test drive meme

[barrayarmods]

Playlists by tsarcasm:
Barrayar ⚔ Cetaganda ⚔ The Invasion

Have you read the FAQ?

The Village ⚔ The Barrayaran Camp ⚔ The Cetagandan Base ⚔ The Fight

You've been on Barrayar for a while now, and you're finally starting to adjust. Or maybe you're not. Maybe this is all still too much for you – the attacks, the constant raids, living in the middle of a war zone by no choice of your own. But if you want to live long enough to make it back home one day, you might as well do what you can to help the war effort. Besides, where else are you going to go?

The fierce Barrayaran winter rages even to the southern end of the continent, and it's been none too kind to Vorkosigan's District. Temperatures at sea level are well below freezing, and up in the mountains, it's even colder. Several inches of snow already blanket most of the mountains all the way down to the Cetagandan base, and the storm that's just started up is only bringing more down. Visibility is low in the flurries, wind swirling snow everywhere, and God help you if you get lost on your own out in the storm. Nights are cold, these days.

A recent attack on the Cetagandan base has left half their facilities damaged and in disarray. Raid parties snuck in by night, planting bombs in previously scouted locations for maximum effect. Damage to the base's water treatment plant and organic grow labs have considerably impacted the Cetagandans' food and water supply, and in the chaos caused by the explosions, the Barrayaran guerrillas raided their medbay and made off with a considerable bounty of medical supplies. One man's bane is another man's boon, and while the Cetagandans have reserve supplies to sustain them for now, some of the damage is extensive and the repairs will take time. But in the meantime, the Barrayarans have scored a precious victory as well as equally precious resources.



the village
The Riverfall villagers are used to the harsh winters of the Dendarii mountains, and though they don't have much themselves, they are happy to offer what they can in terms of cold-weather clothing and extra blankets to those allied with the guerrillas. Despite the cold, the hill children are going wild in the snow, and they may try to lure you into their play by sneakily pelting you with snowballs.

Cetagandan allies, however, may not be met so warmly, and at the first sight of ghem soldiers, any children out playing in the snow will be immediately ushered into their homes. Unaccompanied outsiders from the Cetagandan base might have an easier time talking to the hillfolk, but any attempt at digging information about the guerrillas out of them will get you stonewalled fast. A sneaky hill child or two may steal away from their home to approach one of the "bad guy" outsiders to sate their curiosity.



the barrayaran camp
Morale is higher than it has been in a while after their recent victory, and the guerrillas are in high spirits. And do they ever love their spirits – as night falls, most of the Barrayarans gathered around the campfires are enjoying the deceptively named, dangerously alcoholic moonshine they call maple mead. It might start out sweet, but it burns all the way down, and a few glasses of that stuff will tank even the heaviest Barrayaran soldier.

But the storm rages on despite their celebration, and preparations must be made. Clearing as much snow off the tents as possible will help ensure that no tents collapse overnight, the horses need to be tended to, and the officers are always running training drills. Food is in real supply now, but the guerrillas need help foraging and hunting nonetheless. And when night falls, you'll have to find a way to keep yourself warm – it's a good thing there are a cozy ten of you to a tent.



the cetagandan base
The Cetagandans outnumber their guerrilla enemies almost seventy-to-one, so their base has not been completely devastated, but it hardly looks to be the work of a few raiding parties. Nothing is beyond repair, but the water treatment plant has been taken offline, which means that all water is now locally sourced and must be treated by hand with purification tablets. No one in the base will starve, but fresh food is mostly unavailable until they get the grow labs back online, which means that meals are mostly comprised of ration bars and MREs. Morale isn't exactly at an all-time low, but none of the ghem officers seem to be in a good mood.

They won't hesitate to put you to work, either. They need all the engineers and laborers they can get for the grow labs and the treatment plant, and the medbay's inventory needs to be thoroughly audited before they can send a request for more supplies. But if you need a break, it's not too hard to slip away for a little quiet downtime. Some of the lower-ranked ghem ladies might let you participate in some more artistic activities, or maybe some of the enlisted soldiers who are a little more used to you by now might invite you into one of their Cetagandan games of strategy. Or, since the treatment plant only affected potable water, you could appreciate your comfortable surroundings and take a nice hot soak in the bathroom while everyone else is working.


the fight
PVP
You're in the midst of a skirmish with the other side -- maybe you signed up for the battle, maybe you just got caught up in the fight -- but at least it's easy to tell who's on what side. Only one side is wielding swords, and the other guns.

But then you come across someone who doesn't look like they're either -- not one of the rugged Barrayarans or the face-painted Cetagandans, but an outsider, an exotic like you. They must be. So do you fight?

RECON
Maybe you're not on the front lines, but there's plenty more to winning the war than just fighting. You're partnered with another outsider on recon; the ground is cold, and you try not to let your shoes crunch too loudly on snow as you scout, scanning for patrols or supply lines.

Or maybe you're with the Cetagandans, hiking it thorugh the mountains with one of your fellow exotics in an attempt to locate the enemy camp. Except it's damned cold, and there's hidden ice everywhere, and everything is starting to really look the same.

--

Feel free to write prompts for your character on either side -- you don't have to choose just one for the TDM! Just label it clearly so folks know. GO WILD, MY FRIENDS

Comments

Lady Diya d'Zefyst (NPC - Cetagandan) | ota

[eugengineer]

a. gene labs
Technically, this hall isn't restricted access, but every door down the corridor is, each with a bright declaration of the necessary clearance level on its security pad, accompanied by a peculiar screaming bird insignia. You didn't mean to wind up here -- or maybe you did, satisfying the urge to explore the base a little more. This wing is only known as "the gene labs", but all the Cetagandans have explained to you exotics so far is that these gene projects are satellite operations of one of their central branches of government. Considering that their entire culture seems to revolve around genetics, this sort of makes sense.

One door slides open with a soft pneumatic hiss, and Lady Diya d'Zefyst steps out into the hall. Her long hair, never once cut, is gathered up in a complicated ornamental hairstyle, and her haut genes make her beauty almost ethereal. The haut do, of course, always select the very best for themselves. She sees you almost immediately, and smiles tolerantly at you, although her face tightens slightly.

"Can I help you?" She sweeps towards you with a gesture. "Lost on your way to the medbay, perhaps?"

b. medbay
Diya is a geneticist by trade, not a physician, but she's often found in the medbay nonetheless, conversing with the ghem officer who serves as the base's Chief Medical Officer. While he doesn't seem nervous in her presence, he averts his gaze from her even while speaking to her.

When you enter the medbay, there's a moment before her attention shifts to you, and the CMO turns as well, standing at a parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back. Diya's eyes warm with light and she smiles at you.

"Did you need something?" she inquires politely, clasping her hands in front of her as if in reverse of the CMO's posture. "You are due for a physical, aren't you? Ghem-Colonel Naru, I'll take care of this."

c. wildcard
The Lady d'Zefyst is rarely seen in the mess hall and mostly keeps to the women's quarters or her labs, but on occasion she can be seen conversing with one of her science teams in one of the more common areas, or even engaging in the decidedly more ghem art form of watercolor painting, which is as close as she gets to fully engaging with ghem culture. Occasionally she stops by the grow labs to oversee their operations; head geneticist means head of every genetic project on the base, and that includes the synthesis of their food supply.

Once in a while she can even be seen taking a solitary walk outside – well, not so much a walk as an idle circuit around the base's more pleasant areas on a float chair. Ostensibly to eliminate the danger of slipping on the ice or damaging her clothes in the snow – but perhaps she misses the comforts of her old life among the haut.

b

[mirrortide]

There's a lot to get used to here. There's even more that Lapis doesn't like; the fact she's trapped, the fact that she's effectively human, and that human bodies have requirements (that she isn't particularly good at keeping up on, if she were honest with herself), and the fact that she's somehow been dragged into another war.

