[ january i log: barrayar ]

[barrayarmods]

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.

Comments

[vorbratta]

The warmth is mirrored in Sonia's smile, because for all they're gleefully playing one another, he really is turning out to be good company. She rests her chin in one hand, one eyebrow raised, looking amused.

"Then fashions in Vorbarr Sultana must have changed wildly in the last ten years," Sonia says, a touch dryly, because Vorbarr Sultana's been under occupation since she was thirteen. "And you're mistaken. This right here is haut couture among the Dendarii hillfolk."

A small smirk, a tilt of her head. Her hair tumbles down over one shoulder. "Vorbarr Sultana," she says, and it isn't a lie -- Xav and his wife had taken her uterine replicator back to Barrayar for the uncorking, for the Emperor-her-grandfather's benefit. And then, even more truthfully, "I miss it."

[vorrutyer]

That...surely isn't the whole truth. True, it's certain she isn't a true hill-maid; he's never met hillmen before, no, but he's heard enough parodies of the accent that he can place her as not-from-here. (One of By's favorite satirical programs portrays the former Regent as having a Dendarii hick accent. It's fond, truly.) No - not Dendarii, that accent. But not Vorbarr Sultana...

It was thinking of that satire that helped him place it. She doesn't speak like a parody of the Viceroy of Sergyar; she speaks like a parody of his wife. Betan-inflected, this girl. Which makes her...What? Sister to the other Vor lady? Handmaiden? Servant-girl? Cousin? Mother? (You never could tell with Betans.)

"You strike me as more of a city girl than a country girl, it's true." He touches his chin, and offers, "Of late, there's been a trend towards trousers and tunics as formal-wear." Influence of the new Empress. "Silk, with daring décolletage, in the most gloriously jewellike shades. With your complexion, you'd look stunning in such attire."

[vorbratta]

A pointed raise of eyebrows, although she smiles, pleased, in acknowledgment of the shameless flattery. Sonia remembers Vorbarr Sultana last she'd seen it, barely functioning under the heavy Cetagandan occupation, in a constant state of unrest. As far as she's concerned, Byerly's selling her a fantasy, and one she'll buy with pleasure. Still, Byerly, you're testing her suspension of disbelief here.

"Vor women in trousers? Really?" She looks amused. "Hm. Perhaps you can send me a catalogue. I do like color." A lame joke, but Sonia's struck with a sudden burst of homesickness. She leans forward. "So, what did you do in Vorbarr Sultana once you got there?"

He doesn't really look like he does anything, and she's curious.

[vorrutyer]

"I," he responds with profound dignity, "charm, flirt, and gambol. Gamble, too, rarely. And drink." He smooths down his hair and says, "I have the good fortune and good friends that allow me to spend my time living the life of the mind - going to salons, discussing the events of the day, discussing literature and art. Traveling, at times, with a charming woman on my arm - someone who knows how to laugh, how to charm, someone with wit."

More simply: he doesn't do a damned thing, no.

"And you, dear lady? Since I have never had the pleasure of so traveling with you as my sparkling companion, what do you do here?"

[vorbratta]

Sonia actually lets out the tiniest of wistful sighs as he talks, conjuring up images of what her life ought to be, without this war in the way. It doesn't matter if Byerly is embellishing in any way, which she half-suspects he is, as much as he likes to exaggerate. This is the most bizarre sense of normalcy she's had in a long time. She puffs out a laugh at his question, her smile tilted.

"Me? I help out around the camp, where I can. They tell me I'm good for morale."

[vorrutyer]

"Self-evidently," he flatters smoothly. "Sunshine is good for the soul - all the more so in winter." But his smile turns a little wryer, and he asks, "But tell, pray - how do you help out? Don't tell me they make you shovel snow and the like. I should hate to think of those gracious hands suffering blisters."

[vorbratta]

"Ah," Sonia says, holding up a finger, and she wags it at Byerly with a half-smile. "It's my turn. Put a pin in that thought, Byerly."

She blithely lets Bylery carry her away with flattery -- he isn't insincere, he's funny, and a strange taste of home -- and it's not likely to last, anyhow. It isn't as though she isn't aware of it. Sonia's still smiling, almost starry-eyed, but intent with curiosity.

"How did you find yourself all the way over here?" she asks, looking over him again with great interest. "You didn't really get -- zapped here, or whatever, like all the others from different worlds, did you?"

