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[laurenande]

(Galadriel is fairly used to getting mail but she'll be a bit shocked to receive any in Thedas. For any notes, missives, letters, or other communications.)

Comments

[elegiaque]

I had already intended.

( two obligatory birds with one stone. it's a sort of soft opening, she supposes - leliana wants her to include elves in her work, but making a great song and dance out of doing so is...a little unsubtle.

galadriel is a compromise, and a way to introduce them more smoothly into her narrative. subsequent mentions of true elves, and not these presumptuous foreigners, will be less stark. )

Thank you extremely for your participation - I will make arrangements for the artist. Would you like a copy of the picture? I am also happy to make you the same offer as I have done the Knight-Commander, and forward to you a portion of the proceeds of the work your image appears in.

[laurenande]

[She had agreed quite readily---it is, at once, a mark in her favor and somewhat suspicious. Galadriel doesn't recognize the voice on the other end of the crystal, but whether she was human or elven, it made very little difference. In every single instance where she'd called herself an elf, there had been more than a touch of resistance to her claim. That there isn't any, now, is...worthy of note.

But...her ready thanks and generosity are refreshing and, fortunately, enough that Galadriel overlooks the strangeness of her immediate agreement.]

Do not trouble yourself; I require no recompense. I ceased caring for money long before I came to Thedas. If you honor the heart of my request, I shall be content.

[But now she wants to know more.]

I would, however, enjoy reading what you have written. Perhaps we might meet, Lady Vauquelin, and I might see some of your work.

I admit, I am also curious as to how one might draw up a chart regarding rifters. We are few and very strange, it must be terribly complex or exceedingly simple if it can capture the whole of things.

[elegiaque]

( there is a necessarily bracing pause before she says, ) I would be glad to meet with you. My previous edition is already available in Skyhold - perhaps you might have a look at it and we could discuss it.

( for all that she's clearly making an effort, she also sounds noticeably less enthusiastic about the prospect. )

But I don't intend to make such a chart. You are - people.

( probably. )

People shouldn't need a chart made to demonstrate their component parts in order to be seen that way - I think that it would undermine the message ( 'the' message; not her message, necessarily ) to do so. I think it would validate the idea that you must be proven.

What I mean to do is show the foolishness of that thinking.

( her own private reservations about trusting them are just that: private. she might not share the trust she's prepared to advocate for them, but what she does trust in is the inquisition, and if leliana is wrong then it's on leliana's head be it.

people shouldn't be afraid of the only solid attempt to protect them because of some - some -

... people. )

[laurenande]

Strange, perhaps I heard you wrongly. Did you not mention diagrams from a Knight Commander?

[She pauses and the silence is nothing if not polite and thoughtful.]

Of course, I agree. Demanding one prove their own identity is a foolish errand, and yet it is frequently required. Thedas has proved no exception to this.

Ah! But, I am not a writer, nor do I know the contents of your work, old or new, nor how directly they might concern me or my portrayal, if I have any at all. I shall not burden you with my suppositions, but I do hope I shall be granted a glace beforehand.

For curiosity's sake.

Once you have found your artist, please, call me hence. I shall do my utmost to be available.

[elegiaque]

Knight-Commander Norrington provided me, rather generously, with copies of the diagrams and notes that he has used with his men for training purposes. The better understanding of demons and how to fight them. The notion of including a portrait just sort of struck me as I was looking at them. A contrast. Demons can be defined and diagrammed and noted upon. People, on the whole, cannot.

( her laugh is brief. ) Well, not philosophically, I don't speak for physicians. But nobody in Orlais need be as acquainted with you as your personal healer. And people aren't puzzles to solve, or to slip into neat arrangement -

But a face. A face is something that a person has. Eyes are something that you can see yourself in.

( a diagram of a demon is to frighten and educate. a portrait of a woman can be empathised with. )

[rowancrowned]

Apparently, being under guard by Templars is the only way for an elf to get a room at the Duc's estate. It seems small, to him, but it is not technically a cell- or he'd have to raise a great fuss- Galadriel, the things he does for you- and he supposed she has two windows this time, rather than one.

"Pardon me," he says to the great chunks of poorly-forged ore 'guarding' his cousin, and wonder of wonders, they step away and he steps inside. He looks— happy, or something close to it, a smile on his face that should be alarming for the falseness of it, for the fire in his eyes behind the courtly mask. It's a purposeful fire, but it will fade into icy determination, to do, as always, what must be done.

Orlais is gilded rot, and nothing pleases him more, now that he has seen the country in person, than imagining it returning to the elves.

It's a prickly, near petulant mood, one that merely needs to run its course, it covers hurt and anger both, which Galadriel will know because she knows him, and for the first time they are being wholly honest with one another.

"How would you like, cousin," he starts, sitting down in the closest chair to those coveted windows. "- to get a new dress?"

[laurenande]

Galadriel offers him a long, silent look, as she considers his question. Her expression is polite and distant, but it is a look she holds for the sole purpose of masking her irritation. Despite herself, her feelings regarding the Templars in her room are all too apparent.

"A new dress?" she repeats thoughtfully. He is in a mood, one a bit too young and put-upon for elves of their years, but it is one with considerable promise. There are too many teeth in his smile.

"I cannot say I had considered it, but a change would be nice. Have you seen something suitable?" she asks and the last word hangs there, heavy with alternate meaning and disdain. Orlais is proving to be a trial, not least of all for the distinct trends in fashion.

[rowancrowned]

It stems from something seen before arriving- something seen in what should have a short, uneventful walk from inn to estate- and the presence of the Templars means he cannot unburden himself. But the initial storm fades once he turns his head from the view outside the window.

"Come, Galadriel, do not tell me you have worn anything readymade in at least five millennia." He tosses the number out without thought- seemingly without thought, but he's more than willing to engage in a little Templar-baiting.

He adjusts the cuffs of his jacket. His own sizing is a difficulty, and the stinginess of the quartermasters to give things out to elves leaves him left to his own devices to acquire what he needs. He's doing well for himself, but they would have gained much with kindness.

"There are seamstresses for whom I have a letter of introduction. I have received indication that their work is ... acceptable." They are elven, in less words. They will not be able to match what he wore in Mirkwood, but little could- ten years spent making a garment here is something near a third of a lifetime.

[laurenande]

Thranduil moves to the window and the templars treat him to the same wary scrutiny that they do her. His barb is agitated and casual, intended more for the guard than her, but it is not so unusual to hear him bandy mild insults. He is rarely tolerant of the presence of Men and has always been vocal regarding anything he finds distasteful.

What is unusual is how he pulls at his cuffs. Thranduil has always been impeccably dressed, as a rule, and he reserves such motions to be used as punctuation. This was not punctuation. It was possible the clothing troubled him, but she couldn't imagine it would trouble him enough to merit fidgeting so. No, something had pushed him to the point where even the banal bothers him.

It is a curious situation and one that merits her full attention. She casts her guard a sidelong glance and, with a wave of her ring hand and a pull of power, draws the surface of this world around them. The guards, as they have done whenever she catches them up and tangles them into the border of what is concealed, adopt blank expressions and sway on their feet. Today, by some chance, they remain standing. It is a near thing.

"Such high praise," she replies dryly, but moves to stand with him by the window, nevertheless. "If they are to your standards, however, then they will certainly meet mine.

"Are clothes what concern you, gwanur nin, or has something happened? You seem ill at ease."

[rowancrowned]

He has seen horrors in his time. Most of them stemmed from war, from cruelties easily prescribed to Sauron or to the greed for the Silmarils. This is—beyond that. His hands rest a shoulder’s-span apart on the sill, and he bows his head, lets his hair fall about his face like a veil.

“There are children starving in this city, Galadriel. They will die.” The switch to Sindarin is for comfort. There is no mistaking what he means—he says ‘gwinig’. Elven children. Again, that wind-up mechanical energy, the snaps of elven quickness from one who uses his body as an extension of the state, from one who wields precise control of himself, born from seven thousand years of being in this hroa. He looks up from the window—he cannot stop, he must stop, condemning all the Men of this world to death is not a sentence he has the authority to pass.

Smaug did not outrage him so. Smaug was—a force of nature. A sentient hurricane, evil, but predictable. The Fëanorians, had, for the most part, stayed their blades from the children. No elf could torture another. No elf could watch a child starve and be unmoved. The yrch were yrch, but there was nothing extraordinary about the Men who had burned the Low Quarter. And even before that, there had been elflings here, dying.

These everyday acts of cruelty. They cannot be blamed upon the Enemy—they sit in the grey of things. Indifference. This is why they are here.

He brushes past the guards. They do not topple. It takes—an extraordinary act of Will, but his hands are laying flat on the arms of the chair when he sits, and his legs are neatly crossed at the knee. His fit is through. He came here to discuss arrangements for clothing her to best suit their needs at upcoming functions, and he will return to it momentarily, but she is the only one who would understand his outrage, so it is to her he expresses it.

[laurenande]

Thranduil is rarely so unsettled and she can count the times she has seen him this way without straining to recall. It is alarming but not half so much as his words. She knew, of course, that the elves of Thedas had horrors perpetrated upon them, that some vestiges of those horrors still lingered, but she had not imagined that children suffered now.

She watched his tantrum and watched him breeze past her guard to take one of the low, down-stuffed seats that littered the room. His expression settled into one of calm as he sat, but she recognized it for the veneer it was. She makes no comment as she moves to join him, her own face frozen to mask her horror.

After a long moment of contemplation, she lets out a slow breath.

"They shall not perish," Galadriel says as one might remark upon the weather. It is simple fact. "We shall see to it before we depart."

It would be a stopgap measure, of course, but if she has to break the minds of a dozen men, she will see the children here fed. She cannot abide cruelty to elflings, they are simply too precious.

"Tell me of your seamstresses."

[rowancrowned]

Immortality does not become monotonous to one who was designed to bear it. They are not emotionless, despite what rumors might suggest. It simply takes great feeling to bring a reaction to the forefront and when it makes a rare appearance —

Galadriel is twice his age and royal by all her lineage. She bears the violent outpouring with grace. He will let her puzzle the logistics out; he will turn his talents to other matters.

"They are apprentices who will never move beyond that. Forgive me, I do not know the word." Back to Trade, and with a flick of his fingers to the guards— what he will speak of now is not seditious or treasonous in the least, and it cannot be healthy for those Men to be ensnared for too long. "Gwenaëlle's elven maid Guenievre recommended them to me. They do the actual work of clothing the Comte, as I understand, and are accustomed to getting a good deal of work done to satisfaction in a short time."

He exhales, rests his elbow on the chair, and gestures vaguely at the window to indicate the tittering from the courtyard. "Despite earlier distain, ready-made is also an option, though clearly these humans cannot see color as we do, for their choices are raucous."

And finally. "We will have to provide them with designs of some sort, reuse what we had in Arda. We have not the time to find a proper tailor. I have been informed anyone wishing to keep standing will not serve elves."

[laurenande]

"I would prefer, I think, to wear something crafted by elven hands. Tempting as strangely colored clothing might be, it has been long years since I favored such...bold colors." Galadriel says after a moment of deliberation. She ignores Thranduil's motion to the guards--while the draw of power is tangible, she is in no hurry to relinquish what privacy they have, regardless of the sensitivity of the conversation.

"There might be some merit in wearing the styles of our local kin, but if need be I can furnish designs for something more familiar."

She regards her own sleeve in an absent sort of way--already, in the back of her mind, she has begun pondering how to feed a city within a city. Her white dress has endured Thedas admirably but, despite her skill in staying its decay, it is troublesome owning only one proper garment.

"It is a pity I must tolerate these Templars. I would like to see what our native kin might make if I could show them the arts one can weave into cloth."

[rowancrowned]

It is an abstract comfort to know she can continue to hold the Templars even though there is no urgent need for it. They are not as poorly off as he thought. He considers her. He has thought of Galadriel in so many different tones over his life, but she is uniquely gifted for the exact situation they have found themselves in.

"A blend, perhaps?" Has he seen her in anything but ill-fitting Mannish clothes and her dress? How they approach the same problem is startling. But she is of a different Age, a different family. It is understandable.

"Do they pose any real threat, cousin?" He has little concern for swords, unless there are a great deal of them against him- partially arrogance. "I have met very few."

[laurenande]

"The templars?" Galadriel prompts and regards the frozen pair casually. "Largely, no. They are skilled with their weapons, formidable in combat, but they are only Men."

She looks back at him and rests her hands in her lap. Thranduil's curiosity is idle, but they had long ago agreed to share knowledge.

"Their commander is a keen man, and has seen through simple concealment, but I have found little reason to fear them."

She looks him over and considers the clothing Thranduil has been forced to adopt. His suggestion, a blend of the styles of Arda and Thedas is an interesting one. She had not considered it before, but the possibilities such a marriage provides are many.

"The Dalish favor earthen tones. Would browns and greens satisfy you, cousin, or have your preferences shifted entirely to shades of silver?"

It is teasing, perhaps. It is certainly said in a lighter tone than the rest of their conversation has had, though that's not really an accomplishment.

"I have not worn anything but white in an Age, but I recall being fond of blues. I expect that is well within the pallet of our local kin."

[rowancrowned]

"How simple?" is his first question. They all have their talents, and if his rests in a realm that the Templars have some immunity to, he'd rather not find out in the middle of needing it.

(He longs mournfully for but twenty of his guard. What they could do if they had so many!)

He wishes he had a glass of wine, but as far as he can see, she keeps none close at hand.

"If it is suitable for my guard, it is suitable for me." He's certainly not shied away from exploring a bit here. (Excepting purple. He looks hideous in purple.)

"The Dalish favor a pattern of crossing bars- I have seen in on the wraps Solas wears in place of shoes. It would suit as a subtle nod to them." As well as the not so subtle nod of being seen around the Dalish. If they are fêted, they will need to make sure to dance with city elf and Dalish both.

He scoffs a little at her pronouncement, but all in good humor. "I wore red to your granddaughter's begetting-day feast. Surely you recall that?"

It had been centuries before, one of the last excursions made before the spiders had descended. Thranduil, still wed, had been far more cheerful. He supposed he still owned that robe, somewhere.

"If you can be persuaded from your white, I can be parted from my silver. Brown and blue, perhaps?" Though, really, the idea of Galadriel being forced from her usual raiment by necessity. He's struck by curiosity, suddenly. "I do not suppose," he says, slowly. "- that you have the sense to wear something else whilst you launder your dress and smallclothes?"

He wants to suppose that the answer is yes, but after hearing what the Outsider had done, well. Safer to ask.

slides in here. voice;

[rowancrowned]

Did your grandmother speak often with you on matters of ... faith?

[ it's apparently which grandmother he means. ]

harvestmere 10th

[serannas]

Aneth ara, Galadriel. Do you have time today to talk?

[laurenande]

For you mellon nin? Always. Is something amiss?

Voice, now signed in.

[laurenande]

Often is a strange concept. It is somewhat different now than it was back then, I think, but I recall such conversations.

[She is used to unusual conversation starters, but it's a singular occasion when someone brings up her grandparents.]

Did you wish to know her opinions on the Valar?

[serannas]

Oh, no! It's just that I've recently returned from an elven ruin and I wanted to talk to you about it.

[laurenande]

Oh! An Elven ruin?

I would love to hear your account. Would you prefer to speak in person or tell me the tales of your travels over these crystals?

[serannas]

In person, please! I have drawings to show you from both this ruin and the last one. Would you like to pick a place?

[laurenande]

[There's silence as she considers Ellana's question.]

Yes, my quarters I think. If you find that acceptable. [She had no desire to spend the conversation with looming templars, but she hasn't invited anyone apart from Thranduil to her quarters yet.] They are in the lower level, before the kitchens, I shall wait for you in the hall.

[serannas]

All right. Be right over.

[ And when she arrives, she's hugging a leather-bound journal to her chest. ]

It's good to see you! I feel like it's been awhile.