barrayarmods: (Default)
For Barrayar mods ([personal profile] barrayarmods) wrote in [community profile] forbarrayar2017-02-02 08:00 pm

[ february i log ]

Who: Everyone
What: New arrivals, desperate times, whispers down the hall.
When: February 1st - 18th
Where: Barrayaran camp / Cetagandan base
Warnings: TBD


Quick links:
Barrayar: Barrayaran camp / Missions
Cetaganda: Cetagandan base / Missions



welcome to barrayar.
It's the dark of night when you come to in the foothills. Snow on the ground, chill winter wind whistling -- in fact, it's dangerously cold, and all you have is the clothes on your back.. A steep mountain range towers just ahead, its peaks illuminated by the light of two moons. Whatever you last remember, it isn't how you got here, and you feel oddly jetlagged, slightly queasy.

And you're not alone. There are a few other people close by, all looking equally lost and confused. But before any of you have a chance to figure out what's going on, the soldiers arrive.
There's a war on, they say, and you unlucky bastards have just been dropped right smack in the middle of it.

barrayar
The cold snap hits the guerrilla camp hard, especially with a handful of new people to care for. On the 1st, a few people from Riverfall Village come to the camp, Village Speaker Yakiv Gura among them, who seems to have a rapport with Piotr. They bring extra supplies with them, such as clothing, heavy wool blankets and bedrolls, as well as extra firewood to help fend off the cold. The new outsiders are accommodated the best they can -- they're all provided bedrolls and any extra clothing they (probably) need -- but the Barrayarans don't have an extra tent to spare, so that means all twelve outsiders are force to share a tent that ordinarily sleeps ten. On the plus side, it should provide some warmth. The cold is

A young boy comes in tow of the villagers; Speaker Gura tells Piotr that the boy turned up a week ago and insisted on helping them with the supply haul, despite his small size. He's clearly Barrayaran, and looks as though he might have been living on hisown for a while. He doesn't speak mcuh, and when asked his name, will only give it as Negri -- first or last, no one's sure, but the boy doesn't seem easily fazed. Piotr tells the villagers he has no room in his camp for lost children, but somehow the day after the villagers leave, Negri turns up in camp again. He's curious, but quiet and unobtrusive, wherever he is in camp. He's a very good listener…even when you might not want him to be.



On the 3rd, the Barrayarans and outsiders awake to discover that the part of the cave where they've kept the majority of their food supply has collapsed, either blocking their access to the cache or destroying it entirely. It's impossible to tell. The villagers can't spare much more than they already have been -- certainly not enough to feed the hundred and fifty-odd soldiers in the camp -- so while they try to find out a way to recoup their food supply, they have no choice but to slaughter their own horses for food. Food will be heavily rationed, but fairly -- the outsiders receive no less than the rest. The prisoners, on the other hand, get nothing. There probably isn't enough wild game in the area to sustain the camp, but Piotr sends out hunting parties, and when they get wind of a Cetagandan supply drop on its way, they organize a raid on the supply lines.

camp
With temperatures well below freezing, no food, and excruciatingly little in the way of advantage against the Cetagandans after their last infiltration attempt, morale is beginning to drop. Piotr and Olivia remain bastions of perseverance as always, but Sonia is beginning to buckle and wilt as the days go on. The soldiers do their best to entertain themselves and keep morale up, but all they've got are maple mead, and old card and dice games. They could use some new forms of entertainment. Maybe a snowball fight might get the blood moving -- assuming you can stand the wind chill. Thankfully, there's no shortage of warm clothes and wool scarves.

The cave isn't big enough to simply move all of camp inside, but the sickbay and mess tents are moved where it's a little warmer and out of the harsh wind. It's generally crowded with off-duty soldiers despite the food shortage, because no one wants to be out in the cold right now. Things get a little better after the mostly successful raids, but food is still heavily rationed.



missions
The hunting parties are only moderately successful; there isn't much wild game out there right now, and while the soldiers fare alright, the outsiders' hunting party fails miserably. The raiding parties yield a little more in the way of relief, enough now that they don't have to keep eating horse meat, but Pearl was captured by enemy forces in the chaos.

Maine helps Piotr with a very successful final interrogation of ghem-Miko, the Cetagandan scientist taken prisoner last month. He reveals that the Cetagandans have been studying the locations where exotics appeared, as it seems to be linked to wormhole technology, and that the Cetagandans are planning on building a device to control it. They have the technology, they're almost sure, but it's a puzzle they haven't solved yet. Ghem-Miko doesn't live long past his interrogation -- public execution by decapitation is his sentence, and when it's done, a few soldiers carry off his body and severed head.

