[ 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

[vorrutyer]

I never said any such thing. I'm only repeating what others have said.

[dendarii]

[ Realization suddenly occurs to him: ]

You don't know.

[vorrutyer]

What, did you think I was standing beside you on Komarr as you did it?

[dendarii]

No, I assumed you had an actual report on the matter. Being domestic affairs and all.

[vorrutyer]

I'm flattered you think I rank an update on your activities, milord.

[dendarii]

Surely in this case you would know. Or am I overestimating you?

[vorrutyer]

I'm an agent, not an analyst. I observe, report, and serve. Partially, in this particular case, on that very rumor. But no - I was not on the need-to-know list regarding its veracity.

[ A faint smile. ]

I never could quite decide whether it was true or not.

[dendarii]

Then you're asking the wrong person. I obviously have no idea.

But it doesn't seem like me to kill a man and then marry his widow.

[vorrutyer]

It is a bit more of a Vorrutyer move. It's true.

[dendarii]

You said it, not me.

[vorrutyer]

Though of course you've Vorrutyer blood...

[dendarii]

I'm related to most of the other Vor families. As are you.

[vorrutyer]

And heir, therefore, to all our collective, systemic vices. And I don't think there is a single vice unknown to the Vor at large.

[dendarii]

Which you would know better than most?

[vorrutyer]

I'll have you know that I curate my vices cautiously. I've only the classiest, most genteel assemblage of them. Carrying off widows like the villain in the Mutant of Vorfolsegrad - [ The mutant in that old bit of novelistic garbage actually murdered heroic young paramours to carry off an assemblage of maidens, not of widows, but point well made nevertheless, he thinks - ] Is a bit beyond the pale for me.

[dendarii]

[ Still rude, Byerly. ]

But not for a mutant? Is that what you're insinuating?

[vorrutyer]

I could not say. I don't know the mind of a mutant. - Do you, milord?

[dendarii]

You clearly expect me to. Why is that, Byerly?

[vorrutyer]

I expect nothing. I wouldn't dare.

[dendarii]

[ Miles' tone is acerbic. ]

Either have the stones to say the word to my face, or fuck off.

[vorrutyer]

You're the one who began speaking of it. I was just quoting literature. My, you are sensitive. Will you explode like this if one of these backcountry barbarians names you mutant? Because if so, we're going to have dire problems indeed.

[dendarii]

They're my backcountry barbarians. You are nothing of the sort.

[vorrutyer]

Ah. So a common point of origin makes these slurs charming, instead of something that makes you shriek and stomp your foot?

[dendarii]

They will just use the word. Instead of dancing ever so delicately around calling me a mutant to my face.

So say it, Byerly. Or get out of my face.

[vorrutyer]

[ Byerly rolls his eyes upwards, as though searching for strength, and then clicks his fingers at him repeatedly like summoning his attention. ]

Focus up, Vorkosigan. This isn't the time to fight about something so worthless as that. Honestly, I need you together, not mewling about your genetic status.