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.
vorrutyer: (warmth)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-18 01:07 am (UTC)(link)
He doesn't look at her when he raises his eyebrows and tips his head downwards in an as you wish gesture. He stares, instead, at the motionless gruesome head, the body beyond it. But there's no more commentary before he starts to sing.

His voice isn't quite what it once was, no. A decade and a half of hard living has roughened his once-clear baritone. Not a lot, though; the sound is still even and pleasing to the ear, his pitches precise, his breathing deep and regular. He's had training, even if he doesn't have quite the natural talent he once did, and so his technical skill is considerable.

The song he sings is in Barrayaran French - a language that does not fully sound like the French of Earth, but which has the same general shape of it. He looks maybe just a bit wistful as he sings, his eyelids half-lowered over his dark eyes. He leaves off after about a minute, falling silent.
littlemissfutility: (08)

[personal profile] littlemissfutility 2017-02-18 02:14 am (UTC)(link)
Beth watches him as he sings. She can't follow the words, but the melody moves smoothly in his voice, and after a moment, her eyes light up. It's an old song, but not an unfamiliar one. Coming up with it takes a little effort, but she remembers eventually. This feels slower than her wavery memories of some American guy in the 50s or 60s.

"You could have gone to music school," she tells him. Not in a disappointed kind of way--more like it could still be a possibility, if he wanted to. If Bob Dylan can have a career, anybody with talent can. Byerly doesn't have to live his life as a drunk (fake drunk, whatever). He's going to, but he doesn't have to. "I know that one. In English, though."
vorrutyer: (hmmmmm not bad)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-18 02:23 am (UTC)(link)
Sweet of her to say. He wonders if she means it. He couldn't have, of course - going to music school takes money, after all, and money was never something his family was rich in. No, no, they were always rich in...well, not love, either. Neuroses and passive-aggression, that was the one.

Curious thing, though. "You know it? How odd. I thought it was a Barrayaran folk song." His lips twitch in a philosophical sort of interest. "I suppose...well. I suppose folk songs always get their start somewhere. Being an Old Earth song is as good a start as any."
vorrutyer: (hmmmmm not bad)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-18 02:29 am (UTC)(link)
Oh. Hm.

[ By raises his hand to his chin, and drags his thumb over his lower lip - pensively, like he's struggling with an important decision. He thinks, thinks - and then drops his hand and nods decisively. A man who's made a decision. ]

No.
littlemissfutility: (09)

[personal profile] littlemissfutility 2017-02-18 02:35 am (UTC)(link)
The thought of "Beyond the Sea," treasured folk song, broadens her smile. Maybe they sing some version of "Over the Rainbow" or "New York, New York," too. Maybe that's what we'll have in twenty years at home. If anyone's still alive. A bunch of pop songs that people pass down to each other.

"It was a hit when my father was a kid." She can't remember the details beyond that, but the point is that it was, like, fifty or sixty years old. She sings a bar or two, just enough to prove it. "Somewhere beyond the sea--somewhere, waiting for me--I don't remember the rest."
vorrutyer: (warmth)

[personal profile] vorrutyer 2017-02-18 02:41 am (UTC)(link)
"Ah." He touches his chin thoughtfully. "That's not quite what the lyrics are saying in French. In French, it's not saying anything about being beyond the sea - it's about the sea itself. Dancing in the rain - silvery - all those metaphors. The sea as the shepherdess of the clouds. It's quite lovely, really." He gives a little wave of his hand. "Not that your version isn't lovely as well, of course."
littlemissfutility: (89)

[personal profile] littlemissfutility 2017-02-18 02:48 am (UTC)(link)
"Yours sounds better," she says. The American song is a love song to a person. Writing a love song to the sea is a little more interesting. Shrugging, Beth glances down at the severed head, which is the same lifeless corpse it has been this whole time. There's the ugly, inexplicable urge to nudge it with the toe of her foot, which she decidedly does not do. "How long do you think it's been?"
littlemissfutility: (14)

a.

[personal profile] littlemissfutility 2017-02-18 03:48 am (UTC)(link)
Beth sets down her fork. Maybe it looks pointed, but she hopes not. It's not his fault that she loses her appetite when she remembers she's eating horse. And it's only temporary, anyway--she's going to force every bite of food down her throat, one way or another. They do enough work here that she has to eat if she's going to keep going through this freezing weather.

"It's okay," she tells him, trying to keep her feelings out of her face. They should probably leave his comment to die there on the table, but she can't. Not quite. "I only know what they call the ones that're still alive."
stompadour: ('he'? what kind of sjw bullshit is that)

[personal profile] stompadour 2017-02-18 03:59 am (UTC)(link)
"That's ridiculous," Jasper says again. "It'd work much better if you specialised. What's the point of having 'castes' in the first place if they're not for anything?"
stompadour: (DISAPPROVAL)

[personal profile] stompadour 2017-02-18 04:20 am (UTC)(link)
On the other side of the room, Jasper shifts to cast a glance at whoever it is that's just walked in, only to sit up with a start when she sees who it is.