Piotr's interrogation of Duv Galeni goes about as well but, blessedly, less fatally. It becomes known that Duv is from Komarr, the planet that sold Barrayar out to the Cetagandans, and that Duv Galeni is really David Galen, a relative of a few Counselors in the head of Komarran government. However, he's able to successfully convince Piotr that he isn't allied with the Cetagandans, and after a few days of agony, Duv is granted parole at Piotr's discretion.

On the evening of the 15th, Maine, Beth and Byerly inadvertently catch Vorhalas in the act of trying to sabotage what little of their food supply they've been able to recoup. He tries both fight and flight, but the three outsiders are able to take him down and drag him to Piotr's doorstep. It quickly becomes apparent that Vorhalas was responsible for the cave-in earlier in the month. Piotr is both furious and victorious; he now has a lead on the traitor conspiracy among his men, and his esteem of Beth, Maine and Byerly has gone up considerably for their part. Vorhalas is up next in the interrogation chair, and this one won't be pretty.

The unabridged event writeup is here.

cetaganda
The recent supply drop not only provides resources for the base and for distribution to their other outposts, but also brings fresh species for transplant into the gardens at the Grow Labs. The arrival of a handful of new exotics gives rise to a fresh wave of buzzing curiosity around the base. All of the new exotics are given thorough physicals, just as the first wave were, and provided with fatigues and anything else they might need. They make an even dozen now, their bunk at capacity. The Cetagandans are beginning to become accustomed to having the exotics on base, some of them even forward enough with their curiosity to be friendly. Darkstalker now has a small following of ghem lady scientists who regularly feature him as a subject in their art.

New arrivals will be processed as the first were -- once everyone has been whisked out of the extreme cold, everyone is subject to a thorough physical, including a number of scans that may or may not seem totally arcane to you. Other than a blood sample, nothing they're doing is at all invasive. Lady Diya d'Zefyst, while not a physician, is present at all physicals. She is easily notable not only for her striking, almost ethereal beauty as is typical of the haut, but, as the only haut on base, she is easily distinguishable by her lack of facepaint.

While the exotics still have freedom of movement around the base, the recent extreme temperatures have their hosts diplomatically suggesting they travel as much as possible, they are provided cold weather wear, as the mess hall and medbay are in separate buildings from the barracks. Weather warning aside, they encourage the exotics to take advantage of the non-restricted recreational facilities -- exercise rooms, art rooms, the lush gardens in the Grow Labs -- and will satisfy any reasonable curiosities.

base
In an effort to make the exotics feel more at home, the Cetagandans decide to put on the sort of function they might for visiting diplomats, full of art of all sorts, to show that they're just as willing to share their culture with the exotics as they're asking the exotics to share with them. The function is hosted on the evening of the 7th in an annex to the Grow Labs apparently meant for this express purpose, as it shows off the most beautiful and elegant of the Grow Labs' specimens, and acts as a live arboretum in and of itself, and quite vibrantly beautiful.



If there's one thing the Cetagandans are good at (besides art, and language, and genetics) it's throwing a good party. Functions like this are always an opportunity for Cetagandans to try and socially one-up one another; everyone is in their most fashionable dress in the latest fashions they manage to keep off-planet, or at least a dress uniform, wearing fanciful scents and vibrant facepaint they might not otherwise on the job. For the artistically inclined ghem (read: a lot of them), this is the chance to show off their artistic endeavors as well -- large sculptures of unusual and improbable materials, walkable installations meant to engage every sense, and of course the living art engineered by the ghem ladies, ranging from relatively simple and tame pieces such as koi fish patterned with clan insignia or black roses and blue orchids, to complex combinations of non-human DNA to create some genetic sculpture. There is, of course, food and drink -- in the usual flagrant Cetagandan style, although the hors d'oeuvres and drinks are even more ecletic than the usual mess hall fare. It seems as though the Cetagandan passion for genetic art extends even into the culinary realm.