Even if she's not a prisoner, it's not as if she has any means to escape this place. She wouldn't anyway, not until they can fix what they've done to her to begin with.

The offer for a 'physical' is met with a look of suspicion and mistrust, and Lapis' shoulders are squared and her muscles are tense (a weird feeling, when she's had no such things before), like she absolutely wants to bolt. And she would, if this 'physical' turns out dangerous.

"What's... a physical?"

General Count Piotr Vorkosigan (NPC - Barrayaran) | ota

[oldvor]

a. war tent
To be invited into the war tent when you're not an officer, when you're not even a Barrayaran, is something of a rarity. Even more so when the invitation is extended by the General himself, although where Piotr is concerned, it is more a command than an invitation. Most would not go so far as to call him hostile, but there is a certain brusqueness about him. More than anything, he has the air of a man stripped down to his bare essentials and dressed again in tough skin and a Count's title. He's no barbarian, regardless of what the Cetagandan propaganda may say, but there's nothing genteel about him.

He stands at the Barrayaran average of about six feet – and he always stands, rarely opting to sit. Gray eyes keen, fingers tented, he fixes the whole of his attention on you as soon as you enter. "Ah," he says, and does not offer a seat. "You're here. Good. I've got something for you."

He probably does not mean a present.

b. stables
More often than not, Piotr spends his sparse downtime at the stables by the creek. He's usually accompanied by his wife, but today he's alone, refilling the feed troughs with what groats they can set aside for the horses. It's usually the work of whatever unlucky enlisted son of a bitch gets stuck with tending the stables, but apparently Piotr doesn’t mind so much. The man loves his horses.

Once the hard work is done, Piotr can be found tending to a sorrel mare on one end of the stables, humming vaguely to himself as he teases out the mats in her braided mane. The mare doesn't seem to mind, nickering softly. If you're looking to catch Piotr in a good mood, this might be your best bet.

c. wildcard
Piotr can be found elsewhere around camp, running drills, conversing with officers, ruthlessly reprimanding any subordinate careless enough to goof off in his presence. He makes personal visits to the village as well, convening with the village Speaker Gura on more serious matters – but he can be caught observing the children playing in the snow with an actual smile on his face. Don't get excited. It's a very small smile.

a.

[pigsfeet]

Daryl has a pretty deeply ingrained distrust of authority figures, and he's mostly tried to avoid the big guys in charge during his stay here. Keep his head down, survive, provide for the important people alongside him, that's been his goal from day one. He's shown no interest in rising through the ranks or making a name for himself, so he's got genuinely no clue why king boss suddenly wants to have a chat.

Is it the tracking and the hunting? Is this camp so damn small that his imperial nibs found out about that? Daryl hopes he isn't getting drafted into some recon mission, because he can't, realistically, say no. He knows how the army works, if only in theory.

So it's with a defiant lack of decorum that Daryl arrives in the Vorkosigan tent. He doesn't bow, he doesn't kneel, he slumps and keeps his hands in his pockets. The casual demeanor is a lie, though, and easily read in the tenseness of his shoulders. He's not expecting good news, either.

"What."

Princess Sonia Vorbarra (NPC - Barrayaran) | ota

[vorbratta]

a. mess tent
The younger Princess is certainly the taller one, standing at a very leggy 5'9, and with the bubbly persona to match it. Here in the mess, she's sitting on one of the low stools with her booted feet tucked under her skirt, her long curls draped over one shoulder as she takes up half a table to herself. Being that it's the tail end of mealtime and half the mess is vacated, no one seems to be complaining. As she sees you passing by, she raises a hand and waves it at you, both to get your attention and beckon you closer.

"Hey! Come here a second." Her accent isn't quite like any of the other Barrayarans'. She smiles brightly at you and points at the seat opposite her before patting her hands on the table. The reason she's so claimed it is so she could spread out several black-and-white photographs across its surface, some of them candids of her sister or the Armsman bodyguard who stands just behind her, some of them scenic shots. On the seat next to her is a large, very antique-looking camera by galactic standards. "Can I get your opinion?"

b. village
Sonia will take any excuse she can to escape the dreary atmosphere of the guerrilla camp, and a trip to the village is about as close as she can get to a five-star vacation these days. It's nice for her, at least, to be around people other than sweaty soldiers once in a while, and although being half-Betan and Vor puts her about as far socially from the hillfolk as possible, she's made friends with some of the villagers easily.

But today she's playing with the children despite being well into her twenties, although she's got all the mischief of a ten-year-old. The moment one of the hill children dares to lob a snowball at the Princess, she joins right in with a delighted cackle – but she won't be the only victim. If you find yourself pelted with a snowball, or snow shoved down the back of your shirt, then it means you've been drafted by the Imperial Princess into her own personal war.

c. wildcard
Otherwise, Sonia can be found drifting around the village, chatting with villagers, or trying to find comfortable places in the camp to sit, or anyone to talk to. Really, after ten years of growing up with the unrelenting guerrilla soldiers, she's a little desperate for someone new to have a conversation with.

a.

[pigsfeet]

Isn't that one of the princesses? On a scale of one to ten, how much trouble will he get in for just pretending like he didn't hear her and walking away? Shit.

Still holding his half-finished meal, Daryl tries not to groan, and looks over the pictures scattered over the table. They're of people he mostly doesn't know, maybe vaguely recognizes, doing things he mostly doesn't care about.

And when he looks into the girl's smiling face, he knows he can't say none of that.

"On... what?" Maybe if she thinks he's stupid, she'll leave him alone.

countess olivia vorkosigan [ npc; barrayaran ] - ota

[truevor]

a. the barrayaran camp (stables)

Of the two sisters, Princess and Countess Olivia Vorkosigan is the less conversational of the two — straight faced and serious when their new… recruits arrived, and no-less icy as they’ve settled in. They are a resource, a potentially valuable one, and Olivia cannot argue with Piotr over using them to fight, not when they’re in the middle of winter. More mouths to feed, maybe, but more people who can go out and attempt to get supplies without instantly alerting the Cetagandans that they’re Barrayarans.

The rare down day finds Olivia not with her husband but in the stables, dressed in riding gear, busy with a fine mare. There’s an ease to her movements, a gentleness that isn’t often seen in the Countess as she goes about brushing and feeding the animal. For once her face isn’t set into a thin line but a small smile as she murmurs soft words of encouragement to her horse.

Anyone disturbing her will find themselves not shooed away, but waved over. “Bring me that saddle,” she says with a gesture, more focused on getting the other tack down from the wall than she is caring about whoever else has disturbed her. If they’re going to spend their time around here, they’d best make themselves useful.

b. the barrayaran camp (wildcard)

The Countess Vorkosigan is not easy to miss, despite her relative shortness when compared to the other Barrayarans around her. At any point in the day one can find her making her way around camp, oversized general’s greatcoat buckled around her waist, thin rapier hanging off of it, and her skirts hiked up to keep the hem dry as she follows the main paths to and from the important areas of camp. It isn’t the most opportune time to catch the General Count’s wife for a conversation, but if someone shows interest she’ll stop long enough to hold a small conversation.

She can also be found in the war tent when Piotr and his staff are not present, switching between flipping through correspondences and staring at the maps while writing something down on a flimsy — occasionally pausing to double check something in the pile of classified information. One might have to cough to catch her attention, or to ask where the General Count himself is and what, exactly, she’s doing there.

c. the village

Here, at least, Olivia looks less like a Princess and Countess and more like some Dendarii hill folk — dressed in a rough dress and a heavy wool coat — she blends in amongst the crowd; except for the way she holds herself, chin high and shoulders set back. For those that look closer, when the wind pulls on her skirts just so, there’s the finely crafted hilt of a knife sticking up from the top of one of her valenki.

