[ 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

BARRAYAR: Byerly Vorrutyer

[vorrutyer]

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 ]

HELLO VORRUTYER. feb. 8-10th.

[truevor]

( Whether or not Byerly Vorrutyer intended to start a conversation with with that opening line is beyond the point -- Olivia isn't here to share poetry with him. The curve of her eyebrow skywards should just be etched onto her face before she goes to talk to him, Olivia thinks, because it would save her the effort later of doing so.

Although she can't ignore the fact that he seemed to be pulling his own weight, as it were. Not greatly -- having heard the results of the hunting party -- but it was something. One day, Olivia considers, they might near point where Byerly Vorrutyer's, like others of his last name, idiosyncrasies did not outweigh his value. But not there yet. There is something about him that puts her in the mind of something tolerated but not wanted, slick and hard to get a firm grip on. And that concerns her more than anything else. Especially with her sister. )

I'm certain there's plenty about the ice in a Vor maiden's heart. ( Is her countering response, having made the unfortunate mistake of being within Byerly's range. ) But I am not here to recite them at you. Come.

( She gestures at him to follow her, expecting him to do so without complaint or hesitance. )

hello vorkosigan

[vorrutyer]

[ Byerly can't help but eye her with a bit of wariness. No mistake: Olivia Vorbarra Vorkosigan is fair indeed of face, and gracious of manner, but she's as hard as her husband. Which is startling. It's not that he thinks Beta Colony makes one soft - good lord, no, everyone knows the story of Cordelia Vorkosigan's famous shopping trip - but it seems as though it ought to make one more measured. Do the Vor genes simply run that strongly in this woman? Is it some form of Dendarii atavism, that no matter how one was raised, one always reverts to a haughty vicious mountain maiden upon one's return to this planet? Good lord, he actually isn't certain whether he's going to escape from this meeting with this woman alive. He's honestly worried he's about to take a vorfemme knife to the chest. ]

May I at least know my crime, madam, before I am sent to the scaffold?

[ He presses his hand to his heart, half in salute and half in protection. Yet despite his slight hesitation, he does slither down from his perch to stand before her, ready to follow where she leads. ]

that's princess and countess olivia vorkosigan to you, buddy.

[truevor]

( Very good, Byerly. Olivia doesn't wait to answer him before she's leading him away -- back towards the center of the camp. If she is going to stab him, it will at least be a public stabbing. )

I only wish to talk to you about a certain... mutual acquaintance. That is all.

how about Olly

[vorrutyer]

[ A public stabbing. Ah, a true Vor lady indeed. ]

I should be pleased to. Quite pleased to, actually. I do love discussing friends. Which one?

try it and see what happens

[truevor]

Discussing them, Vorrutyer? It had passed my notice that the word had replaced gossiping about in Vorbarr Sultana. ( It's a cruel judgement of his character, true. But how he responds to it will tell her more about his character than anything else. ) Then again, I have been away for ten years. And so has the friend I wish to discuss.

( A pause, as she ushers him into a private tent -- the one shared by Sonia and Vorkosigan armsmen, although her sister is noticeably absent. )

My sister.

murder, right

[vorrutyer]

[ He responds to that judgment of his character with a casual - almost cheerful - spreading of his hands. A got it in one sort of gesture. He takes no offense to her harsh judgment, rather accepting it with equanimity.

Without missing a beat, he responds: ]

Your sister is a lovely woman. Formidable, too - more than even she realizes, I suspect. Are you concerned about her?

ain't no party like a hunting party

[omniavincit]

[ It doesn't take long to realize none of them know what they're doing. Which is strange—sending tourists out without a guide—but not William's concern. He's here for the feel of a knife in his hand, the possibility of breaking off from the others to find someone who isn't embroiled in this war story.

In the meantime, he's never shot a bow before. It's a learning experience. ]

I'm curious what you thought you were signing up for. [ There's a slight edge to William's voice. Golf, is his guess. Golf with arrows. That or foxes and hounds.

He jerks his head in the direction of the camp. ] You can go back. [ It certainly won't affect William's opinion of the man. ]

cause a hunting party is mandatory

[vorrutyer]

What - empty-handed? Don't be absurd. This is my chance at glory. Adulation. I'll return with a slain bear -

[ He grunts as he lowers himself down amongst the rocks, recovering that arrow. ]

Mikhail Ivanovich, I will name him. His pelt will make me a fine coat, and make the camp a fine stew. Admiration of the lovely women of our camp will follow - both of them - and wine, bottles of it, and then I will finally get properly drunk and properly laid. Marvelous vision, isn't it?