At the center of the party is a particular kind of art installation called a discernment garden. Housed in a beautiful, improbably architectural tent, the discernment garden consists of a series of rooms, each meant to test the refinement of the senses -- not unlike a varietal wine tasting. Each room is dedicated to a single sense, inviting participants to judge a collection of samples and suss out the differences, or match tastes and smells and textures to labels; the end of the garden presents its visitors with a final art piece incorporating all five senses, as a final test of one's refinement. Some of the ghem might (a bit wryly) confess that this is actually more of an education tool used for Cetagandan children, but this is meant as a gesture of good will toward the exotics.



missions
On the evenings of the 6th and the 8th, some of the exotics do a little sneaking around, and not for the first time. York lends Kaidan his access badge to the R&D Lab on the 6th and Kaidan, along with Sans and Symmetra, stumble onto a whole lot of wormhole data and schematics to construct a device capable of controlling the phenomena of the exotics' appearance. On the 8th, Deanna and Natasha sneak around to the tactical buildings and overhear some marital discord between Zahal and Diya, and a troubling glimpse at their diverging plans.

On the evening of the 13th, Jasper, York and Daryl are all in the medbay when a biocontainment breach sends it into automatic lockdown, trapping them inside. They overhear Diya arguing with one of her subordinates over unauthorized use of ba genetic material, whatever that is.

The unabridged event writeup is here.
stompadour: (???)

[personal profile] stompadour 2017-02-03 07:09 am (UTC)(link)
"Timeshare," she repeats, her lip curling a little. Her fingers dig in at her bicep. "What's that. Do you know what's going on here?"

Sorry Sans she has literally no sense of humour at all
skelepun: (Default)

[personal profile] skelepun 2017-02-03 07:16 am (UTC)(link)
He kinda knew that part, at least.

"Sorta like an apartment you rent, but only a few weeks a year. Rest of the time, strangers hang out rubbing themselves all over it." He picks at his teeth, only to freeze for a split second when his hand grazes his face. "... Seems kinda like a racket to me. I'm just here for the free meal. You?"
Edited 2017-02-03 07:45 (UTC)
stompadour: (nothins coming up jasper)

[personal profile] stompadour 2017-02-03 07:46 am (UTC)(link)
She hardly understood any of that, and it's making her crankier. She understood 'meal', maybe. Her eyes narrow.

"Gems don't need to eat."

But they don't get cold, either, and boy is she ever cold. She's never experienced this before, and she'll walk all day if it'll bring her to somewhere it doesn't feel like this.
skelepun: (Default)

[personal profile] skelepun 2017-02-03 07:55 am (UTC)(link)
"And skeletons don't need to breathe." Sans shrugs, good humor giving way to something a little more cryptic. He takes a breath. It feels weird. "I don't think these guys care much about what we need."
engineeeugh: (pic#11016301)

[personal profile] engineeeugh 2017-02-03 08:50 am (UTC)(link)
A. FEBRUARY 01, CAMP
Hello Mother, Hello Father; it's fucking cold here.



It was cold.

Like, seriously cold.

There were arguably better things to worry about - innumerable ways for someone to preoccupy themselves around here. A good shortage, evidently some sort of war or near enough to it, the fact that this wasn’t the universe Ratchet had been in, just a couple days prior, the fact that this wasn’t the body Ratchet had been in just a couple days prior. But all he could think about was how cold it was.

The Barrayarans had been welcoming enough. As welcome as anyone could be in the middle of a war and evidently a serious food shortage, when a few outsiders, cold and lost and confused and hungry came wandering into their lives. They could have done a lot worse.

Huddled in the mess hall tent, clutching a tin mug filled with nothing more than hot water, - that was, at the moment, the most valuable, important thing in Ratchet’s entire world right now - he can’t help but ruminate on the circumstances that had led him here. How he’d thought they were pretty bad but, this? This was some bottom of the barrel interdimensional travel.

Ruminating so hard he isn’t really paying much attention to anything around him, and has to be careful not spill his scalding hot drink on either himself or anyone else when he gets bumped into, accidentally or otherwise. He looks up, seemingly knocked out of his distant, thoughtful state.

“Crap, sorry, am I...in the way? I don’t really know what the rules are around here it’s kinda…” He pauses, nose wrinkling thoughtfully while he tries to find the right (the polite) adjective. “Chaotic.”



B. FEBRUARY 01, CAMP
It's like watching a dog play the piano...but not one of the those talented internet ones.

Swords weren’t so bad.

Right?

Right.

It was what Ratchet was trying to convince himself ever since he’d gotten over the initial incredulity of even using swords. And not for fun or sport, but actual swords, being given to them as actual weapons, for an actual mission.

Which might explain why we was holding it awkwardly, at arm’s length, like he’d literally never seen a sword before, and like it might actually be better off in anyone else’s hands. Or the garbage.

“So...you throw it, right?”

It’s a joke, said with obvious humor, but it doesn’t well mask his complete and utter inexperience.