The hilt of a dagger that is currently being made off with someone daring enough to grab it. Olivia spins, grabbing the arm of whoever is next to her and gestures after the retreating back. “Stop them,” she hisses, before taking off after the culprit herself. More than its value, Olivia is primarily concerned with someone taking the only weapon she’ll allow herself to openly cary in the village and the fact it’s distinctly a vorfemme knife, and no Cetagandan worth their salt wouldn’t fail to know what that meant.

c.

[pigsfeet]

Daryl is the guy with a long string of dead squirrels tied loosely around his back, who sees a pickpocket nab something shiny that surely ain't his. It doesn't take much for Daryl to see where this is headed, and he's quick to follow it along to its conclusion.

Note: It's conclusion involves Daryl yelling at the top of his lungs. "Hold it, asshole!" Daryl's on the chase, making good speed despite his late start. He'll press any advantage he has, though, and that includes untying his squirrel string and using it as a makeshift lasso. He lobs it forward in a wide arc, intending to trip the thief with his would-be dinner.

You're welcome, princess.

daryl dixon | the walking dead | ota.

[pigsfeet]

a1. THANKS, BASTARDS | riverfall village.

War is war, and that's all a great way to die, but Daryl is more concerned with making it through the winter. It turns out even in space, people still gotta eat and stay warm.

Walking around the village, Daryl may look more like a native than anything else. He's definitely not about to correct that assumption if you make it. Decked out in thick furs, head covered in a layered hood with a thick shawl covering most of his face, he could be anyone. Currently, this anyone is at the market, trying to unload the bounty from a recent hunt. Anyone buying from him will find a man of few words, many grunts, and a total disinterest in bartering.

That said, he will give you a great bargain if you'll give him arrows.

a2. BIG MISTAKE | riverfall village.

Later, after he's unloaded his kills and gotten the supplies he needed, Daryl leaves the village without a word. Or, he tries, until some kind decides to bean him with a snowball.

Without a second glance, Daryl scoops up a few snowballs and wages war on the local hill children. It's pretty quick, a volley of snowballs hitting their targets with a marksman's accuracy. The three nearby kids get a snowball to the head in return.

When it's over, Daryl will pick his belongings back up, and look over at anyone unlucky enough to be caught watching and glare. "What."

b. FRIENDSHIP IS DEEP | barrayar camp.

Daryl isn't much interested in the festivities, but you're welcome to try and pull him into a partying mood. Mostly, though, he's focusing on the work that needs doing around camp. Daryl is focusing on the horses, because he has a score to settle, here.

The wind's picking up, and Daryl is trying to make sure the animals are secured in the stalls, so they can't bolt if the storm spooks them. You never know, man. Horses are weird.

He's hushing a particularly nervous mare while trying to re-secure its stall. "C'mon, settle down. How can you be scared by a lil' wind? All this damn place does."

c. WALL OF DEATH | pvp.

Daryl doesn't know who you are, but he doesn't seem to care. He's ignoring a cut on his temple, a few gashes on his arms and chest, all to point what looks like a makeshift crossbow at you. He holds it steady with a crouched, waiting stance, as though he fully expects the person he's pointing it in to know the danger they're in.

"Don't want no trouble," he says, troublesomely, "Ain't interested in surrendering, neither."

d. HOLD ON, HOLD ON | recon.

As recon partners go, Daryl isn't exactly ideal, but he's no novice, either. He's less interested in what's in front of him, and more interested in the ground beneath his feet. He's been watching it the entire trek.

"Someone been through here little while back." He looks over a clump of dirty snow, a few scuffed red leaves scattered in the dirt, a broken twig. "Looks like a Ceta."

e. WILDCARD | go for it, man.

Daryl largely sticks to himself, does his work, and doesn't fraternize much. That said, if you ask him for help and make a good case (or just genuinely seem like you need it), he'll lend a hand.

He's frequently out hunting, and generally brings back absolutely anything he can find (just not the native giant bugs after that one time, no, he doesn't want to talk about it). I hope you like the taste of squirrel. Occasionally, he'll sell his wares at the Riverfall markets, and probably knows a few of the hillfolk on a first name basis.

pvp

[mirrortide]

While she doesn't know what half of this.. human stuff is, it hardly takes a Peridot to figure out that the thing being pointed at her is dangerous. Granted, the thing she has on her person is also dangerous, but she had hardly been ready for an ambush like that.

The blue girl doesn't even bother reaching for the plasma gun on her. She doubts she could do it fast enough to get a shot off before being shot.

"... Feel like pretending we never saw each other, then?"

No one ever said Lapis was the bravest or the most fearless gem.

general zahal ghem zefyst [ npc; cetagandan ] - ota

[artsofwar]

a. the cetagandan base (mess)

Zahal doesn’t cut any more of an imposing figure than any other Cetagandan — he’s soft spoken, good-humored, and always ready with a smile for both any newcomers and for his own men. Tall, like any ghem, he carries himself with an open, friendly air. And, predictably, escapes his own office three times a week to eat lunch with his men in the mess. It’s a careful balance between not intruding on their time off-duty and keeping tabs on their morale.

“Here,” he says, gesturing at whoever is passing him, “come and sit here.” Zahal says, gesturing at the free seat next to him. It’s good to look accessible, isn’t it? “Tell me, have you been finding everything to your satisfaction?”

a. the cetagandan base (wildcard)

General ghem Zefyst can be found around camp most days, personally seeing to that the day to day operation of the camp is running as smoothly as possible. When not seen out and about, he is normally in his office — and unless the door is closed, available to talk. Hell, if one is particularly interesting, he might have invited them to come meet with him regardless.

the first a

[mirrortide]

It's very hard to not walk and keep walking with her plate of... food as she's beckoned by the General. Lapis has no desire to sit with him, and even less desire to eat, but human bodies need to constantly ingest food for energy, and she's no better than anyone else at the moment.

Which means when he speaks up about how he hopes she's been finding everything to her satisfaction, she levels a Look at him, one that hopefully comes across as unhappy, unfriendly and unsatisfied as one could possibly be.

"No. I haven't."

She's not sitting next to him unless he demands it.

Agent Carolina | Red vs. Blue

[startpoint]

[ A. Barrayaran Camp - Festivities ]

Relaxing isn't something Carolina is good at but the energy of victory has her willing to try and loosen up a little. And the effort lasts right up until she gets her first taste of maple mead. She takes one sip and stares at it for a moment like maybe someone is playing a prank on her. But looking at the natives drinking it happily she realizes that this is supposed to be a reward. She makes another attempt at drinking it before she gives up entirely and passes it off to the nearest drunk who seems like they want to poison themselves with enthusiasm.

"I'll pass on poisoning myself, thanks." She says if anyone asks why she isn't joining, lips quirked as someone brings out another cask of the maple flavored jet fuel. "Someone needs to stay sober." Just in case.


[ B. Barrayaran Camp - Training ]

Keeping busy is the best way to avoid thoughts of home. Or as close to a home as she'd come to having since leaving Project Freelancer. Carolina is a soldier through and through and she refuses to be unprepared just because she's in yet another war she didn't sign up for. She was trained on the best weapons the UNSC had to offer. Unfortunately this isn't the UNSC and she never bothered with serious sword combat because that was never her focus. She's working on remedying that.

