[ 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

Countess Olivia Vorkosigan (NPC)

[truevor]

To the casual observer, Olivia looks no different than the rest of the soldiers come to deal with the outsiders. Dressed in an military greatcoat several sizes too big for her and buckled around the waist, the fact that she is both female and more than five inches shorter than the rest of the Barrayarans in uniform sets her apart from them. She holds civil conversations with the guards in charge of watching the outsiders – inquiries about behavior and the like, done as if she's memorizing the answers to take back to someone else.

It's clear that the men in uniform, and even those civilians among the group, defer to her in a manner apart from the military chain of command. Olivia does not need to weasel her way into any area where the outsiders are being kept, and once she's there her conversation is brisk and concerning whatever they can tell about their world. Yet caught on the right occasion, and with the right question, Olivia is nothing but frank and up-front with anyone who manages to strike up a conversation.

Princess Sonia Vorbarra (NPC)

[vorbratta]

It's mostly only soldiers coming and going through the guard posted around the outsiders' tent, but from time to time a bright-eyed, dark-haired young woman slips through. She's dressed in the same plain clothes of anyone not in uniform, mostly made of heavy wool to ward against the cold, but her Barrayaran accent isn't quite as thick as most of the soldiers'. She seems deeply curious, mostly, and she largely lacks the hostility some of the soldiers bear toward the odder-looking outsiders.

At times she seems to be able to talk the guards into rather begrudgingly letting her through, but mostly she seems to weasel her way in by way of bringing food and sometimes clothing or extra supplies. It mostly seems to provide her an excuse to try and talk to the outsiders. She's a little diffident at first contact, but quickly proves herself not to be very shy at all.

She's not so nosy as to venture into the tent uninvited, but she happily presents food directly to outsiders with a smile and might even go so far as to offer to eat with them, which earns uneasy looks from the guards. Other times she seems to be checking on them with more care and interest than the soldiers, asking how things are going, how the outsiders are feeling. Either way, she's clearly a social creature, and not particularly afraid to approach anyone regardless of appearance.

[vorrutyer]

Certain people are going to be of no use to him. Lunkhead soldiers, for one. The galactics he'd found himself amongst, for another. Intelligent-looking, slender, regal Vor ladies? One of those, By thinks to himself, is absolutely the best prospect for enlightenment. No, she'll not have access to the Cetagandans' movements or motives - what the hell are their motives, here, relations have ben improving in the past years, and didn't they damn well learn last time? Hadn't Barrayar sent the damn ghem-lords whimpering back to their masters last time? Why would they try again? - but she'll know enough. And make for charming conversation besides, right? Like being at a party. Just like being at a party.

By, in his thin crushed-velvet suit and no coat at all, shivers with mingled cold and shock. And then he takes a breath to force both down again. (A ground war with the Cetagandans. Like in his great-grandparents' day. It has to be a dream, right? A shitty, shitty dream?)

"My lady," he says in a moment when he's able to approach her. He sweeps a deep, courtly, somewhat mocking bow. (He cannot help the mocking part; it's as old and as inevitable a reaction as kicking when knocked in the knee with a rubber hammer.) "I didn't know such flowers could grow in snow."

Byerly Vorrutyer

[vorrutyer]

The man looks a cousin to - frankly - all the natives here. There's a Barrayaran look, olive skin and dark eyes and dark hair and tall stature, and he has it. Though he does not exactly have it in its classical form: if Byerly Vorrutyer is a cousin to them, he's certainly a disreputable cousin. He's lean and slender instead of soldierly; rather than a proper uniform, he wears a maroon velvet suit with quasi-military decorations, the foppish piping managing to look almost like an insult directed at the concept of the armed forces. And his expression is twisted and ironic, nothing at all like the stolid seriousness of the men around him.