C. WILDCARD

[Feel free to throw anything my way, or hit me up to do something specific!]


Edited 2017-02-03 08:51 (UTC)
dendarii: (half pint of trouble)

Re: horses

[personal profile] dendarii 2017-02-03 11:10 am (UTC)(link)
[ Wild horses couldn't tear Miles apart from these ... well, horses. His affection for the animals are writ large on his face. He guides the stallion he's on back towards Carolina, leaning against his neck as he looks down at her. ]

If I can do it, you can do it. You handled our mission quite well, didn't you?
vorrutyer: (haughty)

post-raid

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-03 11:18 am (UTC)(link)
[ The wounded, heroic little figure is greeted not with thanks, not with assistance, not with concerned questions. Oh, no. Rather, he gets treated to the sound of long, slow, sarcastic applause. Byerly has been particularly nasty and vicious and sour the past few days, and so poor Miles' bravery just gets this response. ]
Edited 2017-02-03 11:19 (UTC)
dendarii: (frail bones)

[personal profile] dendarii 2017-02-03 11:21 am (UTC)(link)
[ Eh. He didn't expect sympathy from Byerly. And it's been miserable for both of them during Duv's interrogation. He makes a rude gesture with his good hand and staggers in his direction. His head hurts. He needs privacy soon... ]

A standing ovation. I'm so proud.
dendarii: (TW_S1_E3_0814)

Post-Interrogation

[personal profile] dendarii 2017-02-03 11:25 am (UTC)(link)
[ Miles had hovered as close as he dared throughout the interrogation. Not being permitted in - having to rely on Byerly's tender mercies - has driven him nearly mad with guilt and worry. He caused this. He should have known the word of a crazed mutant would be worth absolutely nothing to his granda in the face of a Komarran. Every morning the interrogation goes on, he expects to see Duv's corpse shoved unceremoniously out in the snow.

(He's done whatever he can. Tried to convince Sonia to sneak Duv food - stockpiled some of his own to have ready for him if he's ever set free - )

When he returns to the tent to see Duv resting there, clean and as whole as he's going to get, he rushes over to see him. Utter relief brightening his face like a star. ]


Duv!
vorrutyer: (annoyed and/or stressed)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-03 11:45 am (UTC)(link)
As well you should be.

[ His voice drips sarcasm. ]

Why, that wound on your face should curdle into a fine scar. And then, why, everyone will mistake you for a real soldier.
dendarii: (solpadeine107)

[personal profile] dendarii 2017-02-03 11:46 am (UTC)(link)
[ Miles grits his teeth. ]

And Byerly is the very picture of loyalty. Sticking his nose everywhere it could possibly go.
shri: (» with the pharaohs)

[ CETAGANDA ] Lakshmi Bai ( OTA )

[personal profile] shri 2017-02-03 11:54 am (UTC)(link)

GET OUT OF JAIL FREE CARD
[ She takes the parole with a nod of her head, utterly silent. She hasn't spoken since the effects finally wore off and she regained her ability to control what came out of her mouth. As she is walked to the Exotics room and she doesn't speak to anyone, doesn't make a fuss with whatever she is given in replacement for her clothes that are blood-soaked, feels it tacky in her hair, under her nails. An ugly harshness to each gesture, a disgust as she goes back cleaning herself up. The blood never comes off, does it? Now so added are the Cetagandan soldiers, to be at the edges of her mouth, the dip of her bones to all the others. Not the way of stories that talked of being a glorious thing, but the way when it sprayed to a sword blows drag, it had a habit of getting in crooks and crevices, just under her ear, set into the lines of her knuckles on her fingers. In that line between skin and clothing that she makes a scrunched noise of displeasure when she pulls off her jacket over her shoulders, it cracks in dulled flakes that have gone dulled brown from their wet, hot red.

Red was a good colour for a martyr, she thinks mean and low, she was already in the habit of it, wasn't she? Beginning to scrape one hand's nails to scrape underneath the other. Tacky, thick, had run with the snow where it mixed and melted in streaks down her cheek from her hair in the fighting. Well and truly set if it hadn't been rubbed off in the intermittent from being captured to now. Though still reeks on her clothes, death had such a smell even afterwards, cloying to wet earth and sweat underneath it.

