[ february i log ]

[barrayarmods]

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.

Comments

[shri]

[ She says nothing of it, his comfort or his thought of her. Of the way he knows what lives in her spaces. She isn't sure she wants anyone to those pauses. They had been so utterly her own before this. Her burdens, silently born.

But he does the one thing, the only thing that she can have respect for: he says nothing. He makes no notion to them, he lets her do what she does best and progress forward. She must always and for it, she in turn keeps that aired tone. She is touched by nothing and like the only thing keeping her there is her hand on his.

They are sure hands, she thinks. They know their work. She likes them. ] I suppose I could take you into service after I assess your ability.

[protocol]

[ Another laugh, one not without humor but dryer than most. ] I'll probably prove lacking.

[ They're in the exotics room of the barracks, by now, and he leads her most of the way towards his bunk before he pauses, turning back towards her and lifting her hand in his own slightly with a dip of his head, maybe a slight bow -- a vague imitation of what he thinks might be a courtly gesture. Probably comes across as clumsy, albeit well-intended, but Wash is well used to letting himself look a fool. He lets go of her hand, moving closer to his bedside, pausing for a moment just to think on how to navigate his robes and managing it surprisingly gracefully as he eases down to one knee.

The rapier is hidden away, tucked to one side under his bunk, wrapped carefully in some spare sheet he'd managed to find -- he has no scabbard to keep it in. It's practical, and a way to hide it in case the Cetagandans decide they'd rather keep everyone strictly unarmed, but there's something else, too, maybe obvious in the way he treats it so gently, resting it on his knee, the way he unwraps it so carefully but also looks like he's done it quite a few times before.

Like this is precious to him. Like he's spent a few restless nights just turning the weapon over between his hands.

When he has it unwrapped, he's rising carefully to his feet, maybe somewhat unsure about how exactly one should present a sword to a queen. He ends up holding it out in front of him, one hand on the hilt, one hand under the blade. ]

-- Here. [ Somewhat lamely. ]

[shri]

[ Oh but he is making it so very easy to be fond of him. She knows to be wary of such at thing. But for a little, she can be soft, she can be measured, she can pretend her spine knows how to curl about his gestures and his warmth as if such a thing came easy to her.

She can take the blade he offers to her, in his attempt at royal supplication that only makes her heart tug more. Gives it the same measure he tries to give her. No mocking or laughter just that she steps up, her fingers curl around the hilt of the blade and for a moment, she's herself again, she is whole again. A deep breath in, testing its weight. The Barrayaran's favoured a quicker style of weapon and Maine clearly had no eye for it, no more than this man did.

Slow - and despite the pain, the aches, the thud of her encroaching death - then she's quick, as she draws it up and out. A swinging arch high above her head, stretching up and out - no, not the blades she is used to, either. But it comes naturally to her. The way she curls it out and above her head, her eyes upon it like there is her and it and this room, him, her troubles and her pain, are all forgotten. Side stepping, the skirts don't bother her or get in her way as she pivots on the ball of her foot to slide into a swordman's stance and the blade comes down. Slashing wide at the air, back around in a loop as one strike slides into the next and into the next. A patterned dance that relaxes her, draws her into herself as a whole once more where the Cetagandans had scattered her into pieces on that cell for. Like her secrets weren't given out like sweets for them to digest upon on celebration days. Testing the blade, testing how it moves in her palm find herself in an extension of it. Until she's turned away from him, breathing hard.

Because he isn't forgotten, she will never forget him, now. She spins, sharp, back to him, another slash, coming to stop short in front of his face and the threat there - is far too obvious. The hard-eyed look she gives him that tells him he probably shouldn't have given her this blade.

He shouldn't have let her have this chance. She wasn't going to let him take back his mistake until she was done. ]

I should kill you, you do know that, don't you? You and your other man both. For threatening Maine, for getting me captured, for standing in on my interrogation.

[protocol]

[ The way she moves with the sword is both familiar and foreign all at once. It reminds him of late nights back on the Mother of Invention, waking Maine in the middle of the night, when he'd follow him ( not without grumbling ) to the training room. It reminds him of watching Carolina when she trained, practicing the same movements to meticulous perfection, over and over, never good enough, push herself further, even further. But it's different, the way any of them fight compared to this, graceful and flowing like a dance, something lethal and ruthless but meditative all at once. Then there's a silence, a pause, a break in the dance, Lakshmi spinning back towards him, the sword gleaming as she brings it up towards him.

