forbarrayar | [ 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

[ 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?

[ 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.

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

Give me your arm.

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

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

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

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

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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?

[ 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.

[ He steps back, then, dropping Miles' arm, mouth twisting in disgust at the wound and the violence. Not his scene. Very much not his scene. Sorting truth from lies, on the other hand - that's a little closer to what he's good at. His eyes search Miles' face, and he sees truth there. It drains a little of the terror and desperation from him.

He nearly flings the knife away, but - Well. He is Illyan's man, ultimately, and Illyan's philosophy of never throwing away a tool that could be useful did filter down to them. His grip on the knife relaxes, and he passes it back to Miles. ]

Here.

[ Ironically, now that you've stabbed Miles Vorkosigan, he's got your back.

He cleans the blade awkwardly on the snow, then turns to go back in the tent. ]

Better return this.

Mm.

[ He regards it with a slight upturn of his lip. Really, he does have such distaste for that sort of...brute-force implement. If you must kill someone, better to do it with a nerve disrupter. Or with scandal and mockery. Yes, scandal and mockery is best, murder the reputation rather than the man. But he supposes that this isn't the place where that can happen... ]

I don't suppose you have a place to hide that. To hold onto it.

[ He holds up his hands in a "search me" gesture. ]

Unless you really want my throat cut. Better to give it back.

[ A grunt. ]

Pity. What I wouldn't give for a stunner.

Same. Except for the awkward questions that would entail.

Ah, yes. I can only imagine what your hill barbarians would do to a suspected Cetagandan spy.

[ He's quiet a moment. Then he fishes in his pocket and hands over a pristine silk handkerchief. It'll make a poor bandage but, well... ]

Here.

[ He takes it, awkwardly pressing it to the trickle of blood at his arm. ]

Terrible things. Trust me on that.

[ Byerly watches, lips pursed with semi-theatrical annoyance as Miles fails to tie the bandage himself. Finally, archly - ]

Give me your bloody arm, then.

-- It's fine, Byerly. I just need to stop the bleeding.

And such a marvelous job you're doing so far.

Fine, then. You do it.

[ He offers his arm. ]

[ He shakes his head, broadly annoyed - but he takes Miles' arm, certainly, and ties up the wound with competence, if not exactly with skill. And with a bit of gentleness, too, it must be noted: for all the indiscriminate cruelty of Byerly's tongue, his hands are quite a lot kinder. He works hard to avoid jostling the cut, to avoid causing Miles more pain, even though it means that there's a bit of awkwardness in the way he ties it off.

In the end, the job is messy, but it's functional. And By mourns: ]

My best silk handkerchief...

[ He has to admit that Byerly's done a good job. A gentle job, even. He watches in silence until the bandaging is complete. ]

That was your own mistake. [ But, after a moment: ] Thank you.

[ Immediately: ]

Oh, listen to you. Thanking me. No offense, but I've a bit of an allergy to sentiment, and I'd prefer it if you don't make my throat close up in anaphylactic shock, thanks.

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