And he is, for all appearances, quite thoroughly drunk. His diction is slurred and foolish when he addresses questions to the people around him - demanding things like "What's your name" and "Where are you from" and "What's the story with that stupid get-up, anyway" and he waves his spoon broadly, occasionally scattering cooked groats as he gesticulates. Sometimes hitting people with cooked groats as he gesticulates. For all that apparent drunkenness, though, his eyes aren't fuzzy or clueless: he watches everything around him, often from under his lowered, long eyelashes.

As time wears on - and as he stops being able to plausibly pretend drunkenness - he adopts a pained, miserable posture, feigning a massive hangover. He leans against a stack of crates, hand shading his eyes (all the better to watch between his fingers) and grunting miserably every few minutes.

[dendarii]

[ There's one man here who's instantly familiar. Actually hungover, in fact, though the situation has him awake and a little bit terrified in a heartbeat. The more Miles sees of this place, the more he's convinced that the impossible has happened: somehow, he's time traveled back to the First Cetagandan War, of all fucking time periods, for fuck's sake. And either he's having an incredibly, ridiculously vivid dream ... or this is reality.

In the face of that, Byerly Vorrutyer is almost a comforting face. Almost. Nearly. ]

Byerly? What the hell are you doing here?

[ No last names, not until they figure out something. Miles has already resolved to go by Miles Illyan so as not to attract some really unwanted attention here. He's haggard in turn, a bit unkempt from even before he turned up here. ]

[dendarii]

That "regardless of appearance" might be important here. Smaller than anyone else in the camp, including all of the outsiders and pretty much everyone over the age of twelve, Miles has not been having the best time of it. The hex signs are near constant, and some of the more superstitious soldiers won't bring him food directly at all, leaving him to scrounge it from the others or charm one of the ones who aren't quite so twitchy around him. It helps that he is obviously fluent in Barrayaran Russian (in addition to the other three main languages) and that his own natural accent is somewhere between Barrayaran and Betan.

He blinks up at the woman in front of him, trying to place her. Related to him, surely, as all Vor are. She doesn't quite have the Vorkosigan look about her, though, so he has to assume another family. Vorrutyer? Vorbarra? That last one seems apt ... hasn't he seen a portrait of her somewhere in the Residence?

Well, the most important part is that she's bringing him food, which he's desperately in need of at the moment. He'll endure things much more troublesome than a pretty relative for that. "Sorry I'm not much of a host," he says, managing to summon up a touch of humor despite everything. "We've not been outfitted with much."

[vorrutyer]

[ Ah. Ah. The pained smile has naught to do with the feigned hangover and everything to do with the personage before him. Personage being the correct word, without a doubt. The last time he'd seen the Little Lord Odd-iter, the man had been interrogating him regarding his Auditorial Suspicions That Perhaps Vorrutyer Was Not All That He Seemed. The subsequent interview with Ivan Vorpatril at the Emperor's wedding had been much more pleasant, and not least because Vorpatril was far more pleasant to look upon than Vorkosigan was. Vorkosigan is...tiresome. Obnoxious.

Damned good at his job, Byerly's brain supplied, irritatingly. Former ImpSec. The man responsible for figuring out what happened to Simon Illyan. Lifelong resident of this District. High Vor. And someone who knows about you. Someone to watch your back. Someone you can trust. And, as much as he hated to admit it - this whole thing was damned disorienting. Maybe - maybe - a familiar face was...a little comforting. ]

Do move away, won't you?

[ By's voice, inevitably, is arch and mocking. ]

I'd sooner not have someone of your clan standing near me if the Cetagandans decide to start shooting at people who annoy them. Especially not one who's so easy to miss.

[dendarii]

[ Miles makes a face at that. Vorrutyers. And Byerly, specifically. How'd he get stuck with this clown out of everyone available? He huffs a bit but doesn't glare. Much.