[ A few moments of blessed silence follow as he has to hold the arrow between his teeth so that he has both hands free to climb back up to William's level. Enjoy it while it lasts. ]

Y E S

[omniavincit]

[ He ignores the tide of horseshit as well as he can. The man's already sawing at his nerves—reminding him of Logan, everything he has to pay Logan back for. ] Uh huh. [ Two inflectionless syllables. William squints up at the treetops, the only bird in sight gliding far overhead. It's hard to imagine the feat of timing it would take to shoot one out of the sky, but that's the first step. Admitting the possibility.

He watches Byerly scramble to his feet. He makes no move to help. ] Maybe it's time to be smart about this. [ He says, before the other man can start up again. ] I'll shoot, you fetch the arrows. Anything I kill, we'll share bragging rights.

[ A shrug, a smile that stops just short of mockery. ] No blood on your clothes.

[vorrutyer]

What a marvelous idea.

[ By twirls the arrow in his hand - rather dexterously, fortunately. He might not be able to shoot a bow, but he does know a few party tricks. And then he puts one hand on one hip, and turns sideways, saying - ]

Imagine - blood ruining this sartorial splendor. Granted, yes, this coat is hideous, but my face absolutely makes it work.

[ He tugs his cuffs into place, then, and then bows, inviting him - ]

Fire at will. Fell me a bear.

[omniavincit]

[ William works his gaze over Byerly. At the other man's invitation, he imagines the blood.

What he wants to do—

William tips his head back. Not a flutter of movement above. He squares his shoulders, sets his feet. His lips press together as he nocks an arrow. He raises the bow, then lowers it to adjust his grip. Raising it again, he takes aim at the sky.

The arrow flies high and far, flashing briefly over the trees before falling out of sight.

William looks to Byerly, one eyebrow raised expectantly. ] Go get it.

[vorrutyer]

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.

Feb. 5

[terrifyingrenegade]

[Great news: Pearl is in a foul mood as well! How could she NOT be, when being human all of a sudden means that she's forced, on a regular basis, to chew and swallow revolting substances in order to keep her awful new meat body functioning?

She's giving her own rations a baleful look and trying to psych herself up into taking a bite, spoon clenched between tensed fingers, when she's approached by this strange, leering man.

She leers right back, and puts the spoon back down next to her bowl.]

Can I help you with something?

[vorrutyer]

Where are you from?

[ He sits down without being invited, dropping his spoon into the foul horse-flavored sludge and giving it a stir. His smile at her is mocking. ]

With those clothes - that headpiece. Completely out of the mode, you know.

[terrifyingrenegade]

[...Who is this guy and what the heck is his damage. Pearl's entire posture stiffens the second he sits down, her eye twitches a little at his comment.]

Excuse me, but I don't recall asking for your opinion. [She pointedly turns her glare back to her food and picks up the spoon again, muttering:] And I am not wearing a head piece.

[vorrutyer]

No? How marvelously strange.

[ He touches his chin, widening his eyes slightly. ]

Oh. Is there something wrong with your head, then...?

[terrifyingrenegade]

Wh -- [She looks genuinely taken aback. THE NERVE OF THIS MAN.] No there's nothing wrong with it, it's my gem! It's a part of my body!

[vorrutyer]

A gem, you say.

[ His mouth twists up. ]

Are they very expensive, such gemstones? Perhaps we might sell it to fund the war effort. It's a common thing, Vor women selling their jewels to fund war.

post-feb 15th.

[traitorous]

[ barrayar is starting to feel a lot like home.

home before the mother of invention, back when he was private clarke or zach and not agent maine of project freelancer. back then, he was fresh out of basic and itching for his first real fight, one finger always hovering an anxious inch above the trigger of a gun. instead of a fight, instead of marching on the front lines of a bloodied battlefield, he was immediately saddled with uneventful routine patrols and for five miserable months he didn't fire his gun one goddamned time.

then two weeks before his 17th birthday, while evacuating the few remaining civilians of a tiny village on a planet that had been half-razed by the covenent, a lone elite scout opened fire on his unsuspecting squad.