She's got a sword from the quartermaster and she's working her way through a series of moves adapted from her shock-baton training. The day is cold enough to make most people want to bundle up but she's been at this for a while and her thick woolen coat has been abandoned on a nearby bench. She's worked up a decent sweat as she keeps up the exercise, her bright red hair plastered to her forehead. The only reason she finally stops is because when she goes through one more repetition the blade of her sword gets caught in the body of the practice dummy she's been brutalizing. Once she frees it from the wood she walks over to the bench and starts pulling on the greatcoat again. To whoever is nearby for whatever reason she nods.

"I'd kill for a decent gun," She says as she sheathes the blade. She pauses for a moment as she looks at the uniforms the Barrayaran soldiers are wearing and adds for good measure, "Or proper combat armor."


[C. PVP ]

Fighting. Fighting is something Carolina is good at. Once she gets up close it's easier to make blades an effective weapon against the enemy ranks with their much more advanced guns. In fact she's been doing some decent damage to the Cetagandan forces they're fighting against. She throws one of the enemy combatants and turns, sword drawn on the next nearest person who... definitely doesn't look like a ceta. She pauses in the attack and stares the other person down.

"I'll give you one chance to walk away. This isn't your fight." Not that it was hers either, but she didn't relish hurting another person dragged into this unwillingly.

[ D. Wildcard ]

Carolina can be found around the Barrayaran Camp and Riverfall Village going about her business. She frequents the training grounds and can sometimes be seen clashing with some of the officers in the native forces who think that a woman shouldn't be fighting so much. She'll even offer to help others who want to train in combat, though she won't always be the nicest about it.

b.

[pigsfeet]

"Yeah, and the devil wants an air conditioner. Work with what you got, sister."

Daryl hasn't been training, not really. He's been sitting off to the side, slowly skinning one of the tiny furred rodents he caught on a recent hunt. His forearms are filthy with it, but he's mostly keeping to himself. Way to make friends and influence people, right?

"Looks like you got the training."

Lord Miles Naismith Vorkosigan | Vorkosigan Saga | OTA

[dendarii]

When Miles had wished he could go back and undo his mistakes, he hadn't meant this. Not falling asleep in the late summer heat in Silvy Vale and waking up to a snowstorm. Nor his frantic flight afterwards, and near-freezing that would have turned into actual hypothermia if not for a pair of guerillas stumbling across him. One strained conversation later (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 like hell he's helping the Cetagandans. That leaves the Barrayaran camp. He lingers around the edges of it, cutting a strange figure in more than one way. Barely 4'9" at most, dark haired and gray eyed, about thirty, and gaunt in a way that suggests a lifetime of medical issues. He doesn't quite seem to fit in with the other natives despite the distinct fluidity to his speech. Many of them stare or glare at his stooped form, or imply some Cetagandan connection. The only thing saving him there is his age: he is clearly too old to be the product of a Cetagandan/Barrayaran union.

A - Celebration!

Tonight, at least, is a good night. Miles is near the middle of the circle, gladly helping himself to (small) portions of maple mead. He isn't surprised by that glorious burning kick it gives going down his throat. Hell, he's looking forward to it. Times may change but the alcohol sure doesn't. Miles is quick to grin when one of the other transplants seems to be having trouble. "Deceptive, isn't it?" he says with a bright grin. "Might want to take that slower."

B - Clearing Snow

The next day is a bit less fun, alas. Nursing a hangover, Miles has volunteered himself to go out into the morning flurries and clear snow. After all, he makes a poor soldier and a worse spy, despite his native familiarity with the area. (He still hasn't quite decided on what the hell he's going to call himself here. Miles, yes. Vorkosigan? Hell no. Naismith is too Betan, and Kosigan ... also seems wrong. He scrapes at icicles as he thinks - and doesn't notice when doing so brings down an avalanche of snow until it's too late.

Welp. He deserved that. Cursing a bit, Miles struggles to dig himself out. His bones may no longer be made from spun glass, but that doesn't necessarily make him much stronger ... "This is just perfect," he mutters to himself. And waves a hand to flag down the nearest person who looks willing to help.

C - Wildcard!

Miles stays close to the Barrayaran camp, but mostly clear of his family members. If he can avoid it, anyway. He is quite sympathetic to newcomers, and readily translates for anyone who is lost due to the dialect differences.

[jacksonian]

They'd made the hex sign at Mark, too, but Mark had scarcely noticed. He'd been more concerned with taking stock of his surroundings. He doesn't think he's gone crazy - he's familiar enough with crazy to be fairly sure this isn't it - so that leaves the possibility that this is real. That somehow he's been thrown back through time to the worst goddamn period of Barrayaran history. ...Okay, to one of the top five bad periods of Barrayaran history. And just when things were going so well - just when he'd been about to get home to Kareen, beautiful wonderful Kareen, with a truly exciting business prospect...The little box with a small sample colony of butter bugs is still buzzing in his pocket. He hopes they don't die in the cold.

Ah - He's not sure whether it's a jolt of alarm of relief that goes through him when he sees Miles. Good, that the little bastard is here; terrible, that the little bastard is in the same insane danger as he is. Worse, even, half-buried as he is in snow. He makes his way over, grabs his brother by the arms and drags him out.

"What," he hisses as he does, "the hell," another tug gets Miles free, "is going on."

toska | prague race | ota

[friendsnotfood]

i. the village

It's inevitable. Watching little human children run around playing in the snow, it's too tempting for the big lug of a troll that is Toska. Thankfully, the temptation isn't at all about eating little human children, oh no, he'd never, but to join in on the fun. Unfortunately, his idea of joining in isn't to pick up snow and throw it, too. It's to bury himself under the snow and lay in wait, which is something he used to do when he was playing with his brother long, long ago.

Dig in, wait, leap out. In past instances, that meant his brother punting him in the face. In this instance, it means a giant snow-covered man with horns, claws, and horrible teeth is erupting out of the ground and scaring the hell out of a bunch of unsuspecting kids.

"Grrarrr!"

His roar is a little too convincing when he does this. Even though he is grinning like an idiot the whole while, they're having none of it. There's a few screams and they're scrambling away, taking cover a safe distance away from Toska, who just stands there, arms held up and wide, clawed fingers curled slightly. It's only when he realizes -- after an entire minute -- that they're not coming back out that his grin will fade some and he'll drop his pose, instead falling into a crouch.

"Haha, whoops. I guess that was too much."

ii. recon [ as either side ]

For all his other downfalls, the goofing off, the messing up, the misunderstandings, Toska is shockingly good at recon. He covers ground swiftly, silently, picking his way over rock and brush as though he were born to it. Who knows, maybe he was. Maybe he's just well-trained for it. Regardless of which, he's leading the way cheerfully through the snow, right up until he stops just under an overhang to check out the vaguest of leftover ash from a campfire.

"Huh," he crouches down by it, already having stooped to even get under the overhang in the first place, and picks up a bit of burnt refuse to squint at. "So they did stop up this way. Must have left during that snowstorm the other night, though. Hey..."

Toska turns, looking back up from the ash to the poor soul stuck scouting with him, that same big, doofy smile he's been wearing more or less constantly since they started out from base camp still there.

"If we find them and they've frozen to death already, do you think anyone will mind me eating one?"

A question he asks without a single ounce of malice. He may as well be asking if he can pick out a piece of candy from a store, the way he poses it.

shrugs

[bewildering]

Colin is struggling somewhere between terrified, exasperated, and reluctantly amused, and he's trying very hard to pretend that he didn't also scream a little when Toska burst out of the snow so suddenly. How the heck did he end up being the one stuck here with the troll? Still, at least he's found him again today, so that has to count for something.

"You know, just because we're on another planet--" and he's been in a low-level state of panic about that pretty much since their arrival, "--doesn't mean the humans here are any more accustomed to trolls than humans back home are."

