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

Sonia would have to cop to eyeing Miles with curiosity at least, but despite a slightly tentativeness in her initial approach, her reaction doesn't much resemble that of the soldiers. That curiosity only intensifies when she hears him speak. She smiles a little at his joke, holding out a bowl of hot groats and strip of some kind of dried meat.

"On the contrary, we're the hosts here." She shrugs at the guard around them without looking at them. "And neither have we. Is it warm enough inside your tent, at least?"

Well that's one person who apparently doesn't think he's a goddamn freak. He'll take what comfort he can from that. And the food itself is not bad, really; the groats are delightfully familiar and the meat no worse than a rat bar. He takes both gratefully, dipping his spoon in the groats and having a bite. Ah ... tastes like home.

"There's enough warm bodies, at least," he says. Another small bite. "And we've not been starving. Things could yet be worse."

"That's everyone's favorite saying these days. 'Could be worse'." Sonia grimaces. Her look of curiosity, though, hasn't waned. "You're Barrayaran, aren't you?"

His accent is going to get him into trouble, isn't it. Unfortunately sounding like a Betan will get him into more trouble, and he doesn't think he can mimic the outsiders convincingly yet. By the time he does it will be entirely too late. So ... Barrayaran it is. "I am, yes. Originally." He stirs the groats idly. "I haven't been home in years, though. Not how I expected coming back."

A Betan accent would have piqued just as much curiosity from Sonia -- more, even. She knows them both too well. She bats her eyes in surprise.

"You mean you were...zapped here along with the others, or whatever? I thought you might've just crossed paths with the group by chance, or something."

Miles shakes his head firmly at that. Closer to the truth, maybe, but much more dangerous to explain. There's no way an apparent mutant like him would have gone unnoticed.

"It seems so." A pause; he considers whether it's wise to ask her this question, but ... eh, what the hell. "Do you know how we were brought here?"

That tugs a dry laugh from Sonia and she rocks back, shaking her head. "Do you? The general staff is just as mystified, and we're not exactly equipped with the means to investigate. If you'd arrived on a ship, maybe I'd say wormhole. But...I don't think anything like this has ever happened before."

Well, that's sort of...exciting. The same way that war is exciting, mostly.

"Definitely no ship, my lady," says Miles with a faint snort. No ship brought him from Silvy Vale to this particular time - nor could it have. And there's Byerly complicating the equation as well. "I assure you, I was sleeping off a hangover prior to this."

Which still begs the question of what the hell happened here, but - it's one thing to be ruled out.

"I suppose you might take this as a wake-up call, then," Sonia suggests lightly, one eyebrow arched. She hasn't seen the guards treat this man poorly at all, and though no one here is fond of mutants, she doesn't think her sister would stand for it, even if Count Piotr would. Beyond the sparse perimeter of guards, several meters away, a tall, thickset man in black and silver Vorbarra livery watches Sonia with a terse anxiety that seems to border on mother hennish.

"Well, I'm Sonia," she announces by way of transition, and inclines her head politely toward Miles. "What should I call you, aside from now sober? Hopefully, anyway."

Sonia. Sonia? Miles frowns a bit, trying to connect the name with that half-remembered face. And then he looks past her to the man in Vorbarra livery ...

Ah. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks. Princess Sonia Vorbarra, surely, alive and well in a way that Miles has never seen before. Dear god. He's face to face with - what, his great aunt? That's the fact that makes him stare more than her actual rank, though that's certainly what it looks like. "My lady," he breathes. "I did not realize who you were."

Sonia looks almost stricken for a moment, caught off guard, and then she follows his gaze and narrows her eyes when it falls on the armsman. "What? Oh, argh. I told him not to follow me. There're already guards everywhere, he doesn't need to hover."

She waves one arm in a very clear shooing motion back at her armsman, glaring, and then she gives Miles a stern pout. "And don't you go making a fuss about this, or else he'll come right over, and I'll never get rid of him."

As well he should if the goddamn princess is here mucking about with god-knows-who from god-knows-where. But Miles hardly wants more negative attention on himself. "Of course," he says with a faint head bow and a grin. "Your secret is safe with me."

Which leaves her actual question that he'd ignored in favor of his own shock. "My name is Miles Illyan." He gestures vaguely in the direction of the mountains. "From reasonably close to here, I think. Have you heard of Silvy Vale?"

"Good," Sonia sniffs, though she's still grinning -- partly in relief, partly in an inch of new trust. That he doesn't protest earns him some points in his favor.

"Well, I'm very pleased to meet you, Miles," she says, with an imperial grace she still hasn't quite grown into yet. She blows a lock of her face thoughtfully and shakes her head. "No, I haven't. The closest village to here is Riverfall, or so I'm told." Like she's even been allowed to leave the camp yet. Pbbbththh.