But if nothing else, these people at least had the facilities to clean herself up. Which is what she seems to be aiming to do. Stubborn though, she doesn't - exactly - know where she's going, but she doesn't seem to be any more interested in speaking, either.
]

PARTY
[ At least, this she knows how to be at - even if she's still not talking, but she is as ever, listening. She takes up a spot on a bench in the thoroughfare, she touches no food or drink she's given, but otherwise she lets things move around her as she sits stone like. She is a perfectly presented plain, neat to her last but no more. Taken use of the showers to make sure of it even if whatever she's presented with, she picks the simplest, most uniform-like clothes she can. Watching these decadent excuses for nobility wash past her, she has no interest in sharing anything else of herself, much less for their entertainment. Beautiful and elegant as it is, it is the richness of Gwalior, it is the looting of cities to her, and then as now, it revolts her to sit here playing lady to their spectacles when there are men fighting and dying out there. A fight she should be part of and in turn, she keeps it present in her mind, disassociates herself from it even as she's talked to. Even then, so much as the call of Lakshmi draws nothing from her. It is only if she is called by title - Rani - that she'll so much as turn her head to glance at whoever has said it to her.

Which, it's met with a blank sharpness, a slow blink to show yes, she's listening and a brief nod of her head that is the stand in for the words - Yes, did you need something?
]

ESCAPE ATTEMPT #1...
[ It's eventual, really, she never did well with being kept. She waits until the day after the party that everyone is recovering. Waits, for a guard she's watched - some young cadet that goes to the bathroom on his shift before she goes after him. She's getting weaker and weaker, day by day, she has to try sooner rather than later. Sure she has just enough of the strength she needs to get back at it - to get the guard as he turns a corner and drag him down, animal after her kill as she had taken down the guards. At least he's not as tall as a Barrayaran, easy to grab at his back- not so much to kill him but to get her scarf around his throat in the corner, get him down, hold him there as he gasps. Nothing to do it with quickly and quietly, anyway. So she settles for getting him down as he uselessly grabs at her leg and her body strains with something that should be easy.

At the sound of someone else, however, her head snaps up, The man going slack to a pile in her feet. If it's a guard - well, this is done, now, isn't it, but no one should be coming this way? But when sees another exotic like herself, her gaze falls flat, mouth turning in a sharp snarl.
] Turn around, go back and hold your tongue. [ What's this, she speaks, say it isn't so. ]

... AND BACK TO THE TIME OUT CORNER
[ ... Whenever she's eventually apprehended, stunned, and put back in her cell, she gives up for awhile, it seems. She lays on the bed provided, her head on the pillow, arm curled under it. Her breath coming thin - not dead - no, she has time still, time to get out of here. Has to hang onto that. It took Galahad a month under torture before he finally fell susceptible to it. They aren't hurting her. She has time, she has to have time. Time at least if she can't get out to find the blackwater and destroy it before they out what it might do for them.

But she exhausted herself for now. Exhaustion that comes like a wave and getting dragged under, she aches, she aches, she aches. Grey and thinning at all her edges, a litany of battle scars that are prayers that come back to her nightly as she tries to settle without ability to find that comfort. If the Fast-Penta had done anything, it had at least taken the pain away. Leaves her with nothing to do but shift restlessly staring at the wall.

When she hears someone outside the cell door, she sits up to see who it is - frowning slightly. Waiting to see whoever it is that might be visiting her, expecting not much more than a guard to check she was in fact still there. Then again, she wasn't as much of a threat to anyone in here, now.
]
Edited 2017-02-03 11:55 (UTC)
vorrutyer: (explaining everything (badly))

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-03 11:56 am (UTC)(link)
[ He greets this with an ironic bow and a recitation of the story he's built. ]

Doing everything I can to gain a favor or two, so that I don't starve. Self-interest isn't loyalty. And that wasn't all that witty, Illyan. So tell me - how did you manage to get yourself hurt when everyone else stayed whole?
dendarii: (solpadeine115)

[personal profile] dendarii 2017-02-03 12:01 pm (UTC)(link)
[ He wants to snap back something witty here. Or at least sarcastic. The shape of the comment is quite clear on his face: What would you know about loyalty, given you apparently have none? But instead of speaking, he lurches forward a step, barely preventing himself from falling to the ground.

Privacy. Now. He can feel the pressure in his head building. The lights flickering behind his eyes. With another rude gesture, he hurtles for the edge of camp in a way that very much resembles storming off. ]
vorrutyer: (annoyed and/or stressed)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-03 12:06 pm (UTC)(link)
[ It's all that By can do not to literally snarl in anger. An ugly sound that would be indeed, all out of step with his urbane image. It's all he can do not to wring the fucking mutie's neck. Instead, he keeps pace with Miles, snapping: ]

Give me that. You're going to drop it.
dendarii: (solpadeine26)

[personal profile] dendarii 2017-02-03 12:16 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Good. Byerly is following. Are they clear of the camp? Negri? He can't tell, his vision is blurring into incomprehension as the buzzing in his head rises to a fever pitch. Maybe it'll look like Byerly knocked him down. Hell, if it's a fight to begin with...

