forbarrayar | [ january i log: barrayar ]

Entry tags:

[ 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

[ Is he native? It's hard to tell - none of these people are her people after - and she clearly doesn't belong here. If how well she's dealing with the cold is anything to go by.

It's no matter, of course, whether he is or is not. ]

Just a small matter. [ She draws up the gold in her fingers. The long looping chain that now that she has cleaned it some, is bright, except where she can't really clean it. It sways from her fingers, a heavy pendulum in tight circles. Turning around itself as it does and she keeps it pinched at the same height between where forefinger and thumb are bare under her heavy leather gloves.

She speaks polite, but her hands are not, a mess of scars of weapons on her knuckles like starbursts. ] I'm afraid I must ask you to be my maid, for but a short while. Unfortunately, I cannot see to judge it by myself. If the task does not oppose you?

[ Some men would find it offensive that she might ask - they weren't men she wanted anything to do with. ]

[ Miles' gaze flicks between the gold and her hands insightfully, adjusting his opinion of her. Stolen? Possibly. Or is she nobility? Belied somewhat by the scars on her hands, but she wouldn't be the first ruler to fight madly for her people. It's more common than not on Barrayar.

Ultimately he sides more on the latter than the former, if only because of how well-spoken she is. It makes him like her a bit better anyway. ]

Of course. What do you need me to do, my lady?

[ A slight flare of amusement in his tones, but no offense, no. Miles is well past pride at this point - and wouldn't think it offensive under normal circumstances anyway. ]

[ She smiles, brief, eyes lowering momentarily - either playing coy or covering herself. My lady, was it? ]

I've picked wisely it would seem. [ Teasing, because she usually is. ] It's terribly strenuous, as long as you think you're up to the task.

[ Like she knows this is all ridiculous, somehow, that she's dressing herself in gold when they're in a camp like this - not like there is any ceremony to go with it. But they would pry it from her death-cooled fingers before she ever let this go. Rather in quick gestures that she knows how to do even without looking she gathers up the length of her hair - mid back, waved around itself and in her opinion, has been in dire need of a wash for years, but cleanliness was next to Godliness and in the worst streets of Whitechapel's muck and filth, they would insist that God had left them a long time ago.

But it'll do for now, raking it up and parting it quickly, tugging at the knots. Getting it into the sections and parted down the middle before she nods briefly to him. ] Take the long thin chain, and lay it down the middle of my hair. Then just hold it in place, if you would.

[ The ever-so-strenuous task of helping a lady put on her jewelry, yes. Miles gets to his feet to assist ... and finds himself quite a bit too short to do this comfortably. Maybe "strenuous" was the right word after all, he thinks with a faint flush. It doesn't help that she's rather pretty and he's recently broken up with his own girlfriend. It would be nice to make a better impression than this...

Reluctantly, he clears his throat to make a request of his own. ]

I'd be happy to. But you will need to sit, I'm afraid. I can't reach you while you're standing.

[ She looks at him, confused a moment until she catches up with that he means. This is what she gets with keeping the company of Sir Galahad, the man was a veritable mountain, even out of his bulky armour and coats. ]

Of course, forgive me my oversight.

[ She steps back into the tent, out of the general thoroughfare, sinking down on her knees in one movement, and crossing her legs underneath her the next. Habit more than anything, no one sits until the Queen does - even in Whitechapel, where she deserved nothing of that respect from a people so disabused by their own Queen, that so often she was still afforded such respects from those closest to her.

So she settles, waits for him to join her, and then extends her head forward again, a slow gesture, letting him reach as easily as he needed to. Not even slightly bothered by it, after all, she was the one asking for his help, however that may come. ]

[ Miles is a slip of a man in comparison. He's grateful for her lack of commentary, though, and stands behind her once she's seated herself. Then he moves to assist her as requested. ]

Thank you. [ He bows his head a bit as he lays the chain in place. ] I'm a bit short, as you can see. Makes me a bit unpopular with the population here.

[ She stays quiet as he does - perhaps that she enjoys it, and it's a modicum of familiarity as he lays the chain back where it should be on her head. Her eyes slipping shut a moment as he speaks. No, no, not Devi or Jhalkari or Sita or any of them so dear to her, even Tesla or Galahad.

But commonality makes such things easier. Especially as he remarks something of not fitting in. ] You know them enough to know that? [ Perhaps he was from here, but to be in this tent is to say otherwise. ] They are... tall I suppose, if you count such things as important.

[ She's tall, at least, for a woman of her own people, and she holds herself like she's bigger than she is, but ultimately she's smaller than most of them. They after all - are just men to her. Men easily killed where she has outlived even their father's ages. Not that it mattered, really, she didn't fight men, not anymore.

