[ 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

[dendarii]

I don't care. Do I have to care?

[vorrutyer]

Yes. Are you even a Vorkosigan, or have you been a bastard all along?

[dendarii]

Fuck you, Byerly. Let me sulk for one day.

[vorrutyer]

Twenty-seven hours - [ You know, one day to a Barrayaran - ] is enough to change the course of empires. You really want to sit out a day? Or maybe two, maybe you need two. Or three? Or a week?

[dendarii]

That sounds fantastic if it means you get out of my hair.

[vorrutyer]

Or maybe I'll cut your throat right now. It might earn me some points with the soldiers here.

[dendarii]

[ With absolute certainty: ]

You won't.

[vorrutyer]

Give me a knife and come outside with me if you really believe that.

[dendarii]

[ A dangerous glint flares in his eyes at that. He has no weapons, of course, but ... he spies a guard he can easily palm one off of. ]

I'll meet you there.

[vorrutyer]

[ ...Ah. ]

Yes, and where are you getting the knife from?

[dendarii]

A guard, of course.

[vorrutyer]

Fine. Then I'll see you out there.

[ And he shoves himself to his feet. ]

[dendarii]

[ He'll call your bluff, Vorrutyer. It gives him something to do.

The guard never saw him coming; Miles snags the blade and heads outside. Snow flurries swirl around him and give him a deranged sort of halo as holds the knife. ]

Well?

[vorrutyer]

[ By takes it from him, a vaguely sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Well indeed. Now what? He tries to buy time: ]

This knife is garbage, Vorkosigan.

[dendarii]

You're not carving a masterpiece, Byerly. One slash will do it.

[vorrutyer]

[ Half-experimentally, he extends his hand. The tip of the knife slides under Miles' chin and stops there, the metal resting against his skin. His mouth, he finds, is dry. He wants to vomit. ]

So you want this, do you?

[dendarii]

[ Miles tilts his head just enough to grimace as the cold metal makes contact with his skin. One small slip and this is the end of him...

But he knows Byerly just well enough for this. The man needs Miles alive and well. ]

Stop stalling. You'll lose your audience.

[vorrutyer]

[ And Byerly hesitates another long, long moment. He looks away, then - then looks back and demands: ]

Give me your arm.

[dendarii]

[ Miles' eyes narrow. He isn't actually planning to get himself hurt here. ]

I told you to kill me, not bleed me dry.

[vorrutyer]

What's the difference to you how I do it? You'll be dead anyway. Give me your arm, I said.

[dendarii]

[ Fine, then. Miles stubbornly holds it out. Still watching Byerly's every move. ]

[vorrutyer]

[ And By grabs it - his fingers hard and harsh - and shoves up Miles' sleeve. And unless Miles jerks away, he will dig in that knife - just the point, just into the skin, not deep enough to damage muscle but in a spot that will hurt. ]

[dendarii]

[ Fucking hell. Miles can't help but cry out in pain as the knife blade sinks in. He tries to jerk away, which surely does more damage than Byerly himself would have done. ]

[vorrutyer]

[ By doesn't apologize, though, or flinch away. Instead he just stares at Miles, his eyes red-rimmed, strung-out and exhausted and scared and desperate and a little angry. Unblinking, searching Miles' face for any sign that there's anyone in there, anyone he can rely on, or whether he's really by himself out here. ]

More?

[dendarii]

[ Miles clutches at his now bleeding arm and stares back. That ... is not the expression he expected to see. Somehow the thought that Byerly might be just as lost and terrified as Miles hadn't quite sunk in yet.

Until now. His own eyes flare up again in grim determination. Yes, the situation is shit, but like hell he's going to take it lying down. ]

You've made your point.