She hits her head on the underside of the bed above her, and curses under her breath, glowering at Pearl.

"A pearl. They brought a pearl here."
threemoons: (001)

[personal profile] threemoons 2017-02-18 04:28 am (UTC)(link)
"How is this supposed to be useful? Most of those weren't even real words."

Darkstalker sounded a little annoyed, his tail flicking from side to side. A careful eye might notice the spines along his back rising slightly. There was something about the way the prisoner was speaking now that had him on edge. Not the content, that was all gibberish as far as he was concerned, but the surety in the way she said it. It reminded him of his sister, like a hollow echo of Whiteout. He did not like it.
terrifyingrenegade: (SWEATING INTENSIFIES)

[personal profile] terrifyingrenegade 2017-02-18 04:33 am (UTC)(link)
Pearl sucks in a startled breath through her teeth, fingers clutching at the sheets as she turns a wild-eyed look on the other gem. How did she even miss that there was someone else in the room already? Let alone someone as large and orange as...

"Jasper!" she yelps, bristling.
stompadour: (uuUUUHHHH)

[personal profile] stompadour 2017-02-18 04:36 am (UTC)(link)
Jasper's eyes widen a little.

"You," she growls, making it clear she had no idea which Pearl until just now.
terrifyingrenegade: (aw balls)

[personal profile] terrifyingrenegade 2017-02-18 06:06 am (UTC)(link)
"What... I mean--" She's standing already, fists clenched at her sides. "Lapis didn't mention..."
stompadour: (DISDAINFUL LIP CURL)

[personal profile] stompadour 2017-02-18 06:14 am (UTC)(link)
"Of course she didn't," Jasper mutters, scowling. She doesn't get up because she doesn't consider Pearl a threat. "You can sit back down," she adds. "I'm not going to fight a pearl."
terrifyingrenegade: (OF COURSE!!)

[personal profile] terrifyingrenegade 2017-02-18 06:41 am (UTC)(link)
"OOOoooooh, of course you wouldn't," Pearl says with a dramatic eye roll, positively dripping derisiveness.

...And now she's facing the dilemma of: wanting to sit back down, but not wanting to seem like she's taking orders from Jasper by doing so. So she's just going to keep on stubbornly staring.
stompadour: (DISDAINFUL LIP CURL)

[personal profile] stompadour 2017-02-18 06:43 am (UTC)(link)
Jasper gives her an irritated look. "What. Do you want something?" What a laughable idea.
protocol: (► mr president i want a man from you)

[personal profile] protocol 2017-02-18 07:13 am (UTC)(link)
[ Wash's gaze follows hers, off to that strange crystal display -- something Wash had spent some time peering at earlier, himself. Even if he still isn't quite able to discern what it might be trying to convey, he can appreciate it's beauty just as it is, intricately designed, a thousand facets of light and color. Maybe that's all it's trying to convey, really.

It's just hard for him to not try and see past the surface, especially in a place like this. ]


Socializing isn't a task that I'd say I was any good at, either. [ A light, casual admission that if she feels more out of place here than she seems, she's not lacking company, though that's probably obvious enough from his behavior and discomfort. ] What kind of work did you do?

[ Simple curiosity. He's given up on finding more people who might know his world, his universe -- it seems like the phenomenon that draws them here is far too varied for that. But the more he learns, the more he hopes to find some commonality that might hint at why they're here. Besides, if she's not much of a socializer, she'd still been the one to approach him, so maybe they're both just here to play along. That's common ground enough. ]
terrifyingrenegade: (CONTEMPLATES....)

[personal profile] terrifyingrenegade 2017-02-18 07:26 am (UTC)(link)
"You were corrupted," Pearl says suddenly, eyes narrowing. She completely ignores Jasper's comment. "They told us that you changed and... you mutated. Into one of those monsters!" She shakes her head, baffled. "How is it even possible that you're here and whole again?"

Granted, it doesn't make much sense that she or Lapis would be here and human, either, but... it seems even more of a stretch when corruption is involved.
symmetricks: (pic#10950180)

[personal profile] symmetricks 2017-02-18 07:36 am (UTC)(link)
[ Fortunately for him, it's a topic she's very much at ease speaking about. After all, the scientists here have shown a keen interest in learning what she knows, and how it might be applied here on Barrayar. ]

I am an architect for the Vishkar Corporation. We utilized hard-light technology to create self-sustaining cities in the wake of a devastating war that left many displaced and homeless.

[ If they also participated in some shadier activities, those didn't necessarily need to be spoken of. After all, a great deal must be sacrificed for the greater good, and their goals are ultimately good. She believes that, as she believes in the Cetagandans work here.

A faintly curious arch of her brow follows. ]


And what of you?
protocol: (Default)

BELATEDLY...

[personal profile] protocol 2017-02-18 09:39 am (UTC)(link)
I was about six when the war started.

[ Young enough to not quite remember what it was like before the war except for the haziest of memories, old enough to not truly comprehend but still sense the gravity of the situation, to still tell that the way the adults spoke about it all around him meant that something was terribly, terribly wrong. He'd grown up wanting to fight, wanting to be old enough to do his part. ]

I enlisted as soon as I was able, I wanted to do my part -- and it wasn't that long after before the Covenant got to my system. [ And he did his part. Nothing. Wasn't even there when his colony was destroyed. It'd been the first real cold shock to his system, a proper understanding of the stakes and scale of the war. The Covenant destroyed planets, colonies, worlds. He was just one soldier. He was nothing. ] I was lucky I signed on when I did -- less lucky years later, when they asked me if I was interested in a special program. That there was a man somewhere, who had an idea.

[ And he thought that maybe, if he signed onto that, maybe he'd be able to do more than his own small part. Maybe he had a chance of really making a difference in this war. A man with an idea -- as detached as Wash has been through this conversation, it's hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice, there. He'd believed in that idea -- and where did that get him, where did that get his friends? Six feet under, dead and gone, all for one man and his idea, one man and his fucking vanity project.

There's an ease and a slight relief in the tension when she starts talking about AI, and Wash can follow suit. ]


The AI we made use of were kind of like that. [ Different, very different, but not in ways that he wanted to go into, in a way that was stepping out of the scope of this back-and-forth thing, this not-quite-a-game. ] Designed to help us run our armored suits, but it could do more than that, too.

Not that it matters, here, since apparently the wormhole left everything behind.

[ A half-shrug, words that drag them back to the present, suddenly talking about here and now instead of what they were, where they've been, what happened to them ( because he knows, he can tell that so much, so much must have happened to her the same way it has to him, so many things that leave their mark and never go away ). He turns away briefly, taking another slow gulp of water from the bottle she'd passed to him -- not too long ago, but what strangely feels like hours ago.

He's not quite stepped back from their little game, but he's motioning towards it. I step back, you step back, we call it a draw, maybe pick it up some other time -- or if she wants to press more, well. Maybe he will talk more, or maybe that's when he finally has to close it up, when it turns out that apparently she's willing to share more than he is. ]
protocol: (► it does not work in our blood)

[personal profile] protocol 2017-02-18 09:47 am (UTC)(link)
"That's mostly because they're." Uhh. "Pretty unique, as far as soldiers go."

Sure, okay. That's not. That's not inaccurate.

"How've you been holding up, anyway? Other than the whole new eyeball thing." He's tried not to press or ask too much, since if this were Wash he'd hate being asked about headaches and being kept awake in night and what lurks in his dreams, but York is -- different from him. Wash has kept an eye on him as much as he can, but it's different to just ask how someone is. "Ratchet still helping you out?"
protocol: (Default)

[personal profile] protocol 2017-02-18 09:58 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's hard to describe just how much it means to him to have York here, to have Maine here -- two of the people that haunt him the most, his friends that he knew he could help. Another chance to protect them, another chance to do what he'd always failed to do. One more chance to stop the project and the Director from ruining all their goddamn lives.

There's other things, other details about what's happened, about what they've done on Chorus -- about Epsilon, what really happened to him, why Wash knows what he knows. But that's all things he can share with him over time, maybe, if at all. He's not selfish enough to make this about him.

York needs time to process what he's learned. There's nothing that'll make that easier, but he can do what he asks: focus on other things. ]


I'll start plotting out the patrol routes -- I know you we've got a pretty decent idea, but if we want a way out with minimum conflict we'll need better than a decent idea. You should talk to Ratchet, find a way to talk to her, too. [ He knows her name, but he doesn't use it -- it's not his to give, and York will know who he means, anyway. ] I know she'll help us when the time comes, but I don't know if she can fight or run or if there's something wrong that we can help her with.

[ His hand hasn't left his shoulder, even as he's saying all of that, not quite giving orders this time but there's still a clear authoritative bent to his voice. Wash has clearly gotten used to that, in all this time. A pause, and Wash looks at him, gives his shoulder another light squeeze. ]

If you need anything . . . [ Wash really isn't good at this, but he'll do what he can. ]
protocol: (► put my teeth in the movie this marriag)

[personal profile] protocol 2017-02-18 10:16 am (UTC)(link)
[ It's been a long time since he's received instruction like this.

