forbarrayar | [ january i log: barrayar ]

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[ january i log: barrayar ]

Who: Everyone
What: Arrival on Barrayar and what follows
When: January 2nd - January 17th
Where: Barrayaran guerrilla camp
Warnings: None (at the moment)

welcome to barrayar.
It's the dark of night when you come to in the foothills. Snow on the ground, chill winter wind whistling. 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 nine 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.

They're dressed in weather-worn green uniforms, bearing swords and bows, and they surround you immediately, poised to attack. But they quickly realize you're not their enemy, the ones they call Cetagandans. They're just as confused as you are, but rather than hanging around to puzzle it out, they start shepherding you toward their camp in the mountains while it's still dark. There's a war on, they say, and you unlucky bastards have just been dropped right smack in the middle of it.

the guerrilla camp
It's a few hours' hike through the mountains to get to their hidden camp, set up in a clearing framed by dense, hard forestry and backed against a rock face. Daylight is finally dawning when you make it there. You and your fellow sudden arrivals are ushered to an empty tent on the far end of the camp, just big enough to fit all ten of you. You can't help but notice they've posted guards all around it. You aren't under arrest – they just don't know what else to do with you.

You are able to glean, from hearsay and what the soldiers are willing to share with you, that you are on a planet called Barrayar, and this is their home, and ten years ago they were attacked without warning by the Cetagandan Empire. They've been holed up in the mountains fighting against their invaders ever since, outgunned and outmanned, but scoring little victories where they can. They don't tell you much more than that. Some dialect of Russian seems to be one of the predominant languages of the camp, but for the most part they all speak English too, if with an accent. They're gruff and wary, and if you look a little less – or more – than human, they'll eye you with suspicion, maybe even make obscure hex signs at you that seem intended to ward off evil or disease. But they aren't hostile to you, not unless you start something with them.

the outsiders' tent
It's not in the greatest shape, but if you look around the camp, the rest aren't much better off. It's cramped, but you've at least been provided with bedrolls and heavy wool blankets to ward off the frozen chill, and if you're in need of clothing, they'll provide it, although it probably hasn't been washed in…a while. The soldiers bring you food at mealtimes -- not very good food, mostly tough meat and groats, and they keep you your own campfire, just to keep you warm. They've also hastily dug you your own latrine area at the edge of the perimeter, just behind the treeline. No private bathroom stalls in this outfit, unfortunately. The entire camp seems tense and wary, and the soldiers are alert, but they don't talk much. You could try sneaking past them, but you probably won't get far.

Well, at least you've got each other for company: the outsiders on Barrayar.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Taking her on a very nice tour around the tent. He does look genuinely pleased to see the camp covered in snow as it is, his breath fogging in the cool air. God, he missed this. ]

Ah ... it really is beautiful.

[ Let it never be said that she didn't try to enjoy it. Her make shift veil drawn up across her mouth and nose as with her long walk here, to keep the heat in, but - she has more enjoyment in his appreciation of it than she does of her own self.

Though she can understand it. There is something so - sharp and soft to it all the same. ]

I suppose it is. [ The newly cleaned gold glints brightly off the light, the threads of gold in the material at her head, the splash of red at her waist where it's tied off securely. ] But home often is, isn't it?

[ Her eyes are crinkled at the sides, an almost smile that she doesn't bare. ]

Indeed it is. No matter how far I go, this damn planet is always home ...

[ Said with utter fondness, despite the description. He stoops in the snow to scoop and then mold a snowball between his fingers. ]

We are the places that made us, for good or ill. [ She steps a little way from him, enjoying stretching her legs momentarily from sitting for the while she'd been cleaning. ]

Just so. Products of our environment...

[ He says, nonchalantly pelting her back with a snowball. ]

[ She most definitely is, the second wet cold suddenly hits in her in the back the head, she whirls - and maybe it is a good thing that she doesn't have weapon because the way she gropes of where her long knife had sat at her back - it's clear what would be in her hand right now - turning sharp on her heel, dropping her weight low, wait for - something not cold, something wet and warm and the snarling sound of a Lycan at the back of her neck.

A warrior, her father had instructed, is expected to draw his blade when struck by so much as a pebble.

It takes her a second to cool herself - calm herself down, and then her father's wisdom continued. Reaction is the measure of battle and she's quickly snatching up a handful of snow that she flings back messily to get him on the retreat. ]

[ He probably should have expected that response. Lakshmi reaching for her weapon is unmistakeable; he's done much the same in similar situations. It makes him like her even more, though, even though the gesture was essentially aimed at him. He laughs a little as he turns to flee - and laughs again as her own snowball smacks him square in the back of the head. ]

A worthy blow, my lady.

My lady, indeed.

[ She's moving to give chase almost the second he does - and if the guards are laughing at them, she ignores it. Because it does feel good to move like this - even if she downplays it. No doubt, they're being watched by someone, of course they will be - it's what she would do. So she's a little slower than she could be, and there's no miming how strange she is to snow, getting used to how to hold it in her fingers, hissing at the cold against what her gloves left bare. Compacting it to throw it back. ]

Retreating already?

[ Miles, meanwhile, is just determined to have fun. He has no real combat ability to speak of, and everything he does need to hide is mental. So he throws himself into it whole-heartedly. He needs something to sink his mania into. ]

Like hell. You'll have to do much worse.