He hunches down in his coat with a huff, then imperiously sticks his hand out for Toska. Well, the troll's the only one around here the slightest bit familiar, and if he's going to be stuck here, he certainly doesn't want to be alone. Probably a good idea to avoid any angry mobs. "Come on, before their parents come after you with pitchforks and you do something foolish."

beth greene | the walking dead | ota

[littlemissfutility]

[village]

Beth, unlike some people, has left the state of Georgia before, but she's a born and bred Southerner at heart. And that makes the Dendarii mountains a serious shock to her system. Too much snow, too much ice, too much of a cold wind. Even after she's disappeared into the native clothing of the area, she shivers a little, her cheeks an almost perpetual pink.

But there are benefits to this awful weather, too. When she ends up hit by a snowball, she laughs, bending down to scoop up a handful of snow in her thick gloves. "We're not going to let them get away with this, right?"

[bonfires]

Weather like this also means she can always be found curled up near campfires. Sitting in the firelight, wrapped up in the wool and fur the hillfolk wear, she's warm. Warm enough to count, anyway, and willing to chat with just about anyone she meets--about whatever they like, or about the night in general.

For instance, "Do you know any ghost stories?" Or, "It's too bad we don't have a guitar." Or maybe, "The stars are different here. I wonder if they have constellations."

(Or try offering her some maple mead, if you want.)

[camp work]

But snow and ice aside, work goes on. Beth's tracking skills aren't so developed that she's much use out in the woods, but she can handle other chores. She sweeps snow off tents, keeps fires stoked, and fetches whatever she's told to.

And eventually she gets bored of all of it and asks what kinds of plants can be foraged here. The first time she goes out, it's with a little list with carefully written notes about the different options and another member of the camp.

[pvp]

Swords are new to Beth, but she decides they can't be that different from knives--and at this point, she's learned how to be deadly with those. She's pretty sure killing people is never going to be easy for her, but at times like this, it doesn't matter much. When people try to hurt you or others, you have to do something about it. Refusing to act only helps them.

And anyway, if she doesn't fight to kill, she'll be dead all over again.

It doesn't mean, however, that she won't hesitate at the sight of a face that doesn't look like the enemy. She has her sword at the ready, both hands wrapped around the hilt like she remembers Michonne doing.

"Who are you?" Name, side, anything. Give the right answer, and she won't try to swing.

[&cet.]

[If you want to do something else, let's do something else. PM me if you have any questions!]

[pigsfeet]

Daryl is out hunting, because that's what he does to break up the monotony between waiting and planning and senseless violence. This war is stupid, based on something he has no concern for. It's on a living world, though, and that isn't something to waste. In the woods, he's basically safe as houses.

Not everyone is, though.

Daryl sees Beth in the woods, looking for plants and berries to pick in the dead of winter. She's like some kind of Snow White, soon she'll start singing and animals will pop up to help her scavenge. Actually, she's walking so slowly, they just might.

Daryl settles in to watch Beth's movements, seeing if, one, she can notice when she's being watched. (And, two, if he can score a few squirrels out of this arrangement.) On purpose, he walks with more heavy footfalls than usual, letting the snow crumble under his feet, twigs snap, mud splash.

Lapis Lazuli | Steven Universe | ota

[mirrortide]

[village:]

Lapis can safely say that she's never felt cold before this particular moment in time. There are a lot of firsts going on right now, like how her now very vulnerable human body is reacting to said cold by shivering, like how her teeth are chattering and how painful just being cold is. Humans actually deal with this sort of thing? That's horrifying. They're certainly sturdier than Lapis would have ever given them credit for, as she's quickly finding out more and more about them through her own now human body.

The once Gem bundles herself further into her clothing, though she's blue in colour, it's not from just the cold. It's natural, thanks. Still, she's not built for dealing with the cold, especially as she's wearing a crop top and a skirt with no shoes. Honestly, she's more fit for the heat of summer like this than the cold of winter. It doesn't seem to stop one of the children hiding behind a wall from beaning her in the head with a snowball either, which earns a loud shriek of surprise, and a reflexive motion of defense, though consideirng she doesn't have her hydrokinesis, it probably just looks like a weird motion. Which she stops promptly as the warmth provided from her arms around her middle is gone to do that again.

Lapis is hardly fit for this weather. Maybe she should have taken the clothing offered and put it on before she'd gotten off the ship. Or maybe she just shouldn't have gotten off in the first place.

[Ceta base:]

It's not the first time since arriving where Lapis has had to eat to sustain her body. That hardly means she enjoys it, and as always, she is in the middle of giving her food an intense and lengthy stare down that would likely dishearten most enemy soldiers. Maybe she wouldn't actually mind eating if it was her choice and not something that was forced upon her every day, three times a day now. It hardly helps that she doesn't even know what it is she's putting into her body.

Eventually, her death stare with her food ends, and she turns to the nearest person to her. "Hey. What is this?"

It's just exceedingly fancy looking chicken strips, to anyone who has ever eaten anything like them before.

ceta base

[friendsnotfood]

Hey, Toska has no idea what he's putting into his body most of the time, either, and yet here he is, bent over his own meal and loudly shoveling it down. He looks up when Lapis addresses him, though, still chewing as he does. At least he'll wait until after swallowing to try and answer, so she's saved from the spray of talking while eating.

"Bird! Definitely some kind of bird," he says, straightening up further to his full height (while seated, anyway) and grinning toothily down at Lapis. "Maybe chicken? But I'm not really sure. I usually don't have time to cook chicken when I get it."

Mark Vorkosigan | OTA

[jacksonian]

At camp
Mark is every bit the mutie that Miles is, of course, but he moves through the camp a bit more easily than his brother does. It's part that Mark just doesn't care about the looks that these hicks give him - he has wounds aplenty, after all, and doesn't want to hoard all of 'em; he's generous enough to give Miles primary ownership over the old mutant scars and bruises. But it's also part that they give him fewer looks. Maybe it's how distinctly unfragile Mark is in comparison to his brother, a fact that makes him look less like a failed infanticide, maybe it's his unapologetic surliness - maybe it's because he's shown up dressed in a way that makes him look less small than Miles - but by his sheer heavyset aggression he moves a bit more subtly.

Also, when one of those hicks had muttered something about him being a Cetagandan plot, he'd responded with a direct, "Komarran, actually," and that had been confusing enough to redirect some of the conversation.

It's possible to find him around at a number of different places, but he absolutely stops by the mess tent. And curls his lip in utter dismay. Military rations. Military rations. His therapist has been working with him on redirecting Gorge, encouraging him to work with quality instead of quantity - but, hell, how's he supposed to work with this sort of quality?

"Isn't there a cook around here...?" he murmurs.

In the woods
It doesn't take him long to remember: he showed up with a little box of butter-bugs. Samples, for the most part, but even sample bugs still produce, and there's a queen in there, too. Not bioengineered for Barrayaran plantlife - he could tear out his hair over that, why couldn't Enrique have come up with that permutation on the creature right away (oh, right, midnight flight from Escobar, that's why) but he manages to find a twisted old maple and gathers up the twigs to feed to the bugs.

Before long, he has a respectable little pile of bug-butter. And what if they breed? What if he can figure out a way to get them to reproduce, and then he has enough to produce large amounts of food - feeding the Barrayaran Resistance with bug butter. Mark Vorkosigan, hero of the Occupation. Well, every Vorkosigan did their part in this war, they say...Granted, that assessment definitely didn't include time-displaced ones from the future who just want to go home and bury themselves in the warm round arms of their beautiful, marvelous, miraculous Kareen...But his mother and father wouldn't ever let a bit of time-travel let him off the hook from making something of himself.