kneeling in the mud behind a humvee with a rifle in his arms, plasma rounds skimming his helmet and burning marks into the kevlar, civilians scurrying into buildings lit aflame because they'd rather deal with the fire than the faceless covenant — that was when shit felt real for the first time. the breaking point that placed him on the other side of the shattered glass, no longer desperate for a fight but constantly waiting for one because even in idle moments the threat of violence was still there.

at 16, war wasn't how he thought it'd be. it still isn't at 28.

he's used to it now, at least, the stretches of inactivity followed by a flurry of violent action. the quick scuffle in the cave had been a reminder that this shit is messy and that more than anything people are what make wars fucking unpredictable and difficult to navigate. vorhalas was just another casualty, in the end, one more face among many to forget.

a day after the incident at the cave, maine is on his knees in a quiet corner of the encampment, huddled in front of an impressive bundle of self-gathered sticks as he attempts to light a fire. the wind is particularly nasty today so the process is going a little slower than normal, with maine positioning himself so his back takes the brunt of the icy chill. he spots byerly approaching from the corner of his eye, and though he doesn't stop or stand to greet him, he does incline his head slightly toward him, brow lifted in silent question.

what can he do you for, mister mustache. ]

[vorrutyer]

[ Byerly doesn't linger awkwardly, even though it is at times a bit difficult to stand in front of such a mountain and not feel a touch awkward. Particularly when one is a rather thin and lanky sort, and yet was raised and socialized Barrayaran, and as such knows that being a mountain-of-a-man is the absolute physical ideal. No; even if he does feel a little strange looking upon this absolute model of beauty, he doesn't let that show. Instead, he simply greets the man with a bow - just a bit ironic, a bit mocking - and then kneels down beside him. ]

I have a touch of maple mead stored away. It makes for a most remarkable fire accelerant, if you desire that to help you kindle your flame. [ He tilts his head to the side, then, and a sly little smile plays upon his lips. ] I'll hardly even demand anything in return for the gift. Aren't I kind?

[traitorous]

[ suspiciously too kind, in fact.

even after nearly two months on barrayar, maine isn't quite used to strangers approaching him out of the blue as if he's a person and not a weapon, especially not types like byerly. as long and lanky as he is, he doesn't look or talk like he belongs in a war camp, seems more suited for cocktail party banter than guerrilla warfare.

maine's expression doesn't change; he stares at byerly impassively as he kneels down beside him, too close, near enough he could brush against him if he leaned a couple degrees to the right. too kind and too ballsy.

he plucks a stick from his pile and carves a few words into the ground for byerly to read. ]

DON'T BOTHER
I'M GOOD

[ wasting mead on a small campfire seems especially unwise right now with everyone on edge from the food shortage and the recent discovery of vorhalas' betrayal. ]

[vorrutyer]

[ Alas. And that would have been such an easy in - a small and easy path to cheap gratitude which then might breed a bit more openness. Byerly doesn't push the offer, because to push the offer would be suspicious; instead, he simply presses his hand to his heart and lowers his head in acknowledgment.

Well. Attempt number two: ]

Then perhaps I might offer it to you to drink? Shared with me, naturally. I'm not quite kind enough to give it all away.

[traitorous]

[ attempt number two hits its mark, though not without a slightly incredulous eye rake from maine to byerly. no one gives shit away for nothing. maine knows that better than most people, but he's spent his entire life being bigger and badder than almost everything and everyone around him and the thought that byerly could possibly mean him harm doesn't even cross his mind.

he sits back on his haunches, forgetting his failed campfire, and nods once to byerly's question. sure. alcohol doesn't do much for him except mildly warm his belly but he'll drink just to drink, why not. ]

[vorrutyer]

[ Well. Not exactly a chatty, enthusiastic, verbal response, but good enough. By fishes out the bottle of mead. In Barrayaran tradition - tradition that is trained into even a useless fop who lives miles and decades away from the time in which men would casually poison one another - he takes first drink, a long draught at the end of which he gives only a delicate shudder. (He himself can hold his liquor with the best of them.) And then he wipes his sleeve across the mouth of the bottle, with the air of completing a ritual, and hands it to Maine. ]

It is nice being - hmm - mildly heroic, isn't it? I'm finding I'm getting treated a bit better around here for having helped in apprehending that traitor. Even if you did the dirty work - kind of you to keep your mouth closed and let me take more than my share of the credit.

[ He cocks his eyebrow at Maine, then, a signal that that was a joke. A joke in poor taste, because who finds ha-ha you're mute jokes funny, truly? But a joke. ]