Not knowing about Byerly's ImpSec status yet is making him rather more annoyed with this situation than perhaps he should be. ]

And what clan is that, exactly? [ Says Miles with pointed acidity. ] I'm Miles Ilyan, obviously:

beth greene

[littlemissfutility]

[arrival]

The first thing Beth does when she sees the soldiers is tense, instinctively raising her surgical scissors like a dagger.

The second thing she does is realize that the surgical scissors are no longer in her left hand. They aren't hidden back in her cast, either. Must be at Grady still--which is a crazy thought, since she should be, too, but it doesn't matter, because she just showed up to a knife-and-bow fight with nothing in her hands.

Only an idiot wouldn't follow directions in a situation like that, and Beth's not stupid. But as the minutes drag on into what feels like hours, and she has to shove her bare fingers under her arms to keep them warm, she moves closer to another prisoner and asks quietly, "Do you have anything on you?"

She somehow lost her scissors--and they wouldn't do much against a sword anyway--but somebody among them might have a gun.

[outsiders' tent]

It's a little better when they're inside, even if it's only inside a tent. Beth pulls a blanket hard around her, shivering inside it, and devours her bowl of food in hopes that it'll warm her up more. It's still freezing here, even with a few more layers between them and the wind outside. And worse, they're still prisoners.

She's alone here, as much as she was at the hospital--and after getting so close to returning to her group, it aches all over again to know she's...someplace. Maybe it's a hallucination, she thinks, but it feels painfully real when she can see her breath in the air before her. Hasn't this gone on too long to be fake?

It's going to take time to figure out how to get home. Until then, it's going to be awfully lonely if she sits here in silence, waiting for answers nobody outside the tent wants to give. If it's a choice between staring at her feet and trying to do something, even something small, she'll take doing something.

And that's why she turns to the person next to her and doesn't quite manage a smile. "I'm Beth."

[vorrutyer]

[ That makes Byerly's hand drop away from his eyes. He shoots Vorkosigan an incredulous look. Miles Ilyan? What, does he think that the Cetagandans are actually going to target him? It's not impossible, By supposes - the ghem did search particularly for the rebellious Vor lords, back in the day - but still. He'd have thought that Vorkosigan's reaction to being hunted down wouldn't be to hide. Honestly, it seemed like feeling persecuted and targeted and special was the only way that Vorkosigan could got excited. It had been the only way to recruit him to oppose Richars, after all, feeling like enemies were hounding him...Byerly wondered with a moment of wry sympathy if the poor widow Vorsoisson had to pretend to be a Jacksonian Baron or a Polian mercenary captain hunting down ImpSec Courier Vorkosigan to get her new husband to perform in bed. ]

Pity - [ By responds - ] That you don't seem to have inherited your esteemed father's sense of discretion. Or modesty. Or wit. And if you're trying to go incognito, do you really want to name yourself for Captain Illyan?

arrival

[vorrutyer]

He knows damn well what the girl is asking for. Do you have anything on you means a weapon. And what the hell is she hoping to accomplish, jumping a bunch of security-paranoid Dendarii mountain men? Is she suicidal? Because there are easier ways to go than being clubbed to death by one of these backcountry proles. No; she needs a distraction. And she needs to feel a bit less like death is inevitable - and it's damned hard to feel any sort of optimism for your continued existence when you're frozen a quarter of the way to death. Half, now, perhaps.

Of course, Byerly prides himself on being a dissolute ne'er-do-well with no regard for propriety, decency, or respectability. Why, his reputation hinges on just what a feckless fool he is. The despair of his mother, the shame of his father, he's never done a single thing save to benefit himself except for when it's a mistake. And so that's why he makes a grand show of sighing as he shrugs out of his suit jacket.

"This," he proclaims loudly, "is an autumn jacket. And it is wintry out here." He regards the maroon velvet with distaste, and then he turns and drops the heavy garment on the girl's shoulders. It's more flashy than it is warm, but it's something - and it's heavy enough to weigh down her arms a bit so she can't lunge for anyone's unguarded knife. "Here. I cannot be caught out in an inappropriate suit. It's a matter of reputation, you know."