He leans his forehead against the trunk of the maple tree and lets out a loud, cracked laugh.

in the woods

[vorbratta]

Sonia's managed to escape her Armsman bodyguard for at least a little while, ditching him in favor of a quiet walk on her own. She feels a bit bad for him, but she's comforted by the knowledge that if anyone's going to get chewed out for it, it'll be her and not her Armsman. She'll survive a scolding from her sister, she's sure. Pfff.

The bulky antique camera tucked under one arm, Sonia's trudging through the thick snow in leather boots, wool skirt hiked up to keep the hem dry. Not the most princessly of looks, but the hillfolk have the warmest clothing, and honestly, it's a novelty when people don't know she's a princess. It affords her an honest conversation once in a while.

She doesn't expect to find this area totally deserted, but she is surprised to see the little man -- well, alright, short man -- out here. Well, maybe he got tired of being hassled by the soldiers. Fair enough. That laugh, though, that's a little worrying. Sonia stops where she is, knitting her brow.

"Oh, uh...are you alright there?"

rani/queen lakshmibai | the order: 1886 | OTA

[shri]

THE VILLAGE

[ She isn't fond of the cold. Though she has to admit, this is definitely better that it has elected to be frozen. Too long has she lived in the miserable English weather with it's rain that could never quite make its mind up other than to pour and pour. Not like the monsoons, not hot and clean, just sodden and grey tainted. No, England, or at least Whitechapel, some days was just like wading through mud for how much the ground never seemed to dry up.

The ground at least was solid underfoot here. Something she could respect - if rustic, perhaps, even to her. Then again, she wasn't as current to something of the things she'd seen. It makes her be wary. Rather, she's aware that the blackwater will no longer heal her, for all she must keep drinking it. So, instead, she wraps herself up as warmly as she can to stave off a cold. Seems inevitable, though her teeth clench tightly in a refusal to let them chatter as she draws the thick hood up her head, settling it over her hair and gold hair piece. Walking along the roads until she falls into step with someone else and nods to them once in greeting. ]

Are you heading to the stables as well?

PVP

[ It's hardly a consideration that she fights - not even because she so much cares for these people. Insists to herself, that they are not her people. She has her own wars to be fighting. Her own Empire to be throwing down.

But they are people in need of protection, and it seems, she cannot help herself.

Though she's reckless, of course, she is. She'd like to make an excuse that it is because these days, the blackwater does not heal her where it used to it. But it hadn't mattered before she had it, either, on the battlefields of Kalpi and Gwalior, and it doesn't now. The fact is, she was raised to battles such as this. Raised to the sword in her hand and she is eager to be in the fight. Not a leader this time, just one more soldier in the line that pulls sword that has been provided to her, horse comfortable under her, until it's over.

Which, she's usually worse for wear at the end of it. Sometimes, like this time, it's worse: she's separated, upon her horse, and bleeding from a wound to the leg, that she's desperately holding closed with her free hand. The sword is gripped tightly in the other, blood slick on the blade, breathing hard with the effort of keeping herself upright as the animal is nervous underneath her for the smell of blood that keeps coming fresh.

Means she's not good company when she finds herself with it. Snatching up the reigns in her sword hand, pulling the animal back and it protests to the sudden demand. ] Keep your distance. [ Barked like she has a right to be issuing orders. The gold of her jewellery still proudly worn from a time long gone glimmers as she turns her head to keep her eye on her present... acquaintance.

Maybe it has nothing to do with the fact that she's a queen, she figures there's authority enough in the blood that's on the blade. Fresh and red and as it's held, dripping over her knuckles onto the snow below, mixing into tainted slosh as the horse's hooves turn up the ground under it. ]

BARRAYAN CAMP v.1 - MERRIEMENT

[ Her injury leaves her laid up for the first days as the celebration goes on. Leg propped up and wrapped up, but she doesn't let it stop her interest in the festivities. Though it's cautious, she has never been too interested in these sorts of gatherings, burned by them perhaps and what they had cost her in a war not so dissimilar to this. But it is important to put in a showing, she knows.

So she's set up somewhere comfortable, - her back leaning against something solid and convinent, a drink very slowly nursed in her hand - moderation in all things, and she isn't fond of the idea of being drunk if and when battle broke out if she could not count on the blackwater to heal her and clear her mind. No, no never again. Still, it wasn't her place to make demands so she settles herself to be one of the rabble so to speak.

Oh, how laughable. But her rank means nothing here, and there's something to being just another rank in file. No wonder the Knights stayed together the way they did. She enjoys it now, laughing along with the rest at the entertainments and amusements in the way of drunken men and women tossing themselves about as the drink commanded them too. Feels the warmth in her mouth and her limbs that mercifully dulls the steady throb in her leg. Her laughter high and easy in bursts.

Every so often, gingerly when she thinks someone's free, asking for help isn't exactly her way - but damn it all if her leg didn't pang when she got up and down in particular. ] I don't suppose I could enlist you momentarily?

BARRAYAN CAMP v.2 - TENT ADVENTURES

a ). [ She does her best to mind her own business in the tent, - living in a brothel for too many years has definitely made her used to shared spaces after living in palaces before that. This definitely isn't her fortress, and there's not much to do with it, in the end, but try and keep arms and legs to yourself. Stows her kit and there's the brief little conversation that comes with it as she tucks her swords by her pillow. ] This won't be in your way, will it?

b ). [ .... Later on though, hunkering down for the night it's peaceful for awhile until the storm begins. Handle that too, but the winds - they howl, loud and shrieking and it makes it hard to sleep and every so often she just wants to curse them to be quiet ( safer to be irritated than admit anything else ). To anyone else with the same reaction, she goes to comfort them, rather than deal with how they discomfort her. ] Seems the storm wants for conversation. [ Her leg is aching with the cold, absently rubbing above the wound to relieve the pressure. Hard-eyed in the dark. ]

barrayaran camp v1

[vorbratta]

[ sonia's barrayaran enough to have a tolerance for maple mead, even if she prefers wine, but she doesn't drink too much. it always pains her armsman bodyguard when he has to keep track of a drunk princess, and she thinks that maybe she ought to cut him a break. that doesn't stop her from being perfectly social, though. god, until the outsiders popped up, she mostly hasn't had anyone but all these soldiers and her sister for company.

she's tipsy and teetering by when lakshmi politely requests her help. sonia wonders if anyone's told this woman she's a princess, and fervently hopes not. people always get with the bowing and scraping, and it's no fun after a while. ]

Oh -- certainly! [ sonia's expression is just slightly glazed, but the smile is genuine, and while she's no soldier, she's tall enough that she should be able to help leverage lakshmi to her feet. ] Oh -- what happened to your leg?

Byerly Vorrutyer | OTA

[vorrutyer]

Perhaps this is a heavenly punishment. Not that Byerly has any faith in heaven (he'd had to listen to a great lot of tiresome droning about that from some otherwise-delicious Betan herm, once, who'd slapped him robustly when he'd intimated that he'd like to incorporate a bit of the sacred into their profane activities, and that was the proud day when he'd out-scandaled a Betan) or honestly much faith in punishment (it all seems to come, inevitably, regardless of your worthiness or lack thereof). But he does specifically remember sitting in class, back when he was a young budding degenerate, and thinking about this very time period: things might be rotten now, but at least I'll never have to live through the Occupation.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

He should lay down in the snow and die right now. He doesn't have the constitution for this. Is his ancestor Pierre Le Sanguinaire dead yet? Oh, he does hope so. He'd take one look at his dissolute town clown relative and order him disemboweled for uselessness. Or, worse, he'd try to forcibly make him useful...