Well, until she ended up here. ]

[ Important. Well ... that's a complicated word. He'd grown to be more than his own stature over the years, but he'd still had such a complicated relationship with his own body. Still does. And it's only bound to get worse now that he's back in a situation where he's going to be actively hated for his differences. ]

It's important to some. [ He says by way of compromise. ] I grew up here, in fact. The traditional cure for deformities such as mine is infanticide.

[ He says it simply, as if it did not deserve any commentary whatsoever. ]

[ She would like to pretend she does not know how such thoughts occur, but she knows how - someone who in time, could not look after themselves, was a burden on their family. To the poorest families, they could never do the back-breaking work required of them, and would become an extra mouth to feed with no money to support them. For this alone, they could never marry, to bring more profits into the family. It was easy to say, but she'd be lying to say she did not know it occurred, and just why it might be considered at all.

But for her own boy, so snatched from her after carrying him, lay in pain to bring him into the world, and in so many months: gone, she could not forgive such a thing.

She murmurs, low, quiet, perhaps she ought to apologise for asking something like that, for bringing up what must be painful, but she does not apologise for much. Rather comes to another thought with it. ] Were you then well loved, or well bred, that you avoided such a fate?

[ Hope said the former, reality said the latter. ]

[ Both, in fact; Miles has been well-protected by his title in his own time, though it would have been all for naught if not for his parents' great love of him. His own grandfather had tried to murder him on multiple occasions after all. He's quiet a moment, still holding the chain carefully in place for her. Debating what he should tell her. As much of the truth as possible, surely... ]

The former. I'm no noble. [ Though for a commoner he's uncommonly well-spoken. ] My parents were both deeply stubborn people who kept me despite all odds. There were members of my own family who attempted to override their decision forcibly.

[ In other words, they'd tried to kill him. ]

[ There's a hiss of sympathy for it - she could only imagine.

Well, perhaps not imagine, she knows. She, after all, was a widow, and widow's had but one fate, most often unless their families begged to otherwise. ]

Then their failure is my great fortune. [ Firmly, she does not look to him, her eyes are forward and her word is sure. It means as little or as much as he likes, they're strangers as he has his fingers running against her hair, and he tells him of his families attempt at infanticide.

She waits a moment before she continues. ] In my home, when a husband dies, a widow is often not wanted, and it is expected she puts herself upon her husband's pyre. [ A pause, there's no grief in her, not anymore. ] I refused such a fate.

Edited 2017-01-03 00:37 (UTC)

[ It's appreciated, at least. Miles fingers are very gentle against her scalp, and his tone is entirely sympathetic. God, what a terrible tradition. As bad as Barrayar's own, in this case. He can only hope that times are changing for her as they are for him. ]

Terrible. [ He murmurs softly. ] I am glad that you did. And hope that you continued to live a full life just to spite them.

[ Hope you had a full life.

His words draw her silence, draw something she strangles in her throat that is laughter and sobbing. Hysterical, a high endLondon Doctor would say. But she feels it - why she comes to detest this camps distrust of her is not because it is unreasonable for them to do, but she cannot stand this idleness, she has never before had the luxury of looking back on - on this -

This full life. Oh, there was no contesting it was that. From one end of an Empire to another, from one battlefield to another, from the beautiful halls of the Fortress of Jhansi where she and her ladies would throw spears and her adopted son would grip to her leg and beg for a sweet - to cradling a half-dead man in the worst back streets in the filth of the Thames, to watching Lycans rip the helpless limb from limb, to the starving, the poor, the disenfranchised that ate hope because they had nothing else to hang onto. The children of Purebloods that did not look like monsters, who were fair skinned, freckled children, that she had shot anyway.

That was the problem, wasn't it? A full life. What a curse a full life could be. How numbing, how exhausting. ] It has been. It continues to be, I can say that much is true. [ Words at odd with her face, older than she is. Given without explanation because she offers neither apologise not explanations anymore. She does, she acts, she is. ]

[ She is quiet, for a time. Her fingers busying with the chains, in the intricate way they link together, once to the piercing in her ear, then up to the chain on her crown, hooked in together, and why she needs help, not difficult, merely fiddly and something, more than anything, what she can feel in control over.

Perhaps there is their difference even in mutual understanding. ]

I did not do it for spite. They were my people, and I am theirs, I did not serve them as ashes. [ A sobering breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth, as her father taught her to keep her head when such things felt overwhelming. With it, her eyes are down again, but it's nothing lady-like, no demure bride or fair maiden, a habit of shutting away her own emotions when there is neither time nor place for them and she never has either.

She has been fighting since she was a young woman, and she fights still.

Because in her choice to do so, did she really spare them anything? She cannot know, perhaps she might have been better put to the flames. ]

[ Differences, surely, but not on that point. Miles has people of his own to serve, in particular those who are like him. As future Count, he will do much to end this particular prejudice in his district. Must do as much as he can, for the opportunity will not arise again ... And there are still plenty of hillfolk who have children the old-fashioned way. No gene cleaning for them.