Freelancer, maybe, when he fumbled with the weapons that he pretended to not know, when Carolina had taken a moment when she was sure that no one else around, here, rookie, let me just help you, tried to guide him into positions that Wash already knew. A few times when it was Connie, so much more blunt than Carolina, more mocking, but no less kind in her intentions, no, rookie, you really shouldn't hold a knife like that, let me show you. Maine just eyeing him critically, moving forward, shoving him off balance with a simple push to his shoulder, Wash falling over to the ground, don't pull that shit with me, rookie, you aren't even standing right. I know you know better than that.

This is different from all of that, even, reminds him of something even further back, his first weeks at basic, bright-eyed and eager to do his part to protect the only life he knows. The sergeant's eyes, approving enough but critical, and he sees that in Lakshmi's eyes, a gaze that's trained and sharp enough to pick out everything about how he stands, how he moves, that can tell how unfamiliar he is with the sword just from the way his fingers rest over the hilt. He doesn't bother nodding, just starts to shift his feet to move immediately into position. The sandals are strange, still, but hey. People train with weighted limbs. He'll start with glitter and Cetagandan robes.

Fear that, respect that. The sword is a weapon. He's had that lesson drilled into his head a thousand times, has said words about the same to his own trainees, the next time you wave that around like that if you don't accidentally blow your own foot off I'll fucking do it for you. The stance itself is not entirely unfamiliar to him, similar enough to what they'd use just unarmed close quarters combat, but he shifts his weight from foot to foot slightly with the sword in his hand, tries to feel that out. It's different. Of course it is. ]


-- It's light. [ Obviously. But you start with the obvious, extrapolate from there, and he starts with small movements, rolling the hilt in his hand to feel how it settles against different parts of his palm, rotates his wrist just to feel for the swing it has. There isn't much weight. A talwar, at least. ] Something with more weight would swing better.

[ He needs something with swing. Wash imagines Maine, imagines how he fights, vicious, up close, personal, closing the distance. Wash himself has never quite fought like that -- he can overpower most people, sure, but just in Freelancer among the others he learned quickly that he was outclassed in brute strength, that he'd best rely on other skills. Speed, adaptability, maneuverability. ]

Speed and finesse, keeping just far away enough -- more about thrusting, pointed strikes, less about strength and swing. [ A few experimental swings, an experimental jab -- that's what the length of the blade seems to say to him. He frowns, looks back at her. ] Just -- my guesses.

[ The cut stings slightly in his palm as he tightens his grip over the sword. His sword, now, and he means to learn -- it's clear enough from his expression, he's hanging onto her every word. ]
Edited 2017-02-18 10:18 (UTC)
shri: (» now we've become the ghost)

[personal profile] shri 2017-02-18 11:51 am (UTC)(link)
[ As he talks, she hums to prompt him to keep talking. Her fingers coming up, catching the thick mess of her hair - something she refused to let them touch. They were not her ladies, after all, her ladies would tend her after her training, comb the knots out, soak it, then dry it with smoke. But before that, it had been her father, pulling it back when she began instruction much the same.

He had been her first teacher, and she could recall certain lessons by where he pulled on her head as he gathered it away from her face. Does it now, fond on the memory. Moropant Tambe was many thing she supposed, so many years from now, but he had taught his daughter well how to fight. In turn, she had passed his lessons on, to Damodar, to Devi.

She had never got to say goodbye to him. Never got to say thank you for the woman she had become.

But she could still part on his lessons. Begins where he had started, as she rakes her fingers through her hair to settle it neatly in absent thought. Thinks on her fingers, their scars and lines. You will get cut, by your enemies, by yourself, you must learn how to handle that first. Once its settled, she began to pull the gold free from it. It had no place in this, at the moment. Undoing a queen and redoing a soldier. Letting the chains slither and drop from her fingers. Again, Manu, again, swing again, you must always be prepared to strike once more. One, and two, and three, the settle onto the bed beside her. Decorations for another woman, from another time. Not for a prisoner, on a different planet, with a soldier from somewhere else completely.

Fear nothing in battle, only assess and react, and the rest will be decided.
]

Very good. [ an approving hum of his assessment, leaving it there before she continues on. ] You pierce, you drive in deep. Soft areas are your targets, muscles and organs. The spaces between armour. There in lays its versatility. It is light, you do not need to swing wide to kill, and it will do just as much damage, but in return, it requires finesse. This type of sword is not an idle man's weapon. [ There's a click of her tongue, she is disapproving of those that have the ability ( or rather, the money ) to learn, but can only use firearms. Lazy. ]

You are quick, so I saw. That's good. Gives us an easy base to start with. [ Once her hair is neatened, she begins to braid it into a loose rope to keep it out of her way. Gestures again briefly. ] Where do you most often strike with a knife?