He shoves the lone MRE he'd taken for himself at Byerly. Shoves him too. Contorts his face in a way that looks like anger from a distance, but makes for a gruesome grimace up close. Between clenched teeth, even that one syllable blurred: ]

Help.
vorrutyer: (really fucking stressed)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-03 12:23 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Byerly might be a fool, but he's not an idiot. He sees that look, and there's a moment of confusion - and then he gets it. Right. Shit. Panic fills his face for just a moment, and then, as Miles starts to fall, he understands - and he balls up his fist and punches him across the face. Hard. For real. There are some soldiers not far away - they'd come over if someone just collapsed, but fights are common enough in these days of short rations that people aren't even bothering to watch them any longer - God willing, they won't look too closely. ]
omniavincit: (a savor of blood)

[personal profile] omniavincit 2017-02-03 01:20 pm (UTC)(link)
At the moment William's concluded--frustrated might be a better word--conversation with one of the soldiers, asking careful questions about the first group of outsiders, imagining how the answers might change with a knife pressed to the man's throat. Fighting down the urge to say Dolores' name just to hear it.

The soldier takes his leave, and William squats by the fire, shifting logs, trying to coax a little more warmth from it.

He looks up to see the boy. Instead of slipping over him, William's gaze lingers. After the first day, no one had paid the boy much mind. He seems to reside in the corner of William's eye, more shadow than person.

It's almost as if he's designed to be overlooked, which is what draws William's attention.

"You don't have to hide." Neither friendly nor unfriendly, though his voice is soft.
vorrutyer: (shaaaahhhhts)

BARRAYAR: Byerly Vorrutyer

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-03 02:42 pm (UTC)(link)
February 1-4: Hunting
[ It's been a dispiriting few weeks, but how could one be in an ill mood when surrounded by spectacular nature? Oh, hold on, the answer to that is bloody easily, because nature is stupid and the mountains are stupid and hunting with a bow and arrow is stupid. If they'd given Byerly a stunner, then he'd have had quite a lot more success. Not that he's the sort of person who can drop a squirrel at a hundred paces, but he can drop a deer at fifty, damn it all. But this, on the other hand -

He pulls the bowstring tight and takes aim at a bird. Far from flying straight and true, the arrow just sort of flops pathetically to the side and clatters down amongst some rocks. Byerly curses loudly - and very vilely - in Russian (deightful language, Barrayaran Russian, with the loveliest profanity) and climbs down after the damned arrow. Because waste not want not in wartime and all that. ]


I despise the wilderness.

February 5-8: Mess tent
[ For whatever reason, Byerly's mood has taken a turn severely for the spiteful. Not that he was a kindly soul before, to be sure, but the mockery-and-self-deprecation of his humor has given way to outright viciousness. He doesn't let a single opportunity for sniping and backbiting pass without biting a back or two. And so, if you see him approaching you in the mess tent, holding his meager bowl of groats, a leer on his face, the only thing that you should do is get the hell out of there. Post-haste. ]

Hello.

February 8-10: Chilling out
[ Anger burns itself out eventually, of course. So in time, By goes back to a more general sullenness punctuated with brief bursts of manic energy. The sullenness is mostly kept to himself; he generally works to clear snow, glaring poisonously at the vile stuff that dared to shit itself all over their camp. The manic moments are shared with the whole camp, though, where he sits on a rock with a cup of maple mead and serenades all within earshot with an old French folk song - actually rather tuneful and pleasant, all things considered - or when he approaches someone and strikes up a cheerful conversation: ]

Lovely weather. Lovely. It inspires poetry, doesn't it? I don't suppose you have any poetry to share.

Wildcard!!
[ hit me up wherever/whenever or let me know if you want a different prompt from me ]
dendarii: (eidetics 90)

[personal profile] dendarii 2017-02-03 03:24 pm (UTC)(link)
[ And for once in his life, Miles is grateful to By for punching him in the face. Good. It'll look like a fight. Not a poor mutant too weak to stand under his own power...