[littlemissfutility]

Beth grits her teeth, wishing the coat he settles around her shoulders was more uncomfortable than it is. It might not be warm by his standards, but it's a lot better than a polo shirt and a holey cardigan stained with old blood. Her first instinct is to pull her arms through the sleeves and disappear inside it.

But she's cold, not stupid, and the way he raises his voice so much louder than hers makes her think maybe he's willfully misunderstanding her. He might be trying to prove to the soldiers that he's not trying to figure out a way out of this mess.

Or maybe he's just the kind of person who doesn't know when to keep his voice down.

"You're gonna have a lot more to worry about than your reputation if you're walking around without a jacket," she hisses back. With a little effort, she shrugs the jacket off and holds it back out to him. "It's too cold for that."

[vorrutyer]

Not so easy, eh? Well. "I," he responds, his voice not being taken down a notch, "am being kept warm by the power of - " He gives a little hiccup, and then a little burp, and then he makes a grand show of counting on his fingers - "thhhhhree bottles of wine, half a bottle of brandy - awful stuff, but I just kept drinking it, fancy that - and half a hypo of something that is not for your little ears. Mm." He gives another little hiccup, thumping his chest, before he looks back at her with a deliberately bleary expression.

At the next sentence, he lowers his voice just a touch. His voice gets a little slurrier as he admits - "And I think I'm probably going to need a bit of support to get through the next few hours. 'Specially once that hypo wears off. I'm trading the coat for a shoulder to lean on."

lakshmi bai

[shri]

ARRIVAL

[ She's scowling.

In fact, she may have been scowling since she was born, the way she doesn't seem to have another expression the duration of this hike. Hidden behind the blue and gold scarf - once, perhaps, it might have been something more delicate, more befitting her station and she certainly holds it like be an expression of that as much as shielding from the winds - and the cold gives her as good an excuse as any to let it hide her face as a veil ought to. Not because she's only for her husband's eyes - she never brooked much with it, and she doesn't have one any longer - but that she doesn't trust these soldiers. Or the people she's landed with, truth be told. Not that she begrudges them any. Just that they are not her Devi, or her Gallant Knight, or even Tesla and his foolishness.

Because the last thing she wants to hear is that she's come from one war, one she had not finished and has years until she does so - to another one. One that is not even hers, not her people and to be left so exposed to whoever they are and whatever they might know.

Especially when reaching for her gun gives her nothing but empty air to hold.

And she is loathe of this cold and this snow. She goes through every word she knows in Hindi on the long walk, to curse the snow, then when she runs out, she begins in Marathi, and after that English. Worse than muddy frigid slush of London's back streets, this ached. To speak with her is to ask her to pull the material away from her mouth, chin jutting forward and break the insulation she's trying to keep tucked in so close. Clenched her jaw tightly to keep from chattering, brows knitted up as she forces herself to respond to anyone that is speaking to her, resentful of them for making her do so. The steam of her breath giving shape to the words. ] Yes? Did you need something?

[ Ahead of them, is the soldiers, and despite herself, her gaze skitters, making sure no one else falls behind. Stubborn, and maybe she hates that too. ]

CAMP/OUTSIDERS TENT

[ She does her best to not make a fuss once they're there.

But after awhile, she ends up eyeing the guards. It's not like there is anything else remotely sensible to do but learn their patterns.

It's nothing overt, nothing pointed. Just the way that not having anything else to do with her hands except pointless tasks gives her as good a reason as any - and this one is simple, old to her that she doesn't have to focus and do it at the same time. It lets her gaze wander over the guards where she's sat herself in the corner of their tent - first guards, then to others around her - then when she looks too long, her gaze back to her hands. That same blue and gold scarf is laid out in her lap where she sits, and she unwinds the gold from her hair, her ears, undoes the nath pierced in her nose, drops it into the scarf before she takes up a bit of snow she'd melted on the fire back to water and begins to scrub the gold in a mostly futile attempt to buff a shine back into it.

