages and yours," Galadriel looked up and was, for a moment, transfixed and her eyes alight with wonder, "are not at all like them."

When she looked back down, she was still smiling.

"Truly, I was startled when first I looked up and found that they had moved. I stopped in place and was nearly knocked over as one of our company walked into me." This was beyond her question, a ridiculous answer, and it was given with energy and joy befitting a much younger elf than she. Even when she had been young, she had not been so girlish, but it was an easy state to enter, if the mood were right.

"I look forward to learning them, in time, but I know only one constellation of Thedas."

"Three thousand?" Ellana asks in awe, her green eyes widening as she realizes what this means. "Then you are--" She stops herself, a hand flying over her mouth. The elf before her is really old. Galadriel is like some figure out of legend. An image of the goddess Mythal comes to Ellana's mind, and she looks just like Galadriel: of regal bearing, wisdom and power seemingly radiating from her. How she didn't see it before is a mystery, but it seems clear now.

At yet, despite all that, Galadriel is smiling and it makes Ellana smile back, lowering her hand. Despite the great divide in years between them, she can sense some similarities. Galadriel seems eager to learn about this world, just as Ellana is eager to learn of hers. And that's in addition to learning more about Thedas herself.

"I would be happy to teach our constellations to you. Which is the one you already know?"

Despite the way her eyes lit and awe danced across her face, Ellana did not draw away from her, nor did she stifle herself in her delight. For that, Galadriel was infinitely grateful. After only a moment's pause, she found the constellation she'd been shown. It was partly eclipsed by the walls of the fortress, but the points of it were bright and shining.

"I was told the symbol upon the Inquisition banners was drawn from it but I know neither of its names," she explained and lowered her arm. "I should like to know the names the Dalish give them, even if they have been changed by mortal men."

Ellana was curious, though, and Galadriel doubted she'd be content without asking questions of her own. At the very least, some exchange of knowledge was only fair, and no elf should be so parted from the culture of their kin.

"If you like, I can return their names to you in the language of Aman. I do not understand the tongue the Dalish speak, nor have any of them understood me, but I would share such things if you desire to know them."

"Oh," she says, head craning to see. "I'm not sure of that one. The symbol has something to do with the Seekers, I think? And they haven't been around as long as the elves have." In other words, she doesn't know that one at all.

"But I can show you my favorite," she says, scooting around so she and Galadriel are facing the same direction. "Do you see that horizontal line of stars just there?" She points up, drawing a line with her finger. "And there are two vertical lines intersecting it? That forms Mythal, one of our goddesses. She holds the scales of justice, to judge matters brought to her. She's the All-Mother, the goddess of love, justice, and family in our pantheon. I pray to her the most, and I feel the closest connection to her out of all of them." As her vallaslin will attest to.

Galadriel leaned closer and followed the line of her arm. The constellation she described was easily spotted; the stars that shaped the form were bright and brilliant and, the longer she stared, the more points she could find between them. The shape was clear and beautiful, and Galadriel was gladdened as she listened to Ellana's account. There was love and awe in the Dalish elf's voice, but also delight as she was able to share her wonder.

The name was strange, the letters didn't align right for Galadriel's liking, but the idea was familiar. It was strange, perhaps, that Thedas had decided to dub the One a mother, but it was not so strange that Galadriel questioned it. The All-Mother was, perhaps, the easiest of all names to give her in the tongue of Aman.

"The word is different, but I think this one I know," Galadriel said and, on a whim, turned her eyes to the ground between them. It was not so soft that she could write with depth, but it was easy enough to scribe out the tengwar in the shallow earth as she said the words.

"Ilúvamillë." While there would be no part in the name, not spoken or written, she made the segments clear. Ilúv sat, three letters long for a moment before she added amillë to complete it. "The All-Mother."

Galadriel glanced back up at the sky and then to Ellana.

"The most beloved of the Valar, at least in my heart, is the Star-Kindler. It is she that we call upon in when we are in the deepest darkness, and she who comes to our aid. She radiates the light of creation, white and radiant, and is beautiful beyond words." When she paused to write this name, she was less gradual in it, for she only wrote the name the Valië held in Quenya.

"In the east she is called Elbereth Glithoniel, but I learned her name in the west. There, under trees of silver starlight and shining gold, she was called Varda Elentári."

Her attention drawn to the ground, Ellana stares in wonder as Galadriel writes out the word as she would know it.

"Such beautiful names," she breathes out. "Very little ancient elven writing survives since the fall. This Varda, she sounds a little like Mythal. Those who came to her with clear minds and open hearts asked her for justice if they were wronged, and Mythal answered. If any tried to trick her and claim they were the injured party when they weren't, Mythal knew, and would punish them for not being honest with her." Ellana pulls in her legs more, setting her chin on her knee. "I value honesty the most. That is why I hold her highest."

Lifting a hand, she draws a fingertip across her cheek. "That's why I chose to mark my face with her symbol. You'll see a few other elves here with the same, though they have the pattern on their foreheads too." Ellana hadn't wished for that. She wanted to honor Mythal, but not let that be all people saw when they looked at her. She wanted Ellana to shine through.

Galadriel sat back up and regarded the marks on her face. She hadn't understood them, nor why they appealed, but those who wore them did so for a reason. It was nice to know what that reason was, and that it was both reverence and love. Admittedly, the news that there was little writing was disheartening, but not entirely surprising.

"I have found that such things, such symbols and art, often endure far longer than the words to describe them." Galadriel settled her hands in her lap and, though her expression settled as she looked back up at the sky, she was no less happy. "The Valar are often moved by such devotion. If Mythal is similar, I've no doubt such reverence has not gone unnoticed."

"But it grows late and you value your dreams," Galadriel continued gently and glanced sidelong at Ellana. "What other questions I have can wait, at least, until dawn."

Ellana smiles sadly, about to tell Galadriel that Mythal and the others are locked away, but she does hope they all can hear the prayers of her people. Yet Galadriel then releases her to sleep, and she moves to stand.

"All right. Do your people say good night if you don't sleep?" She doesn't want to be rude by telling her to have a good one. "I will say what my people do when we part: Dareth shiral."

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We come from the land of the ice and snow

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Aaah sorry, this is long.

no, i love it. i'm a huge lotr fan!

Oh good!

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