He collapses to the ground, his body following the arc of By's fist. Once there he begins to convulse as blackness mercifully takes him. A few minutes of this; then, gray exhaustion as the trembling dies away to nothing. During which Miles can do absolutely nothing to help himself. It's all up to By to keep the soldiers from noticing. ]
eugengineer: PB: Ming-Na Wen (pic#10678197)

INTERROGATION: PEARL

[personal profile] eugengineer 2017-02-03 03:47 pm (UTC)(link)
The room is plain by Cetagandan standards, but clean and crisp, gleaming white surfaces dotted with subtle patterns laid over the walls. The furniture, by contrast, is a pleasant charcoal gray – though sparse, as it's an interrogation room, not a conference room. There are two secured doors, and along the back wall, a one-way mirror designed to look like a stained-glass tableau.

The Lady Diya d'Zefyst is a woman of improbably radiant beauty, her every feature hand-crafted by the Star Crèche as a work of art. Her mere presence seems to make the room around her dull by comparison. But it isn't just her beauty that makes her stand out – she's the only Cetagandan on the base not wearing facepaint.

Diya and Lapis are sitting at a table, a latched case open on the table next to Diya. Cushioned in the molded velvet is a small hypospray and two ampules of a faint blue liquid. Pearl is escorted into the room by two ghem officers, and Diya motions with a slight wave of her hand in invitation for Pearl to sit.
terrifyingrenegade: (yeah ok wevs)

B. LETS PLAY SOME SWORDS

[personal profile] terrifyingrenegade 2017-02-03 03:48 pm (UTC)(link)
It's almost hilarious how opposite Pearl's reaction is to Ratchet's.

In all the chaos and confusion of arriving here, being handed a sword comes as a relief. Swords are familiar. Swords are comforting. With a sword in hand, Pearl knows she is never completely helpless. Her gem powers may be inexplicably gone, but no one can take away her skill with a blade.

At Ratchet's comment, she glances down at him, eyebrows slightly raised. It's an effort not to be overwhelmingly frosty, with everything else that she's dealing with right now; there's still just the tiniest bit of chill in her tone when she responds: "I know you're probably joking? But that would be an extremely foolish thing to do, both in our current location and in hypothetical combat."

Sorry Ratchet she has no sense of humor right now.
Edited 2017-02-04 19:39 (UTC)
vorrutyer: (punchable intensity)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-03 03:53 pm (UTC)(link)
[ By had done so by bending down the moment Miles fell, and locking his hand around his collar, and dragging him bodily through the snow. As he did, he'd called cheerfully back to those soldiers watching - ]

The mutie called me a bastard. I'm gonna teach him.

[ Which made it, of course, a matter of honor, and made it By's right to kick the shit out of the mutie alone if he'd wanted to. The soldiers had understood as only Barrayarans of this time could and had waved him on, and hadn't looked too closely at Miles. Which was a blessing; a close examination would have revealed that the twitching of his limbs was unnatural, instead of just the motion of a body being jerked over the icy, rocky ground. But with them just glancing at him and looking away? The tugging and pulling disguised the seizure.

By had gotten Miles in a space between two tents, the cloth hiding them on three sides, Byerly himself blocking the view from the fourth. He'd stripped off his coat and wrapped the little man in it, tightly, to try to limit the flailing of those limbs, to limit the damage he could do to himself. He kneels awkwardly, now, holding Miles' head in his hands to keep him from smacking his skull against the hard-packed frozen soil. He looks spent. He looks cold. ]
startpoint: (58)

[personal profile] startpoint 2017-02-03 04:03 pm (UTC)(link)
Our mission didn't require me to ride something that can think for itself.

[ She's cautious as she raises a hand up to let the stallion get her scent. It was something she remembered happening in a movie from when she was much younger. Of course the movie never managed to communicate the general large-ness of a horse properly. ]

The last time I rode something with a mind of its own was when my AI, Epsilon, was in a mongoose.
lovernotafighter: (All sides are my good sides)

[BARRAYAR] Lavernius Tucker - OTA

[personal profile] lovernotafighter 2017-02-03 04:09 pm (UTC)(link)
A. February 1st. - Arrival

[W.T.Everloving Fuck?

First thoughts were always so eloquent first thing in the morning, but this was neither morning nor familiar and it sure as shit wasn’t the way he wanted to wake up. Cold. Everything was so damn cold, and it shouldn’t be because the armor had temperature regulators, but he was feeling way too light to have any of it actually on. Weird. Okay, so cool, someone wanted him enough to strip him down but only got half-way through the job before dumping him out here at –

Sidewinder? No way. No way. Nuh uh. Not possible.