I am useful, damn it. That's the thing. By is a damn fine ImpSec agent (does ImpSec even exist in this time? He should bloody well know this) but this is not his milieu. He's not a war-spy. He's a peace-spy. He's a love-spy. But he suspects that Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan, leader of the insane Vorkosigan forces (like there's ever been a Vorkosigan soldier, or Vorkosigan, who isn't insane), isn't going to appreciate a specialist in the seducing of Vor...

a. In camp
They put him to work shoveling snow - shoveling snow! shoveling snow. - and he agrees in spite the indignity because at least it's easy work. Or he'd assumed it would be easy work, but after about ten minutes he's already winded. He leans on his shovel and regards the wintry mountain landscape with a very sour expression.

"What happened to Vor privilege?" he mutters. "No one told me it was a modern invention."

b. In the village
This, at least, is a slightly more civilized place. Slightly. How far has he fallen, that a Vorkosigan back-country izba looks like the height of luxury? But it is not a tent, and the smells coming from a cooking fire seem at least slightly appetizing instead of perfunctory, and someone is serving ale instead of that vile maple mead concoction...Not that ale is wine, or something he really wants (he'd just about kill for some creme kava right now) but at least it's a bit better than that. So here, he's a little bit in better spirits...

But he is also working. That's why he'll hail anyone he recognizes as a Cetagandan, or Cetagandan-affiliated, calling out drolly, "You look like someone who's about half as miserable as I am. How's life amongst the invaders?" Or, anyone fighting for the Barrayarans - "Well, well. Fancy seeing you here. D'you know anything about the logistics of deserting an army you've been press-ganged into after time-traveling?"

c. Wildcard
Byerly also can be found a number of other places. Trying to score drugs? Check. Seeing if anyone can be seduced? Double check. Trying hard to avoid being spotted by any of the traditional Vor-military types who will disapprove of a drunken oversexed town clown? Check check check.

a. i'm so sorry

[vorbratta]

A laugh rings out behind Byerly, only half-stifled. Oh, this one's Vor, is he? What's up with a bunch of Barrayarans mysteriously turning up here with all the outsiders, anyway? If there's any logic to it, it's opaque to Sonia. She comes up beside him, hiking up her wool skirt to give him a look-over. Yeah, he looks Vor enough -- and curiously unscuffed by ten long, hard years of war. Even the Princess is a little rougher around the edges these days.

Something she's a little grateful for some days, though, because in the heavy clothing borrowed from the hillfolk, she doesn't look particularly Imperial. Her accent isn't nearly thick enough to pass for a hill girl, but hopefully no one's told this one she's a Princess yet. If he's Vor he's all the more likely to make with the too-polite conversation, and that's all Sonia gets from most of the soldiers these days. Besides, he's on the cute side, this one, and seems interesting enough.

"Vor privilege? Only if you've got a title." She wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes. "And even then, it really only matters if you're Vorbarra. We all might as well be hillfolk to the General Count." She raises her eyebrows at the shovel he's leaning on. "If that's the worst you've got to complain about, though, you're getting off easy."

Jake Muller | RE6 | OTA

[50mil]

THE VILLAGE

Hey, you little--! [It takes his whole arm to wipe the snow from the side of his face and neck after being pelted. The Riverfall boys give a loud, long whoop of noise in victory, but when Jake squats behind a piece of building to begin hurriedly balling up snow, the pack of kids instead begin squealing.] That's it.

You guys are going to regret icing me.

[By the time he's finished making one of the biggest, tightly packed balls he can possible throw, someone new is in the line of sight.] You! Get out of the damn way!

BARRAYARAN

[While others are toasted on maple mead, Jake forgoes only for the sake of being alert in case something happens. He had a sip to take off the edge, but he's instead dodging celebratory festivities in favor of sweeping snow from the peaks of his bunking tent and making sure the horses are fine.

One or two that don't have a winter coat get a small blanket which he smooths out carefully. The hooves of a few get pinned between his knees and thighs as he looks the bottom of them over, and his voice, though unintelligible, can be heard talking to them as he works with the small hand pick.]

PVP + RECON

[Through and through, Jake is a guerilla fighter. He's use to being a mercenary. He's more prone to hand-to-hand fighting, but he's not opposed to strategic trickery.

Someone too smooth and polished to be an ally comes scouring through the base they are infiltrating, someone with too many amenities. He waits in the shadows against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway. When you pass, whether fast or slow, he ducks out and wraps an arm around your shoulders and collar; the other hand brings the nasty, partially serrated knife around beneath your chin.] Going somewhere?

barnyard action

[vindictive]

[She approaches him while he's working, and doesn't do much to announce her presence at first. Used to working with horses, she's fond of the ones at camp and often comes to visit them when she can't sleep at night. And on a night with so much boisterous celebrating going on, she definitely can't sleep. Hearing some of the horses that are bothered by the noise raising a commotion of their own, she goes over to see if she can't settle them down.

But someone's already here with them, and she smiles as she watches him work with and speak to the animal.]

They like you. Last guy who did that got kicked in the face.

Duv Galeni | The Vorkosigan Saga (post-BiA) | ota

[komarran]

Cetagandan Camp/Medbay
When Duv arrived on Barrayar and studied Barrayaran history, he had never once imagined he would be in the position of waking up generations in the past. Penance for the crimes of his forefathers? It's the first thought that creeps into his mind and lingers as he listens to the attacks that hit when least expected. It only grows in a strength as he very quickly realizes what side of the conflict he's ended up on as he's shoved a flimsy and light pen to work on an audit of the medbay. He has a PhD and they're putting him to work on an audit.

Punishment for crimes that should be long past and he didn't commit. He wonders if Miles Vorkosigan is somehow behind this mess.

While treated like a grunt, at least he doesn't run the risk of being strung up as he would at the Barrayaran camp by the very few that might recognize his accent. Being from the planet that allowed this assault to take place was not a factor that would work in his favor, even in this camp. Disgruntled academic is the best way to describe the expression he as he works on his assigned task. Later he'd have time to properly scout and see how well the recreation of maps of Cetagandan bases matched up to the real ones.

Village
He's managed to sneak away and find himself at the village, attempting to appear as neutral as possible. So this is the infamous Dendarii mountains with its hill folk that helped to change the sway of the occupation. The rural areas of the Vorkosigan district were ones he didn't have the chance to visit during his studies of Barrayar.

With his collar up and hands shoved in his pockets to ward off the cold, he ventures into the village and keeps to himself. He knows he's playing a dangerous game being here, but academic curiosity gets the better of him and at the very least, he's certain those here will peg him as someone from the city at best and foreign at worst. Komarran thankfully wouldn't register as a possibility. So he hopes.

Village

[dendarii]

Look, Miles Vorkosigan is just as confused about this mess as Duv is. And while not literally lost in this village - he's been in the later version many times - he is metaphorically adrift. Horribly, terrifyingly adrift. He really wishes he'd paid more attention to this particular time period, but with Gran'da having lived it he'd never thought he needed to study ...

So of course, here he is right in the thick of it. Fucking time travel.

But who is that quietly making his way through the village? Miles snaps his head up from where he was on snow shoveling duty. And looks more excited to see Duv Galeni than ... well, he's ever been. He's never been so desperately grateful to see the historian in his life. "Duv?" he says, brushing snow off his gloved hands. "Is that you?"

zarya / overwatch / ota / also voice testing!

[sibearian]

a. barry camp

Ah... [zarya has her hands on her waist and is surveying the training area.] Is just like home! Although...