[vorrutyer]

His response is a wry, "Zapped indeed. I do like that turn of phrase, zapped. It's so...evocative." Then he pushes back his forelock, and sighs, and replies, "Quite so, I fear. Not from another world, of course - I'm as Barrayaran as they come - but from...elsewhere." Then, with a bit of a smile - "The precise nature of that elsewhere constitutes my secret, and so I cannot part with that information right now."

And then he sweeps his hand at her. "So do tell me your duties, Sonia. Or your hobbies, I suppose - I do detest that duty has that more serious ring to it, as though what you undertake willingly is of less value than what you are requested and required to do. Tell me how you engage yourself, I suppose."

[vorbratta]

Sonia almost looks disappointed. She's glad to have another Barrayaran to talk to -- someone so much like herself, although he's at least several years her senior -- somehow the knowledge that he arrived her along with all the outsiders puts a bit of a damper on it.

But then he mentions the secret again, and oh, Sonia is invested in this game. She'll work for that secret.

"How I engage myself?" She lets the question hang in the air for an extra moment, smiling broadly. "Oh, you know. Staring at the moons in soulful contemplation. Braiding my hair. Long walks on the mountainside..."

She lets out a pfff and tosses her hair over her shoulder, still grinning. "Spending time with my sister, whenever I can. She always does make time for me." It's important, maybe one of the most important things to her in this war. She contemplates telling Byerly about the sport she's made of ditching her armsman, but hm, no. Not the time to let that slip. She pauses for a moment, thoughtfully, and then she turns slightly diffident, lacing her fingers together.

"I have an old camera," she confesses, "rather an antique, at least by galactic standards. But it still works. I take pictures, and...collect them, mostly. Some things ought to be remembered."

[vorrutyer]

"Really." The smile that crosses his face is not, for once, flirtatious or coy or ironic or theatrical, but rather genuinely surprised and charmed. How curious. The pursuit of art - at least art of that sort - is not a standard Vor-lady pursuit. Nor a standard prole-lady pursuit. Barrayar, especially Occupation-era Barrayar, never had time for aesthetics and appreciation. Less so for the recording of history - because as she said, the pictures are for remembrance, but at this time people are more in a desperate scramble to live, rather than thinking of what their descendants down the line will think of this time. Something that has left his generation rather the poorer with regards to their knowledge.

So, altogether without flattery, with genuine curiosity, he asks, "Would I be able to see them? I'd quite like to."

[vorbratta]

Flattery gets you almost everywhere, but that genuine interest elicits something no amount of flattery could have -- an earnest diffidence and hopefulness. More than any outrageous compliment, it's this that brings a little touch of color to Sonia's cheeks, and she bats her eyes downwards for a minute, but she can't contain her smile.

"Really?" Her smile grows sunny. "I could bring some along next time, if you like."

[vorrutyer]

Oh, that is a fetching look. Not that arch flirtatious expression she's had up to this point, but that blush, that shyness - not coyness, something more genuine. That hint of vulnerability. God pity the man she sets her sights on, when she sets her sights: that girlish earnestness is enough that a man might lose his heart to her. He wonders if she has any notion of the sheer, unadulterated power of that look.

"I'd like that very much," he says - with, he'll confess, a small twinge of the heart, because By might be jaded and cynical but even he is not (alas) immune to that sort of thing. Damn. "Your absolute favorites. The ones that make you gladdest. And I - " He glances around, then sighs - "I shall draw a few figures in the snow using a stick, and hope that they will bring you some measure of pleasure. Or at least pity enough that you'll smile at them."

[vorbratta]

However clever can be with people, Sonia hasn't yet let herself learn what real sincerity can bring you. But Byerly's earnest interest draws her out, and her smile widens. She even forgets the game a moment, clasping her hands over her knees.

"I will," she says earnestly, and then her mouth tilts with amusement and interest, and she remembers the paper-wrapped sugar tucked against her palm. "Perhaps I shall bring some paper, too. Are you an artist, Byerly?"

[vorrutyer]

Ah. Paper. That's a resource, even if it's one he doesn't fully know how he might exploit right now (perhaps he might use it to write down some of his original poetry, so that the Barrayaran command will know for certain he's not a Cetagandan spy; after all, no Cetagandan would ever work with someone whose rhymes were that banal), and so he'd be a damned poor agent if he answered anything other than, "Yes, very much so." He is, of course, compelled to admit, "One without any great talent, it must be noted - " Lamentably true; his swans end up coming out more as squashed ducks, and once he'd (semi-deliberately) brought an end to one of his love affairs just by painting a portrait of his putative beloved. "But with some passion."