He's quiet for a moment, thinking about that as he continues to attend to her. Holding the chains as directed, or simply holding the original one in place. ]

We serve no one as ashes. [ He says, with a gravity that belies his supposedly common background. ] Or as dead bodies. We must needs do all we can with what we can claw out for them.

[ Miles has not paid the same costs as her, but his life has not been easy either. Far from it. ]

[ It's brief, as she works, afforded in the gestures as she works, it means nothing more than a brush as she's working and he helps her - but her fingers brush against the back of his hand - because it is too much to say it is understood, that it is appreciated, that is met evenly.

Instead, it's said where words do not cover such a thing, her calloused, worn fingers against the back of his knuckles and a sweep, as she begins to gather up her hair. As much as needs to be affected upon.

Because she has never been prone to long bouts of reflection, and she has no interest in it now. Though she feels again the pang to get out of this camp - not to go anywhere, but simply to move. ] If you are of this place, you must tell me, does this weather ever clear, or will I be cursing such snowfall every day I find myself in its company?

[ Even that small touch is comforting even so. He finds himself looking down at her long hair and iron spine and thinking of Quinn. God, he misses her desperately. Their breakup was more inevitable than messy, but ...

Not the time to think about that. Breathe, Miles. Talk about the weather. ]

Winter is long and cold here, yes. Especially in the mountains. [ A bit of a fond smile. He loves his shitty planet, shitty weather and all. ] But we will see days without snow here and there. Just not many of them.

[ It's as much as she can afford, and she affords so little anymore. Not commented on or mentioned, nor will she speak of it if he asked - not her way. ]

Such a thing to look forward to. [ Could she sound more irritated - not sulky, she doesn't sulk, a queen never did. ] I suppose it's different to London's streets, at least it is snow, not perpetual drizzle, I will give it that.

[ she cringes slightly. ] Unless that counts as summer here, too?

[ London? She's from Earth then? Huh. He's been there himself, but it's a bit different in his own time. ]

It's its own sort of beautiful. The moonlight on the snow during Winterfair is one of my favorites. [ A soft sigh. ] But no, we get plenty of sun in summer. Even gets a bit hot, depending on where you are.

[ Perhaps she will bring herself to enjoy it at the time. As for right now, she's not sure she can bring herself to ever like this blasted white stuff that infects all her clothes with such aching cold. ]

Heat I know, at least, I prefer. [ Curled up in her bedroll, staring at the fire, it's what she wishes for. ]

Used to warmer climates, then? Not in London, I assume.

[ It had seemed rather gloomy the last time he was there, after all. ]

It is not my home, no. [ She looks up, brief, as she drags another section of hair up, and slowly but surely, it falls into place, the openness that might have been there is strapped back away. Hidden behind the gold her husband had given her on their wedding day -- all the other jewels she had given to be sold to ensure her men were paid fairly for their service to her. ]

I was born in Kashi - in India.

[ Miles takes a step back to observe their shared handiwork. That is ... quite nice. And she looks quite nice in it. He can't help but let his gaze linger for a moment before refocusing on the conversation. ]

That's in Eurasia, right? I think I've heard of it.

[ she unfolds herself, oblivious to his gaze, up onto her knees then onto her feet. The heavy boots she wore - and was glad that they hadn't been taken from her. Maybe if she was more aware of what might happen, she'd make plans for it.

Like telling would be wormholes "not now, she's busy". She dusts her hands off and she turns back to face him, flicking out the scarf and wrapping it around her neck again. Carefully, the fine material clearly isn't for warmth. The last part is the nath, that she hooks back into her nose piercing.

Herself, again. ] Eurasia- I, yes, I suppose that suffices as a term. [ clears her throat, carrying on, it's clearly not one she was familiar with for her home. ] We call it Hindustan. It is hot there, my husband's home is in a place called Bundelkund, it is on a great rocky plateau, hot and dry, save in the summer - and the monsoon rain is nothing polite. It pours down as if it means to wash all away.

[ Not as tall as some, but still a solid nine inches taller than he is. He comes up to somewhere slightly above her shoulders. Another glance at her as she wraps the scarf around her. Well, if he had any further doubts about her being nobility of some sort ... He clothing and bearing definitely suggests it. ]

Ah, I see. That's quite a contrast then. And no snow at all, I imagine.

[ Whilst she has an art to looking down at people - it comes mostly through arrogance than her genuine height. Sir Galahad stood over her easily, and Tesla, for all he was a quiet, unassuming, brilliant man, was a good head and shoulders over her. ]

None, until you head towards the Himalayas in the north. It does get cold but as for this - wretched stuff? [ she sighs. ] We have none of it.

[ As soon as the scarf is secured, she brings it up, draping it around her hair and face - perhaps against the cold, perhaps for customs sake. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject