For Merrill:

She had put off this conversation for some time, had dreaded it and evaded as was her gift. Merrill had trusted her and waited in silence and, for all her bright patience, Galadriel had offered her so little. It was a regret, sharp and bitter in the back of her throat and she disliked it.

When Merrill asked for her accompaniment, to travel alongside her outside the city, to the mountains, and Galadriel had agreed without question. Perhaps, she wondered, freedom from the oppressive nature of Kirkwall, of the walls and bars of men, would help her speak more readily. Perhaps, if Merrill's errand was not so terrible, they could speak and be at peace.


For Solas:

Her sleep comes easier now, freed from the longing and the worry that had long consumed her. She sleeps steadily and without fear, falling into it as though she were born to it, as though it had not been thrust upon her.

Her dreams, once haunted by the unfurling tapestry of her long years, mired and marred by memories of time immemorial, have calmed at last. There is a reprieve as the sounds of birds and the gentle flow of a glittering stream beckon her deep into the dreaming. Before long she finds herself standing in her garden, before her mirror, and the rustling of the mellyrn above her is a whispering welcome.

For Fingon/Open:

It has been some time since last Galadriel trained, at least by the reckoning of men. That she had done more than lift a staff twice in a year was a fairly short span by her reckoning, but still not terribly impressive. She travels to the training yard before dawn, early enough that the chill of night is on the air and it is cold, despite the spring having long broken over Kirkwall.

The yard is empty, as it should be at this hour, and she takes to stretching, staff in hand, as she warms up. She is slow, still, the weapon is too heavy, and the motions are old memories, but she knows them well enough. This was a sport, once, and she had desperately loved the game of it, the contest. It is more useful as a skill, here, and relearning is worth the effort.

Alt Fingon/Open:

She has always been fond of horses. They are graceful, if panicky things, and it would behoove her to remember riding again. She does it so infrequently here that she is not entirely certain the temperament of Thedas's horses. The rarer mounts elude her even more.

She visits the stables mid-morning, clad in plain brown pants and a plain shirt, tailored finely and of fine weave but without adornment. She has forgone her cloak, of late, but wears it today. The grey fabric falls back over her shoulders, tucked out of the way but ready to block cool breezes should she actually befriend a beast and take it out to ride.