Look, Miles knows better than to argue that kind of thing. He's sort of just glad to be talking to a family member who won't try to kill him.

"I've not been to Riverfall," he answers truthfully. In fact he's not sure how far away Silvy Vale is from here. Damn cryoamnesia has left him with the odd hole in the most awkward spots in his memory. "But I'm familiar with Vorkosigan's district in general. I went all over these hills as a child."

"Oh?" Sonia tilts her head at him, raptly curious. "You grew up around here, then? Not up in the mountains here, I trust. You don't sound like one of the hillfolk."

No. No he certainly does not. That's going to be a problem, probably ... He tries to explain it away.

"Mother wasn't. Da was. She was from the city originally." Here he doesn't need to fake fondness; his very real homesickness will do that well enough for him now. "They were both desperately fond of me."

She smiles slightly, a slightly melancholy warmth to it.

"They must have been." Because otherwise he wouldn't be walking and breathing is the unspoken context, although it looks as though walking hasn't always been so easy for him. "I'm sorry you've been separated from them. The consequences of this bloody war reach too far."

That is the unspoken assumption here. At least he doesn't need braces now. The seizures ... that's going to be a problem. He needs to find out what medical aid is available here, if any.

"Actually, that part was intentional," he says. "Mother helped get me off-world when I was about seventeen. Beta Colony, at first." And hopefully the explanation there is obvious enough. Barrayar being as prone to cannibalism as it is.

"Oh, really?" Sonia brightens, both with relief and discovering something in common with the little man. Beta Colony must have been much more hospitable to him -- maybe even helped him with whatever defect would otherwise have condemned him to life as a nonperson. She's curious, but still too polite to ask for now. However, she will now ask half a dozen other questions. Congratulations, Miles, you've unlocked the chatterbox.

"I mostly grew up on Beta Colony, actually. My sister and brother and I. Where did you live? Was it Silica? Oh, what sort of work did you do when you got out there?"

He's all right with that. It's kind of nice to just sit and talk, despite the dire situation. Makes him feel less like he's about to die at any moment. As such, he relaxes incrementally as he chats with his great aunt.

"Really?" he asks, brightening. The reaction is real; he'd forgotten that Sonia been there as well. "Silica, yes. I hope you enjoyed it - I certainly found it preferable to Barrayar." A bit of a sympathetic grin. "I'd have liked to try out for the Survey, but I'm a bit too unpredictable for them. So I joined a mercenary group instead."

The delight is contagious, a feedback loop of the smallest of comforts. Sonia sweeps her skirts under her and sits beside Miles, her legs tucked under her.

"Too unpredictable for Survey, really?" Sonia laughs, clapping her hands to her lap. "I don't think I've ever heard that one. I did enjoy it, yes. I...never intended to stay here permanently."

She feels almost guilty saying it out loud, as though it's some sort of treason to be Vorbarra and not want to live on Barrayar for the rest of her days. Hell, it might be. But Sonia at thirteen, however much she loved her visits, always wanted to go back to Beta Colony at the end of the day. Those days are far, far behind her now.

"A mercenary group, though," she says encouragingly. "How did that happen? Do you, er -- fight?"

Ah. Well ... he won't fault anyone for it. Barrayar is a hard planet to live on; he of all people should know that. He's nothing but sympathetic in response.

"Barrayar has a tendency to eat its children," he says gently. "I never intended to come home either, so you're in good company." After a moment's hesitation, he reaches out to pat her hand lightly. "As for my mercenaries, I mostly strategize. But I do fight sometimes, yes." He gestures down at himself. "Despite this body."

Sonia smiles, warmed by the touch. It's nice of him. Hardly anyone ever dares to touch her, even so innocuously, for fear of crossing the barbed-wire boundaries of a Vorbarra lady's honor. Her smile goes crooked, wry.

"Who ever heard of a Vorbarra expat, anyway?" Her smile turns a shade more serious, though, and she nods. "Good," she says firmly. "You've clearly got a soldier's spirit. You deserve it."

That's nice to hear. He didn't really expect to hear otherwise from someone who'd lived much of their life on Beta Colony, but after the treatment he's faced so far ... It's a balm.

He can't help a smile of his own at her comment. Thinking of Gregor and own little escapade with the Dendarii. Dear god, was that already ten years ago? "You ought to have your own life, same as anyone else," he says firmly. "Same as me. I work my ass and I imagine you do too."

Well, maybe Sonia's a little more Barrayaran than she's willing to admit.

She lets out a distinctly unprincesslike snort, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "No I don't. I don't do anything. Good for morale, or something." She makes a face, kicking a small mound of snow with the toe of her boot. "I'm a mascot."

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