Wash does move to defend himself, one hand lifting, blocking the blade, catching it against his palm. His eyes do go wide, but there's a notable lack of actual surprise.

Part of him had expected this. It's hard not to expect it out of someone when he's been pulled somewhere out of the crowd, quiet and alone, when he'd just handed a weapon over to someone who has every reason to despise him. He saved her life, yes, but what does that matter in the face of sitting aside and watching and listening as she was made to spill all her secrets out across the floor for all to see? How good of a friend can he be to Maine, if he'd tried to kill him when he first saw him?

She asks him if she knows. He does know, of course he does -- and he also knows that for the sting against his palm, the cut it leaves, the trickle of warm blood he feels against his skin, if she'd really meant to strike him it would've cut far deeper than that. ]

I know.

[ There's a real threat and danger in her eyes, this is not an empty gesture, even if she stopped short. Wash's eyes are the same, unfettered determination, hard and focused to a point. There's a lot that he should have died for, and he's survived so much that he never should have survived, that he never deserved to survive -- but here, he has another chance, with Maine, with York, with the people he's failed. Nothing will get in his way.

They will get out of here. And for that, he needs to trust her.

He wants to trust her. ]

The name's Washington. [ He isn't pushing the blade aside, just leaves his hand where it is, stays where he is, his eyes never leaving her. No details. The more he tells her, the more risk there is, what if they drug her again, to see what more they can find out? But here is his own purpose for getting her alone -- he needs to trust her enough for that, needs her to trust him enough for that. They won't be leaving without her. ] When the time comes, we're going to need your help.

[ Not we're going to help you. There's a difference -- she's far from helpless. ]

[shri]

[ He bleeds, and writ in it, she has his name and her price.

This time, she is in control of herself. A measured expression that promises nothing gives nothing, and nor does it take. It watches him, gathers him, weighs him. Rolling the taste of his name, his purpose around in her mouth. Caught between his intention and her own pride, she supposes. Is this how the English felt when the sepoys crashed down on them. Strange, she has not relied on anyone but herself and - Devi, though she did so gingerly - for years now.

The blade lowers, slowly, purposefully, an almost duelist salute. Instead, she steps forward, close, to the edge of respectable, near shared breaths as she takes that blooded hand. Curls her rough worn fingers around the back of his knuckles and presses her thumb into the cut as she looks up at him, only him. Digging in, red and slippery under her fingers as she drags it across, watching his face, watching his reactions and sucking in like they were her own.

He is a battlefield man - no that he has been to them, oh she is sure he has. But he is one, there are dead there, there are animals and men and the screaming there, there his blood shed across. But now his hands are empty of what suited them. What a shame that was. To be so shaped, and to be deprived behind these glittering clean walls.

That will be her gift back, for that is what she had always done. ]

This blade will be yours - [ her fingers uncurl, set broad to lay his hand flat, palm up. In her other hand she shifts her hold, bringing the blade straight up, like she means to attack and then passing it between them. Setting it the flat of the blade to the flat of his palm ] - not Maine's, nor mine, but yours.

[ She sets her fingers around his, curling them bother around the blade to press the wound into it, cutting further for how firmly she grips. His blood on his blade. Too close, too near, that warm metal, flat and silver, and the red shine of the blood as it catches in the furrows of the blade, running down and up and over, between their fingers in a trickling bond.

Blooded, she thinks again. ] Hold true to it, and it shall hold to you.

[ You will, she means, yes, she means, she will be there at his side. Her loyalty, her word, her purpose is her whole being, and if given in honesty, she will always repay it. ]

[protocol]

[ There's a sting when she presses her thumb to the cut, but it's nothing, really -- Wash barely feels it. He's focused on this, focused on her, the hardness in her eyes, her expression careful and measured as she steps closer. He doesn't flinch, doesn't step back, and he can tell that Lakshmi is watching his face as close as he's watching hers.

His expression doesn't shift. Steeled, focused, determined, his gaze locked with her own even when she guides his hand palm-up, as the rapier gleams as it moves out of the corner of his eye -- as it comes to rest against his palm, the metal cool against his skin. Lakshmi's grip is tight over his hand, over the blade, pressing the cut against the metal, and Wash finally does look away from her eyes to look at the red against the steel.

Hold true to it. Wash understands what she's saying beneath it -- he'll keep his word to her, he will help her, she's important to Maine and that is more than enough, and she will be there to help them when the time comes. When he and York have a plan, they won't be able to tell her about it, but when they come for her, she'll fight and run as she's able.