[ He swiftly packs together another one and launches it at her. ]

[ This time at least she sees it coming, and her arm comes up to block it, splattering her still, but at least not her head this time before she's hurling it straight back.

Because more than anything what she has to be careful of is the strength of the blackwater humming in her veins, she knows, and luckily, playful as this is, she has no reason to reach for it. ]

Glady. [ it's a easy counter, throwing herself to the side as she throws what she's holding. ]

[ This time Miles ducks neatly. Sometimes it pays to be a smaller target. He dashes around the side of the tent, scooping up snow as he tries to sneak up on her from behind. ]

[ She presses herself back immediately, her back to the tent and she leans around the corner to see where he's gone. Idly packing snow between her hands. ]

[ Wrong corner. Miles comes up from behind and hurls another snowball at her head. ]

Watch your back, my lady.

[ It's freezing, and it gets under her collar, her shoulders jump turning sharply - she should have heard him, she should have - whirling on her heel, cold trickling down her back.

She'll think about it later. Right now, she can hear the guards laughing loudly at them, and she bites back quickly. ]

Curr.

[ It's snapped back, the next one lobbed directly at his face - and the guards laughter gets louder. ]

[ He deserved that. Miles stumbles back over something covered in the snow and ends up flat on his back. That ... seems a good enough moment to end it. He waves his hand in surrender, still laughing as he wipes snow off his face. Good to hear the guards laughing too - that will surely be helpful later. He's just a harmless little guy... ]

I surrender, I surrender. You are too much for me.

[ She strides forward to see he's alright, mostly out of habit more than she thinks she's done any true damage. Smiling as she does, light, a shortness of breath against the cold air from the ever so slight exertion. ]

I suppose I can be magnanimous in victory.

[ and she offers him her hand up. ]

[ No harm done here. Not even a bump on his head thanks to the soft snow. He gladly accepts her hand up, though, as it saves him an awkward recovery. ]

Are you at least convinced about how lovely snow can be?

[ He's not even half the weight of Galahad, and she draws him up easily. A close moment where she's smiling, before she lets her hand drops. ]

Alright, I suppose you have me at that. It has some uses.

[ It was a welcome distraction as ever. ]

[ Good enough then if it makes her smile like that. He reaches up to helpfully brush a bit of snow from her shoulders. ]

Just so. But perhaps we'd best get back and warm up.

[ She sighs, permitting him to do so by way of not moving out from underneath his touch, respectful as it is. Where it's warmed and melted on her, she already feels the slight damp. ]

Perhaps. If I am not given something to do soon, I am afraid I'll burn it down. There's only so much time wasted in maintenance for weapons I don't have I can spend before I go mad.

[ An entirely sympathetic sigh in return. When the snow is cleared off, he heads back towards the tent proper. ]

I completely agree. Normally I've got a million things to do. A mercenary outfit to run.

[ She follows him, but a step behind, one last glance past herself to the guards who are resuming their post without their entertainment of a pair of fools playing like children in the snow. Granted, maybe it would humanise them to not be under proverbial lock and key.

When would someone be sent to ask them questions, she wondered? They were clearly not in a position to ask for themselves. ]

Mercenaries? [ A hum, if only she had those still.

No that wasn't fair, the men and women she had recruited in England were good fighters. They just weren't military. ]

That must keep you busy.

[ Miles wishes he had his mercenaries here too. Or at all. He sobers a little, reminded of his own troubles back home. No matter what happens, his career offworld is completely dead. ]

Gloriously so. I was at odd ends before, desperately looking for anything that might suit. That's how I ended up in charge of a small outfit. Accidentally, really.

[ She walks past him, picking her way around the other's sleeping rolls and anyone still sleeping in them carefully back towards the fire in the middle of the space. Carefully she goes around them, unclasping her wide metal plated belt as she does - her over jacket is wet from the snow, and she's no interest in it.

Still, she has enough layers on at present. The belt, then the burnt orange sash at her waist, then last the red tied off cloth at her forearm - the crow that calls on it all messily painted ink. The clothes are looked after, it's true, but they are worn. Nothing pretty about them anymore. She wears them hard and they are frayed at the edges. If she is a great lady, it has been a long time since it meant anything like fine clothes.

The stripped blue jacket is hung up near the fire, she retires the red sash and belt to her waist - perhaps she does not hate snow so much, but she still felt the cold. Speaking with him idly as she let herself warm up. ]

That must be quite the story tell. [ Happy to let him speak, it means she doesn't have to. ]

[ Miles' own clothes are worn too, though they were once quite fine as well. His are more the worn of long use rather than combat; he'd been wearing some of his older stuff for the ride up to Silvy Vale, after all, and he hadn't seen any need to change after. He glances over her own outfit thoughtfully. Definitely nobility of some sort, yes. Ousted, perhaps? On the run? But she does still have her jewelry ...

He strips out of his own light jacket and lays it in front of the fire. A spiderweb of scars glimmers at the hollow of his neck, along with two white lines down his jugular veins. ]

I suppose it is. [ He gives her a smile in the firelight. ] Trade you mine for yours?

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*gladly wtf spell check y u no have my back

autocorrect is evil, that's why

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