Still, it feels a poor thanks to answer her truths with only lies. So, confession for confession, passion for passion, he admits, "What I have some skill for - and passion for - is music." The corner of his mouth lifts. "Though I suppose they haven't too many violins sitting around this camp."

[vorbratta]

Sonia's face glows with delight and interest. Everyone's always much too busy for art and music, at least out here. Back in Vorbarra's District... Hm. Sonia smiles in return, turning the sugar over in her palm.

"If they ever did, they've probably been broken down and used for firewood by now." A pitiful waste of a musical instrument. This damned war. "I'd like to ask you if you sing, but -- I believe it is your turn to ask a question." She grins a little wider, eyes alight. "Or would you consider the game over?"

[vorrutyer]

"I'm tempted," he says mildly, fingers tracing his lower lip, "to ask your surname." The corner of his mouth lifts. No, if she hasn't introduced herself yet, she probably doesn't want to. And he - Well. He would like to enjoy a little bit of mystery. So he drops his hand and says, instead - "No, I've a much better question. Do you dance?"

[vorbratta]

Sonia's eyes widen just slightly as he prods gently at the subject she's been neatly skirting around, though her smile doesn't waver. Mercifully, he doesn't pursue it, changing tack, and her face positively glows. In Sonia's book, dance is code for anything but -- well, sometimes actual dancing, too. But she doubts even Byerly would be that forward in broad daylight, however entertaining the thought, so she keeps on playing the coquette, her smile widening.

"At every available opportunity," she says, but then adds, regretfully, "but I don't get many."

[vorrutyer]

"Ah," he says, sweeping his eyelashes down at her - "A pity. I'd like to see it happen."

Then he looks up again, his smile equal parts sly and fond.

"Perhaps we ought to make an opportunity. Eh?"

[vorbratta]

Sonia knows exactly what he's doing -- and she's delighted. This is what she should have, without this damned war. Pretty boys pulling out all their favorite tricks for her. Well, alright, men, he's at least several years her senior, but that's hardly a damper. Ah, but with all these guards... Sonia's smile mirrors Byerly's.

"If Count Vorkosigan ever lets you all out." She's pretty sure it isn't much of an if, but Sonia's not privy to what, exactly, his thoughts or intents on the matter are. She turns the maple sugar over between her fingers. "I'll hold you to that."

[vorrutyer]

Ah. That is the issue, isn't it. For a moment, his smile twists; the expression is raw and unfeigned. He ducks his head to hide it, but it's still there, and he expects she can read it. Nevertheless, he keeps his voice light, asking her, "And if he doesn't? Will you continue to come visiting your poor prisoner? I might die without beauty in my life."

[vorbratta]

She does see it, and she wasn't expecting it -- her lips part slightly, but she doesn't react beyond that. It'd only embarrass him, she's sure. So instead she gives him a sunny smile with just a bit of cheek and says, "Of course. Charity is a great virtue, you know. And," she says, allowing her smile to tilt into a smirk, "a beautiful flower needs a little sunlight every now and then."

[vorrutyer]

"Hah." He looks up at her, then, an honest grin splitting his face. He's charmed by the comment. "Then allow me to be your sunshine, milady. Or failing that - your rain. I cannot promise that I'll always be radiant, but I can promise that I'll have adoration to feed you with."

He holds out his hand to her, then. It's a clear and rather courtly request for her wrist.

[vorbratta]

Sonia actually flushes slightly, her smile fond as she graciously extends her wrist. She almost can't help it. Damn it all, he's just delightful. There's a bubble of normalcy around this conversation that she's been craving for years.

[vorrutyer]

A truly skilled individual can lend the thrill of the erotic to kissing even innocuous parts of the body. The wrist, for example: not an erogenous zone. Well, not traditionally. He once did sleep with a Polian who he'd reduced to a quivering wreck with nothing more than a hand massage...Fine memory, that.

Regardless, for most people, the wrist is not so intensely erotic - but if you treat it right, you can make them shiver. It has to do with timing, the precise length of each pause as you touch, press, meet their eyes, dip your head. It has to do with the exact pressure on their wrist. It has to do with the intensity of your own gaze as you meet theirs, the way your fingertips find beneath their glove in the split second before you lower your eyelashes. It has to do with ensuring there's just enough gap between glove and sleeve that they can feel, faintly, the butterfly-soft touch of the skin of your lips. And it has to do with the withdrawal - with the way you look at them after, the blend of admiration and longing and appreciation with which you meet their eyes.

"Milady," he murmurs, waiting to see if he's timed everything perfectly enough that she'll shiver bodily, or whether being unbathed and ungroomed has reduced his power.

[vorbratta]