But there's just this, too. The gift of a weapon, of a sword. From Maine, but from her too, now, from this woman he knows too much about, a queen and a warleader trapped away from the people she's given so much for. His weapon, now. His sword.

Not a knife, not a gun, not the BR55 that hasn't really left his side for years, but his, now. Wash lifts his other hand, moving to curve over Lakshmi's over the hilt, squeezing once, firm, as he looks back up to meet her eyes. ]

Then I'm going to have to learn to use it.

[ He'll train. It is the only weapon he'll have when they leave here, and it's a practical issue, really, having something and learning how to properly use it. But more than that, it's respecting the weapon, respecting what it is and what it's made for, respecting what Maine had entrusted him with, what Lakshmi is telling him now.

Hold true to it, Wash thinks to himself again. He must. He will. ]

[shri]

[ Her fingers are slick with his blood, as she steps away from him. Releasing the blade into his hold. His keeping. His.

His blood now, though, she promises, that's hers. Her fingers come up, as she steps from him. Wipes her thumb against her jaw in a streak that's absent as she moves to sit on the edge of his bed. Arranges herself and her skirts neatly, as much at home in such things as she is promised violence. Lets them settle over her feet, sweeps them about herself as she gathers up her hair to settle it long over her shoulder. If she had her way, she'd stand with him. But she needs to save her strength, for now.

Settles herself settled the way she likes, and then she turns her gaze on him. This time is less teasing at his painted face and decadent clothes, lack of comfort for them. This time, it's more bluntly critical. Raking over him and then raising her fingers to direct his gaze forward. Tone commanding - and more than that. It's fully expectant he will do nothing less than what she says.

He is strong - well she learned that the rough way, but his posture was fine as was. Didn't seem to favour any injuries that she could see thus far. ]

Move your blade to your prominent hand. Then move that side's foot back. This is your starting position. Test the blade in your hand from there. A sword is made to kill, and it wants to do so. Fear that, respect that. Ease it, swing it, learn its weight and its balance. Learn how it settles in your palm. Tell me your observations are, as you do so.

[ Another gesture as if to say - go on then, you have her permission to speak and move again for a time. ]

[protocol]

[ 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. ]

[shri]

[ 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?

[protocol]

[ Knives. He misses his knives, really, the familiar weight of them in his hands -- he knows the combat knives, and even without a gun he'd always been confident enough as long as he had at least one on him. As outclassed as he tended to be back in Freelancer, knives were a weapon he could sometimes actually best the others with. He wonders how different the ones from Lakshmi's world might be. Probably a different material, at the very least, not the titanium coating that most UNSC standard combat knives.

None of those here. This rapier will have to be his weapon, now, even if it's not as easily concealed, even if he doesn't know it like the back of his hand. Yet, he reminds himself. He'll train until he does.  ]

Depends on the fight. [ The obvious answer. He turns the sword in his hand, just feeling the weight of it and how it balances against his palm even with the slightest turns of his wrist, watches light catch along the blade. He's so used to firearms, to combat knives with notches and custom grips, to weapons that he knows like the back of his hand and it'd still take him time to carefully break apart and disassemble in order to clean and maintain everything. This is just a sword. Metal, hammered and heated into shape ( as far as he knows, anyway ), forged into one simple purpose. The most ornate thing here is the hilt, and even then it's mostly spartan. It's different, but he likes that. Efficient. Elegant. He remembers the grace with which Lakshmi moves, even when she walks, when she'd fought that night out on the grounds, moments before when she had the sword in her hand and her apparent fatigue almost seemed to vanish.

Another testing jab, with more force behind it this time, shifting his weight forward as he does so, to test his reach. ]

Back home, we almost always fought armored, against armored opponents. [ A pause, bringing the sword close so he can run the fingers of his other hand along the flat of the blade. Even against armor of it's own time, he doubts this sword could do much against it, not if you tried to strike through it, but that's something he's used to, too. ] Our knives were specifically coated to be capable of piercing armor, but it was still almost always more effective to aim for the joints and seams. Against someone less skilled where I knew I could finish it quickly, I'd do it just that -- straight for the throat, straight for the belly, right under the chin up into the skull.

In other cases -- I'd usually watch how people move, strike anywhere between the armor that they exposed the most. Always keep moving, in and out. Strike where I could, inside the thigh, inside the arm, anywhere with a vulnerable artery or nerve. Work them down, wear them out, outlast them until I could finish it.

[ It feels like the rapier would work similarly, at least in the overall idea. Quick and efficient, much more nimble than the sword York had taken off the other Barrayan. He gives the sword another experimental swing, just watching it cut through the air, and that could probably cut something but he doubts it'd be much. He tries to move with it, again, another strike, another swing, shifting his foot, imagining an opponent in front of him, imagining the holographic targets flashing as they spun around him in the training room, imagining Carolina standing in front of him, gesturing him forward with a crook of his shoulder -- and he tries to move a bit too much, apparently, given the constraints of his robes, and Wash stumbles. He manages not to fall, reaches out to start to catch himself against some nearby shelf, but he's able to regain his footing without it.

A sigh, glancing back at Lakshmi. ]

Probably not quite like that. [ HE'LL GET BETTER . . . ]

[shri]

[ She at least does him the credit of laughing too much. Her fingers coming up to press against her mouth as she smiled. Then back to what she was doing, braiding her hair. Sure it would hold its shape and - most importantly, keep it out of her face. ]

No, not like that. You did better, most beginners tend to drop their blade on their foot. You will get used to it.

[ But he wasn't so raw as some of them. He at least knew he his way around weapons, if not this one, and how to catch himself when he stumbled. That was important as anything. His list of where it strike is already good, he knows that.

Now he just needs to know the motions.

She finishes the braid tightly before she flicks it over her shoulder. Lets it hang long down her back as she stands again. Walks around him in a half-circle to stand beside him and a little back. Hands held in front of her lightly. ]

Assume your position again.

[ Waits for him, and touches his shoulder first to let him know she's behind him. Doesn't bother reaching over his shoulder, but her arm comes up and around, to brace against his wrist as she adjusts his stance ever so slightly. What she had noted, what was good and what he needed to learn to what he already knew. ]

This time, slow, I will show you the strikes. The movement needs to come from the wrist, not the elbow. So easy with it and don't fight me. Quick, is your goal, but you will need to know it like breathing first.

[ Her fingers slip over his properly, and she begins to move his hand, around, loose movements, murmurs of easy praise as she shows him how it swing. Where to strike.

Stops, when she is sure he has it memorised. ] Now do it again, until I tell you to stop. Then I will show you the foot work.

[ and she takes her seat again, watching him and waiting. ]

[protocol]

[ Small praise, but he'll take it. Dropping a blade on his foot ( especially when he's wearing sandals ) sounds like it would've been a much worse outcome.

Lakshmi braiding her hair reminds him a little of growing up on Leonis Minoris, when the war was young but it was less of a pressing reality and more of an ominous cloud hanging overhead, when it hadn't reached anywhere close enough for them to understand it, when he used to sit and braid his sister's hair. He's struck a little by how well it suits her, when she stands to move over to him, flicking the braid over her shoulder -- it's beautiful and delicate in a way, but practical.

When she starts to guide him, he listens with rapt attention, completely relaxed and allowing Lakshmi to direct him, taking note of the subtle way she adjusts his stance. His brow is furrowed in concentration, both watching the movement and listening to her words and feeling how the weight of the sword shifts against his palm. From the wrist, not the elbow, so more about fine motions than about the strong sweep of the elbow, more careful and more importantly precise. Precision seems to be the key.

When she steps back, he's already starting to mimic the motions, murmuring some of her words under his breath as he follows the movement. Every time he notices he gets something slightly wrong, he frowns, starts it from the beginning again. Slow, careful, deliberate, speed comes later, he understands that. There's a few times when he doesn't make a mistake but he doesn't feel confident enough in it and stops to start it from the beginning anyway, many times when he does make mistakes and likely doesn't quite notice until later, but he does clearly have absolutely no problem with memory, each pattern already engraved into his mind. It's just a matter of execution. Of practice. Knowing it like breathing.

Eventually he manages a series of strikes where he feels confident enough that he has the movements all correct, at least as precise as he can manage it, still at a slow and deliberate pace. He doesn't exactly stop, but he does glance back at her, a silent question, was that right, was there something I missed.

He's studious. Very studious. That much is probably obvious, now. ]

[shri]

[ She lets him keep going and she - well, wished she could divest herself of these clothes to sparr him earnestly. He is good, not when blades perhaps, but with just his bare hands it would plenty interesting for both of them. He would be stronger, naturally, but she would be faster - and they could see whose knees went out from under them first.

Especially with how careful he is. How meticulous he goes again and again - ten years with it and he'd be something magnificent. Did they wait so long now? Well, he certainly acquitted himself decently, whoever had trained him and whenever he had started. Gave him the important kind of habits that served now just as much.

She gives him a nod, and a smile brief and light even if it's a little too tired even now, even when she's more comfortable ( or as comfortable as she can be ), but it's important to encourage. Praise comes easy for good work at least. ]

Well done.

[ The next part, at least, she can take off the shoes for. The plain brown slippers, the same brocade pattern as her dress. Stretching out on bare feet in the way she had begun her training, and make it easier to show him as she lifts up the edge of the robes. Gathering material slowly in her fingers.

There, just below her toes, are just what she warned him of: faint white lines where she'd dropped her own blades just the same. Balancing her weight briefly as she stepped toward him and slipped into the same stance as him in front of him. ]

I presume you at least dance, Washington?

[ Natural assumptions, really, any decent warrior knew how to move his feet at the most basic level. ]

[protocol]

[ Wash isn't the type to crave or need praise, but it's appreciated, anyway, the affirmations of a mentor. Good. It's good to know he's on the right track. There is common ground when it comes to studying anything physical, when it comes to training the body in new ways and training the mind to fit, but swords seem a world apart from what he's used to. At least he isn't completely helpless, and it gives him some faith that with time he might make a decent enough opponent.

Not that'll it make too much of a difference. If they're fighting with the guerrillas out there and swords are really all they have . . . He isn't sure how they've lasted that long. He's held Cetagandan weapons, trained with York in their use. A rapier will do little, no matter how hard he trains, but that just means he has to learn it all the more.

He watches the way she moves when she steps forward, and that does seem to be exactly what she means for him to watch, with the way she lifts up the edge of her robes so he can see her feet, how she shifts her weight, how she balances between them as she slides into a mirror of the stance she'd shown him before. He notices the faded scars, old marks, maybe briefly smiles because he can guess at what they were from, can imagine her younger and training at the sword, no doubt hardworking, dedicated, and.

. . . Uh. ]

-- Dance? [ The bewilderment in his expression and tone is probably answer enough, but he does clarify anyway, clearing his throat. ] No.

Not even a little.

[ The way she asked the question is what's surprising. She presumes he dances, does he look like much of a dancer? Hell, the few times he's ever had to deal with something about dancing, he'd always been told he looks like he'd trip over his own feet or crush those of anyone he tried to dance with. And they were right.

She must dance, though, with how she'd asked him that, and he can definitely see it, with the way she moves and the grace with which she carried herself -- and the fluid, artful grace of how she'd moved with the rapier before when he'd handed it over to her. It was beautiful. A dance in it's own way. That -- that makes sense. ]

Does it help? [ Honest question, probably foolish sounding to her, but he's looked like a fool plenty of times this evening ( Wash is still too conscious of the paint thick on his face ). Dancing, he means. Does dancing help with swordfighting? ]

[shri]

[ Oh, well, that's that then, isn't it? Another thing that's different, even if mildly so. Sighs for it and nods stiffly, Kaidan had danced, but perhaps her expectations were too highly set. ] It can. It teaches being fluid, and to coordinate many parts of your body very differently but together. In that way, all fighters dance.

[ Easier as a baseline, but so much for that. With her skirts in hand, she settles them on her hips in thought momentarily - how had she started such things? Well, her aunt had seen to the dance of it, and her father had used what she had been taught in the steps of Bhondla. Granted, that kind would be even further removed from him, and she would never dance for anyone like that again. This was not her home, or the people that had taught her such things.

But the playfulness would do since apparently the thought of dancing seemed to abjectly terrify him. ] Here, this ought to be easier. Watch my feet and my movements. When I step back, you step forward in the stance, when I move forward, you go back. Simple enough?

[ She trusts so, at least, slowly, she steps back to give him time. His reflexes weren't anything she had to worry about, he was fast as was. But it was more to watch his footing, to get used to the motions and extension. ]

[protocol]

Are you asking me to dance with you?

[ He doesn't exactly sound scared, just bewildered and kind of amused, just by the apparent absurdity of the situation, at least to his eyes. He'd come away from that party to speak to Lakshmi alone, yes, but also to get away from the pomp of the party, and he associates that with dancing. He'd already sort of slipped into the frame of mind and focus that comes when he's training, when he's fully concentrating on trying to learn something, on bettering himself, on learning a movement.

Dancing isn't what he expected, and he still has the rapier held loosely in his hand, the weight already a little more familiar to him, now, still not natural, but definitely more than before. But when she starts to move, she moves along with her, mirroring, and not just playfully but actually seriously, careful when he tries to match the first step, easing forward -- not that stepping forward is difficult, but he's keeping in mind everything she's already shown him, trying to keep all of it in mind.

Still, he looks up, offers her a smile. ]

Guess it's worth a shot. [ He has no doubt dancing actually helps. Still not sure he's ever going to be a great dancer, though, but there's few things Wash won't try. ]

[shri]

Does it scare you so much Washington, dancing with a woman?

[ Dare him, where he sounds nervous, see how far she can tug him on that line. The skirts held, pulled carefully away. Once, she had worn anklets of gold, and they had chimed. Once, with the other women, she had worn bells, and they had chimed in time to the music. Now. There was just the bear strike of feet on the cold ground.

The movements stay the same, though. The next step back, watching his steps to time with hers. One, then another, right foot back, left foot back, making sure he kept his posture and his movements correct. Then a little quicker, and quick again.

Until it's almost normal pace, and they are further from his bed. ] Back you go.

[ She flicks her fingers him to tell him they're changing direction, and she steps forward to send him back. ]

[protocol]

It might.

[ Maybe a little bit. Dancing is just. Really not his speed.

But once they start to actually move, there's an awkwardness, an uncertainty at first, but it might surprise her how quickly he settles into it. It's just another thing to study, another kind of movement to learn, something else to train his body towards, and once Wash realizes that he can look at it like any other kind of training, that's exactly what he does. He mimics her with the same meticulous attention as he had given the sword movements, watching her expression, for the slight hints whenever he did something wrong, correcting himself. It's not just the dance, it's a matter of keeping his posture, too, making sure he's still holding the sword the right way in his hand.

If this is dancing, he can see how it helps a fighter.

He's a quick study at this, too, careful, concentrated, though when they start to move backwards it's clear that that throws him off. He stumbles more than once, especially with the unfamiliarity of the robes, still, but never enough to actually lose his balance. As he steps back, this time he tries to keep his eyes up, forward, like he would be with an opponent -- or a dancing partner, perhaps. Trying to let his memory of the steps do the work, or reading her body rather than watching her feet, but he still has to look down, sometimes.

It's -- not perfect. But he's managing well enough. ]

[shri]

[ It becomes an easy flow, as she steps back and then forward. A scuttling step, not wide or broad. Just getting him used to holding his stance. Reminded her of the magnets in Tesla's laboratory, repelling each other at a perfect distance. Her eyes stay on him, though every so often she looks up to his face and gives him an encouraging nod when he does well. She doesn't have to say much, he is a fast learner, a good learner.

He focuses the way one always wants in a student.

Lets him go into that rhythm - and it is dance like, music like. Once the bells had been wrapped around her feet would help her keep time, and she can hear them still in her mind's eye, counting them by it. The shift up of the drum, Gangadhar's delighted laughter at his wife moving so easily to the time.

Lets him get comfortable, lets him feel that and then tests him again, changes her step suddenly and quickly to cross her right foot in front of left to side step, turning her body with it. Pausing there, to see if he mimicked back or fumbled with it. ]

Got that?

[protocol]

[ It doesn't feel like that much of a dance, once he gets into it -- he can feel the rhythm, there, but he can tell how this would be used in a fight, learning how to shift his weight, to move with it, keeping the blade steady at his side, feeling how he needs to hold it in order to keep himself balanced each time, even with the light weight of the rapier. Wash starts to be able to look more at her than their feet, eventually, a little from familiarity with the repeated movement and a little from learning to read her entire body, not just the feet.

She moves well, and Wash keeps being reminded of that dancing elegance from earlier, the fluid motions with which she'd spun the blade in her hands, how he'd almost not realized she was moving to attack when she'd spun around to face him until the blade was heading straight towards him. A few times, their eyes meet, Wash always searching for a sign of how he's learning, Lakshmi giving him a quiet nod here and there, and -- he wonders, what this must be, for her, if it's easier to teach him than to think of it. It probably is.

There's a sudden movement. Wash notices a difference in the way her body readies herself for the next movement, ready enough to try and follow whatever it is, and he mimics it readily enough. He doesn't trip, but turning his body with it when he's trying to watch her to copy it turns out difficult, and he loses his balance slightly, has to shift his feet out to steady himself, a slight stumble that he recovers from easily enough. ]

Almost. [ There's a tick in his jaw. He needs to do that better. ]