Something to do with her hands, whilst she looks and watches and sees whatever there might be to see. At least there is a fire and that improves her mood some, enough that when she's approached, she hums in greeting, nodding her head the once, happy to sit in a conversation for awhile if someone is looking for it.

A little while later however - and she supposes she misses Devi for this in the way she misses any of her ladies, the creature comforts of being near those most familiar. She winds her hair back up and nods to anyone that doesn't look like they're too busy. ] May I borrow you a moment?

[littlemissfutility]

Beth's spent a lot of her time sitting quietly under a blanket caped around her shoulders, trying to decide just what her options are here. Every time the tent flap opens, she looks up, a little startled. Usually, it's another of the stone-faced soldiers; when a woman dressed in thick woolen clothes pokes her head in, Beth's made a little more curious.

Besides, she's given the tent the once-over and thought through everything she could be doing right now to get home, and the list is a lot shorter than she'd like. If she can get any more information on this planet (planet, it still sounds crazy thinking it), she'll take it. So, wrapped up in her blanket, she gets up to help the woman with the food she's bringing in.

"Thank you," she says, doing her best to keep her attention on the woman who brought the meal rather than the meal itself. It's probably the same thing they've been brought every time, anyway: already prepared, nothing that can be stored up in case their hosts stop being gracious about feeding them or they have to get out of here in a hurry. "It, um. It smells great."

[vorbratta]

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?"

[vorbratta]

Sonia puffs out a dry laugh. "No it doesn't. It's just hot groats and cured mutton." She crouches and sets the food down on the ground next to Beth. She looks to be a few years older than Beth, lean and a little worn as much as you could expect any girl would look after ten years of war, but she's retained a certain softness about her. "It doesn't even have any maple syrup. Sorry about that. The mess officer wasn't in a sharing mood."

zarya / overwatch / ota

[sibearian]

a. ice to meet you

Zarya stumbles when her consciousness catches up with her body, thrown off by the lack of her heavy gun and comrades at her back. She looks around for a few moments, eyes wide and more than a little wild. It's dark, snowy, nor that different from where she'd just been and fuck, there had been Omnics in the distance, were they still there?

She's a soldier. Zarya forces herself to calm down, despite clenching her fists and finally realises that there are other people around. No-one she recognises, but people who are with her nonetheless.

"товарищи!" she calls out, hoping to get their attention. Zarya isn't hard to miss. She's the 6ft 5 mountain of a woman with bright pink hair. "We must remain calm! I do not know where we are, or who anyone here is, but I am Alexandra Zaryanova. Please, if you cannot stand in the snow, come to me."

She's not being condescending, but she doesn't know if the people around her are civilians or not. She doesn't even know if they're Russian or not. Right now, Zarya feels mildly responsible for them, especially if the Omnics are still stalking around.

"Does anyone have anything that might be able to create light?"

b. snow place like home

While she's angry beyond words about their situation, Zarya knows she can't in good faith take it out on the soldiers. None of this is a result of anything they have done, so after the situation had been explained to her (and a little shouting on her part, she had to get it out her system no matter what) Zarya resigned to apologising and leaving the tent. She knows that yelling and screaming like a child about having to fight another war won't get anyone anywhere - the least she can do is lend her strength and expertise to help protect those who might need it.

Some of the soldiers look a little skinny, is what she means.

After taking a while to calm down and return to the mingle, Zarya decides she might as well get to know people if she's going to be here for a while.

"Hello," she says, smiling as she approaches. "I recognise you from the hill. How are you settling in, my friend?"

[littlemissfutility]

"Smells like food." Beth shrugs, picking a little piece of mutton out of a bowl. She already knows before popping it in her mouth that it's going to be as tough as every other piece of meat they've been fed. But at least it doesn't come from a can. "That's pretty good, right?"

