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Oct. 21st, 2015 01:34 pm
laurenande: (Default)
[personal profile] 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.)

Date: 2016-08-08 12:15 pm (UTC)
rowancrowned: (004)
From: [personal profile] 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?"

Date: 2016-08-09 01:53 am (UTC)
rowancrowned: (042)
From: [personal profile] 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.

Date: 2016-08-09 03:14 am (UTC)
rowancrowned: (055)
From: [personal profile] 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.

Date: 2016-08-09 11:58 am (UTC)
rowancrowned: (003)
From: [personal profile] 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."

Date: 2016-08-14 03:29 am (UTC)
rowancrowned: (020)
From: [personal profile] 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."

Date: 2016-08-15 12:17 pm (UTC)
rowancrowned: (027)
From: [personal profile] 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.

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Galadriel

October 2015

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