His head swam as he sat up in the snow, stuck in his Kevlar undersuit and looking around at other poor people who seemed just as lost and confused and dizzy as he did. The world shifted in weird ways, and the breath he drew in was ragged, careful because the last thing he wanted to do was puke. Last thing—last thing he remembered—

Hargrove’s trophy room. Meta’s armor. Everyone armed and the sound at the doors and the final fight and—]


Church…? [He looked around because he was pretty sure that asshole left again, did what he did best, left and left and left (because it was leaving, not dying; he didn’t want to think of it like that), and he needed to get back to them. He needed to get back to his asshole team, needed to get back to Caboose, to the Reds, needed to shove his sword down Hargrove’s fucking thro—

His sword. Where the fuck was his sword?! He was never without it, wasn’t—]


Dude, what the fuck is going on?!

[And he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, not really, but it sure as hell wasn’t being led back to some camp in the coldness of a yeti’s taint. But it wasn’t like he had a choice, and he sure as shit wasn’t finding out answers on his own. So, hey, maybe even Tucker could follow directions for a few minutes.

And apparently that, at least, would get him to a camp and hopefully some fire.]



B – Sleeping Tents.

Um, you’re kidding, right?

[Tucker looked around the small tent, wondering just how the hell this many people were supposed to sleep in this little place. Sure, yeah, body heat was awesome, but only if you were naked with a chick between the sheets, and when it was this cold, even he wasn’t sure he wanted to get it on. THAT’S how cold it was. That. Right there. That said something.

But he wasn’t sure it was just the cold. This place, the things he heard…this bullshit? He had seen the patterns before, came from the patterns, and this wasn’t crap he wanted to get tangled up in again.

Wars followed him like a shadow because having that luck was part of what? Being their little group, maybe. He just wasn’t sure there was still a good enough reason to get involved, wasn’t sure trusting some strange assholes who sounded like they were crazy was enough. He’d been played before. He’d been lied to and had a handy-dandy fucking stab-gut scar to show for it, so pardon him if that wasn’t a road he wanted to go down again.

He sat on his bed and thought, and fucking thought about Church and what that asshole did, and wondered if he could go through that again. If he could lose again. If there was even enough here worth fighting for.

Sighing, frustrating as hell, he flopped down, rolled onto his side, and looked out into the room.]
Yeah, so this sucks. Everything about this sucks, and we all know that shit. But, dude, I gotta know: why the fuck are you going along with all this, anyway? [And could we be any more vague?]



C. Rationing – Mess

[So, yeah, he got it: life out here sucked. It was a new level of dick-shriveling cold that had no heatwave in sight (what he wouldn’t have given for a beach and chicks in bikinis), a lot of fighting for shit he didn’t really care about, and he still didn’t know how the guys back home were. All big fat checks in the negative column.

But did the food have to be rationed, too?

And sure, whatever, Chorus had to ration food as well (otherwise Grif would have eaten it all), but this took it to a whole new level. Tucker lurked on the outside of the mess tent, trying to gauge when people were coming, going, and everything in between; if there was a pattern to this madness, maybe he could sneak in and swipe a few pieces of something extra. Fuck knew he needed something to keep going.

And if it wasn’t chicks in bikinis, then it might as well be stolen food.]



D. Let’s Learn Some Stabbing

[Swish, swish, stab. That’s how things had started back in Blood Gulch, the rudimentary idea of using a sword being nothing more than swiping and stabbing. But then he had been stuck in the desert temple, fighting on his own. After that? He met Wash, and Carolina, and it wasn’t just swish swish stab any more, even if he still sometimes still announced it under his breath while going through the motions.

Drills, training, losing people, war got him better. Hell, a million freaking squats and laps at the crash site back home helped, but there was no way he’d ever admit it to Wash…wherever he was. Shit. Shit. That thought was shoved back down, the thought of all the guys was shoved back down, and he swiped with this not-his sword. Training. Oh, how proud that dramatic bastard would be that here Tucker was out, doing on it on his own without having to be ordered, and only part of it was because it was too cold to sit around and do nothing at all.

Still, this sword? Totally not like what he was used to. The heft was different, the way it cut through the air was different, everything was so damn different, and Tucker hated it.

But for all the swordwork Tucker did (and he preferred it; one didn’t get to be the Chosen One without preferring swordwork), he still wasn’t really refined in his skills. He needed to get better at footwork, needed to find a new way of balancing and moving without his bulky armor (it should have been easier, right?! Right?!). So while he definitely wasn’t a beginner, he wasn’t an expert either, and if they were going to win this stupid war, then…well, maybe he needed to get better. Or maybe he needed to get other people better.

Want to try it?]