[vorbratta]

The corner of Sonia's mouth turns up. "I think so, yes."

She hasn't been brushed off or getting any go away signals, so Sonia seats herself on the ground near Beth, her legs tucked under her. Her heavy wool skirt spreads around her, keeping her nicely warm, or as close to it as it gets around here. "My name is Sonia. Have the guards been treating you alright?"

[dendarii]

[ Does Byerly not realize when and where they are? Well - that's possible. Miles had realized quickly, but he also knows his district like the back of his hand. The soldiers, the hex signs, the tech level, the lack of recognition, the Cetagandans - it had painted a picture very quickly for him. And it had also made it very clear what he need to do. It's not the Cetagandans he's hiding from. It's his grandfather. ]

Captain Illyan doesn't exist yet. [ He hisses back in low tones. ] Or did you not happen to notice when the hell we are?

[ Damn fool town clown. Why the hell did he get stuck with Byerly of all people? ]

[dendarii]

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."

[sibearian]

"Oh," Zarya replies, a little dumbly. She'd been lost in her thoughts and suddenly there's a small woman offering her food? Her features soften and she offers a warm smile. "Hello."

She takes the food carefully, with a grateful nod.

"Allow me to thank you and your fellow soldiers for their kindness in taking us in. I am sure this was not easy."

Miles Vorkosigan | OTA

[dendarii]

Outsider's Tent

[ When Miles had wished he could go back and undo his mistakes, he hadn't meant this. Not falling asleep in the late autumn in Silvy Vale and waking up to soldiers in his face, dragging him away to places unknown. Or rather ... places he knows all too well. The countryside is achingly similar to the one he knew as a child. Is, in fact, much the same, save for the changes made by the intervening years. The largest of which are the guerrillas, of course. A few strained conversations with their guards (both had made the hex sign against mutants at him) had told him the insane answer to the question burning up his brain: where the hell is he?

No, when the hell. In the very throes of the Cetagandan Occupation, years before his parents will meet, possibly before his father was even born. He's sorry to say he knows frighteningly little about this portion of history. The outcome, oh yes, and a few scattered stories by way of his memories of Gran'da Piotr. Whatever else he had before has been eaten by his cryorevival amnesia. What he wouldn't give to have Duv here, of all people. A working knowledge of history would have been incredibly helpful for the situation he's found himself in...

It doesn't matter. He's stuck here - now - and that means finding a way to survive. Miles is an unusual figure even among the outsiders. Brely 4'9" at most, dark haired and gray eyed, about thirty, and gaunt in a way that suggests a lifetime of medical issues. And yet, despite having arrived with the outsiders, MIles is utterly fluent in any language the guards use, including the odd Greek-speakers. His accent, too, fluctuates between the same as the natives and rather flat not-quite-American tones. The good news is that he can translate. The bad news is ... well ... ]

Come back here, dammit. [ He curses at the retreating back of one of the guards, who'd made a hex sign and then proceeded to ignore him. ] I just want to know where the hell we are.

[ Out in the countryside, clearly, but where? ]

Breaking the Ice

[ When talking to the guards gets him nowhere, Miles sets himself to meeting every other goddamn person in this tent if kills him. He is bright-eyed despite ... well, everything, and he can translate if someone has trouble with the natives. If they will listen to him. ]

Welcome to Barrayar. [ He drawls with just the slightest hint of Barrayar. ] Let me guess: this is your first time here?

[dendarii]

At least one person doesn't tower over him quite so ridiculously. Miles gets to his feet as she approaches, bowing his head slightly. That face ... Hasn't he seen it before? Given her obvious status as a Vor lady, she's related to him in some capacity, but by what degree?

Better find out who she is first. "Milady," he says mildly, with an accent that's distinctly Barrayaran. "I don't suppose you could tell me who you are? Or what you intend to do to us?"