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forbarrayar2017-02-02 08:00 pm
barrayarmods) wrote in forbarrayar2017-02-02 08:00 pm
Entry tags:
- !event,
- #barrayaran camp,
- #cetagandan base,
- *diya d'zefyst,
- *olivia vorkosigan,
- *piotr vorkosigan,
- *sonia vorbarra,
- *zahal ghem-zefyst,
- agent maine | traitorous,
- beth greene | littlemissfutility,
- kaidan alenko | standsentinel,
- lakshmi bai | shri,
- lapis lazuli | mirrortide,
- ratchet | asafepairofhands
[ 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.
What: New arrivals, desperate times, whispers down the hall.
When: February 1st - 18th
Where: Barrayaran camp / Cetagandan base
Warnings: TBD
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.
post-feb 15th.
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
it's the kind of chatty that reminds him of wyoming, never saying exactly what he means, talking in clever tongues ( and awful puns ) over the mess table while maine rumbled quietly in response between mouthfuls of food. he watches byerly as he takes a swig of the mead, following that tell-tale shudder with the barest upward quirk of his lips, and takes the bottle from him when he passes it off.
he drinks like he's sipping water and not alcohol so strong the scent of it burns his nose, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue after he swallows. not bad. sweeter and stickier than he expected, especially going down.
you always this benevolent with strangers? is what he'd ask if he could still talk. he can't, though, so he passes the mead back with his right hand and scribbles carelessly into the ground with his left. the words are still easily legible, neat and clean, even when he's looking more at byerly than at what he's writing. ]
DON'T LIKE GETTING YOUR HANDS DIRTY?
no subject
Who does?
[ He settles back a bit, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he gets more comfortable. ]
The clean-up is always miserable, after all. Having to scrub under your nails, and the smell never does come out...I've always found there are three types of people in the world: those who don't have enough power to keep from getting their hands dirty, those who do, and a small subset of people who don't necessarily have to get their hands dirty but are a bit too control-freaky to let others do their work. Each one of these groups passes judgment on the others, but everyone is morally culpable.
[ He takes another drink from the bottle once it's passed back. ]
This felt good enough, though. Not much moral destruction in keeping people fed. Rather more in, mmm...Well. Vorhalas' fate won't be pretty, I think.
no subject
everything about barrayar is as familiar as it is unfamiliar. just when he thinks he's adjusted, he's thrown another bizarre fucking curveball: losing lakshmi to the cetagandans, york and wash attacking him, vorhalas at the cave, and now byerly lazily sprawled out beside him in the freezing cold.
he keeps his weight on his haunches, leaned slightly forward over his knees. easier to write this way. ]
YOU GOT SHIT ALL FIGURED OUT.
[ it's not a barb, even if he disagrees with byerly's extremely broad assessment of the world and its people. ]
KEEP YOUR HANDS DIRTY ENOUGH & YOU STOP WORRYING ABOUT WHAT'S ON THEM.
no subject
[ He arches his eyebrows thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side. His expression is mild. Inside, he does feel a little twist of bitter recognition. Yes. True enough. Byerly's hands, in truth, are coated - not with blood, because very few of his marks ever end up in front of any firing squads. Or under executioners' blades. No, his hands are always thoroughly coated with shit, the stinking sewage of humanity that he plunges into again and again for his job. For money. For the glory of the Imperium and his Emperor. For doing what's...right and moral. Over the years, he's almost gone nose-blind to how much he stinks of shit. The only way he can recognize the stench any longer is by the disgust in others' faces. Stop worrying about it indeed...
But he smiles a careless fop's smile. ]
Perhaps so. I suppose that's the story of those traitors, too. They've simply kept themselves buried in it - their lies, their betrayals of those around them - and given themselves no time to think.
[ Then, casually: ]
Any thoughts on who his allies might be?
no subject
but he has a strong suspicion that byerly has a few thoughts of his own that he wouldn't mind sharing, so he sits, stretching his legs out beside byerly's and angling himself toward him, waiting patiently for whatever he might say next. ]
no subject
Oh, I have no notions. I wish I did. That would be nice, wouldn't it - catching more traitors? Think of the rewords. I just thought - hm - you might have seen something more.
no subject
speaking of the mead. he rolls byerly's flippant prodding off with another shrug, lifting a hand to tug ( surprisingly gently ) at the base of the bottle, fingers brushing just under byerly's hand. then, with a flagrant disregard for byerly's personal space, he leans in and over byerly's legs, spelling one word in the ground with the tip of his index finger. ]
? PLEASE ?
[ plot twist, the bearish brute has manners. ]
no subject
Ah, such pretty manners.
[ He sweeps his lashes (absurdly long and beautiful) down over his dark eyes. He doesn't release his hold on the bottle, but tugs back at it playfully. ]
But you with no information to offer...I ought to demand some other prize for my generosity.
no subject
the answer is never. never ever ever, not here or in freelancer, not in any star system or universe, not once.
byerly is totally fucking with him. that's fine. that's new and new feels fucking good. but fair's fair.
he hums, the sound a low rumble in his chest and also the only warning byerly will get, before he slides his hand from the bottle to byerly's wrist, hooking two fingers in his jacket's sleeve and tugging the material over his arm. his thumb finds his pulse, presses in, delicately traces the vein from the heel of his palm to the crook of his elbow. the hand still stretched across byerly's legs returns to his written please to etch another question mark in the ground.
how's that for unsubtle. ]
no subject
But that touch is - unsubtle. Because, yes. Soldierly types. Unsubtle. Always unsubtle...
By licks his lips, a touch uncertain. And then he takes a swig from the bottle - and then passes it over again, this time without wiping the neck clean. He watches Maine carefully, his eyes steady, his gaze intense and unblinking. ]
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but byerly is still here for some fucking reason, and if maine can't fight he might as well entertain himself in other ways. so he takes the mead from him and briefly lowers his lashes, tongue purposefully meeting the neck of the bottle first before he follows with his lips and swallows a burning mouthful, chest glowing hot as it goes down, down, down.
this shit's definitely stronger than anything they had holed up in freelancer; a couple swigs and maine's 90% sure it's enough to make anyone's breath dangerously flammable.
he hands the mead back, focusing on byerly's face again, as reliably silent as ever. ]
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There is a risk here, of course. God knows. It certainly isn't out of the realm of possibility that the man will turn feral after this, attack By for misinterpreting the signs - some people, on the brink of fulfilling their desires, find themselves consumed with terror. And, therefore, aggression. But it's worth it, he thinks. Sex is a way to get your hooks in people, the act of physical intimacy inevitably engendering some emotional intimacy. Can't get information from someone? Amazing what they'll say once you've seen them vulnerable. It's one of his tried and true strategies, along with get them drunk and pretend to be passed out while other people are talking.
And besides that...God, he's so cold. He'd like to feel a bit of warmth. And Maine seems warm.
So he slips his hand under his coat - and then withdraws just a bit to strip off his glove. And then he goes again, sliding his now-bare skin there, trying to find his way under his shirt to touch his stomach. ]
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he tries to remember the last time he was touched like this – months ago, on leave, a warm body in a spaceport bar, nameless. he tries to remember the last time he was approached like this – years ago, before freelancer, or maybe only weeks ago when he arrived to barrayar, rani kneeling too close as she offered him her scarf, falling forward into his arms to stop him from attacking the barrayan soldiers a second time.
byerly isn't like rani ( no one is like rani, he's sure ), or any person he's fucked and touched. he's pretty, with an aristocratic face, sharp features and long lashes and a smart mouth that probably only rarely stops talking. maine wonders if he has calluses, if he's killed anyone.
a few seconds pass. maine traces the shape of his jaw with the back of his fingers, stroking under his chin to feather his knuckles across his neck. another second, another pause, another warning, and then he's moving all at once, hooking a hand under his jaw to push his head back, mouth on his throat, teeth and tongue against his pulse. his free hand slides between his thighs, curling high up on one of his legs and squeezing firmly. ]
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He pulls back. Shudders with jittery pleasure when Maine squeezes his leg, giving a groan of sheer approval. He hates the way the spit on his skin chills at once. Wants more closeness, more hard teeth and forceful confidence. How marvelous is it, being with someone confident? Someone who doesn't seem ashamed? Someone, though, who clearly doesn't understand this place. ]
Not where people can see.
[ He reaches up to smooth back and adjust his hair. His breath has quickened. ]
We need to find somewhere - private. There's a cave. A quarter kilometer from here.
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his hand slides an inch higher on his leg, squeezing firmly a second time, and then all at once — again, because maine works in wide, sprawling strides and not tiny steps — he pulls away, hefting himself onto his feet.
he turns once he's indulged in a lazy, arching stretch, offering byerly his arm. up you go, then, if you're serious. ]
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Well. Byerly doesn't want the man dead. And anyway, that's all a terribly phallic line of thinking, penetration and spilled fluids, and he's much fonder of other phallic ways of thinking. Which are, presently, quite a bit more relevant than backstabbing and murders.
And so, with exaggerated elegance, he places his bare hand (less impeccably manicured than usual, damn this camp) on Maine's arm and uses it to lever himself upright. A lazy, sweeping salute thanks him for his service, and then he steps out and takes the lead. Damn, but those touches were - good. Needed. His blood is still flowing.
The walk to the cave is indeed brief. They're there within only a few minutes, and as they approach By wheels suddenly and presses his own mouth against Maine's throat. If you're serious. Take that. ]
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