[she clomps over to a nearby weapons rack, leaving heavy foot prints. even if she no longer has her particle cannon, the heavy armour she wore while wielding it remained. the fact her footprints leave the name of a company that doesn't exist in the same galaxy amused her for all of five seconds. anyway, she carefully takes a sword off the rack - a claymore. holding it in one hand. is she showing off or does she genuinely not know enough about swords to realise it's for two hands? that's up for debate.]

Advanced enough for space travel and holotech, but still using swords? [it's a question she's asking herself as well as anyone nearby.] I cannot be the only one finding this strange. Perhaps if they were a peaceful civilization...

[but seeing as they're in the middle of a WAR...]

b. snow problem

[she manages to explore for all of five minutes before a snowball hits the side of her head, and she whips around to see... a pair of scared looking children. if she had to guess, one of them had dared the other to throw a snowball at the giant pink haired lady, not expecting them to actually take up the challenge.

it's a struggle, but she keeps her expression stony as the terrified child slowly raises his arm to point at his friend, who squawks in reply.]

Didn't your parents ever teach you... [she keeps her voice level.] how to properly pack snowballs?

[yeah there's no way this was going to go any other way. minutes later, zarya can be found sitting on the ground with the two showing them how to pack snowballs for a perfect hardness/softness ratio.]

c. pvp flagged

Stand down.

[it's a powerful command; zarya may not be in a position of authority, but she still seems like it with her stature, posture and sword and shield drawn.]

You seem like me. I don't think we will benefit from drawing blood over this. [she narrows her eyes.] But do not take me for a fool ready to lay down in her own grave.

It is up to you how this day ends.

wildcard

[CUT THE BRAKES WILDCAAAAAARD i'm on jabbers if you want to discuss anything!]

a

[dendarii]

[ Dear god, but that's a huge woman. Miles is a tiny slip of a man in comparison - 4'9" with a gaunt frame that hints at a lifetime of medical ailments. He's extremely impressed, though, and not the least bit dismayed by the thought of a woman soldier despite his accent being obviously Barrayaran. ]

Definitely not peaceful. But Barrayar's always been a planet of contradictions, I've found.

The Morrigan || The Wicked + The Divine

[triple_queen]

[1] The Village

[It's as cold as a witch's tit out in the snow, but Mistress Morrigan seems to be getting on just fine without any kind of heavy clothing. She's spent a lot of time simply contemplating the snow, squinting into the sky, and generally looking pretty fucking ruffled. Yes, it makes sense that she, a god of war and death, has been pulled to a warzone-- but on another goddamn planet seems like overkill. And why hadn't Ananke come to do something about this clear case of god-napping?]

[Because she was apparently supposed to run amongst a giant army with guns against a rabble with swords. That wasn't gross at all.]

[She turns around and immediately spots a little girl peeking at her from behind a tree. Morrigan smiles--]


Now why is little red-nose scurrying around when she could be home and far from Gentle Annie?

[She crouches down and extends her hand to the girl.] Come here scrap, not time for bed yet, someone might try to tuck you in.


[2] Cetagandan Base

[The soldiers lean in, on the edges of their seats, waiting for her to continue.]

As you proceed down the hallway, the very air seems to be making a valiant effort to crawl down your windpipe and close off your lungs. Only through extreme focus can you suck the acrid oxygen in and stay standing--

Everyone make a constitution save.

[The soldiers roll dice, some of them whoop in success, one of them groans and buries his face in his hands.]

You piss yourself and pass out. You'd best hope your comrades attempt to wake you, lest the next room fuck the rest of the party.


[3] Recon

[There's a steady stream of ravens making its way towards the forest, the cawing more piercing and angry than any murder of ravens before. What are they so pissed about?]

[The stream nosedives into the trees, and once they're close enough to the ground a woman starts to be built from the birds disappearing into her body. Soon, there isn't a single bird-- just a black-haired woman walking through the woods as though she'd just stepped out of an Uber. An Uber made of birds.]

[She sighs and unfolds a map, looks around and folds it up again.] No wonder the good little soldiers keep coming back with fewer toes.


[4] PVP

[Surprise, motherfucker--]


[This is coming right at you. Flaming red hair, face of a raven, screaming bloody murder. Are you going to take a swing at this, or do the smart thing and run for your poor, unfortunate life?]


[Or Wildcard Times~!]

((OOC: "What the fuck is up with this chick?!"

The Morrigan is one god with 3 parts to her-- Empress Morrigan (black hair, black band across her eyes, usually default), Badb (red hair, black triangle on each eye, shows up when she's angry/fighting), and Gentle Annie (bald with small blonde patch, black rectangle down one eye, a healer). She switches back and forth, sometimes in the middle of sentences.

Does your character notice? Oh yes. Yes they do. What does the switch look like? Like they blinked and there's another woman standing where the one you were talking to used to be. It's just a thing, don't stress too bad~ ♥ ))

[Recon]

[quitsmiling]

"I'd ask how you did that, but I ain't so sure I wanna know," says a dry voice from somewhere above her. Looking up will reveal... a raccoon. A raccoon in a very heavily modified Barrayaran uniform, with what looks like a homemade gun slung across his back. He's staring hard down at her, as he apparently just watched her change back from being a flock of birds. Or something like that.

"Which side you on, humie?" Because even someone made out of birds still counts as human-ish, right?

charlie matheson | revolution (ota)

[vindictive]

hunting;

Charlie's favorite part of any day is getting the time to go hunting. She's made herself a close replica of the crossbow she made back home, and a handful of arrows to go along with it. She either wakes up early or heads out of camp after her tasks are done for the day, taking care to make sure that she always goes alone. Having people around are liabilities, and she's usually not up for idle conversation.

Today though, it seems like someone's either followed her, or is out traipsing about with little regard to the sound of their footsteps. Annoyed by the fact, she stops focusing on the animal she's tracking because she can hear it running off. Aiming her crossbow toward the footsteps she fires an arrow meant to land a safe distance before them, in an attempt to get them to stop walking. Without waiting to see if it lands near her mark she makes her way over to retrieve her arrow.

"I could hear you all the way over there. What're you doing all the way out here?"

"celebration";

It's late when Charlie stalks out of the tent she's supposed to be sharing with a handful of others, draped in furs to keep herself warm enough. She doesn't mind sharing space with others, but at least half the men in the tent snore. It's made even worse with the fact that most of them are passed out drunk after a night of celebrating. Not too bothered by needing to relocate for the night, she makes her way through camp. She spots small groups still drinking and celebrating, and she settles in on the edge of the larger of the groups so she can have access to the warmth of the fire that's still burning bright nearby. Finding a crate to sit on, she doesn't realize that it's holding more of the supply of alcohol until well after she's in the middle of working on sharpening her supply of arrows.

As someone approaches her and goes straight for the crate she's on it takes her a matter of seconds to leap up and take on a defensive stance. When she realizes they don't want anything to do with her but with the crate she arches her eyebrow and points an arrow over at them.

"You're not going to be able to stand up tomorrow. If you're even able to get to what's inside."

village;

Charlie has a soft spot for kids. So when she goes to trade with the villagers she easily is lured into a game with the local children. And as she's caught up in building and making snowballs she's the most relaxed anyone has likely seen her since arrival, smiling and laughing as she doesn't go easy on the kids and pelts them in the face. By the time the game is over, her hair is covered in snow and her cheeks are red, but she's wearing a smile on her face as she builds a couple more snowballs to finish things off. The children shout with laughter and scatter, leaving Charlie holding snow in both hands.

Needing to rid herself of them, she shrugs and throws them at the first relatively familiar face she sees. They're likely someone from camp, she thinks. And if not, it's a good thing she can run fast.

hunting

[quitsmiling]

The arrow is in the ground, but there's no feet for them to have stopped... not at first glance, anyway. Then an acorn comes flying down to smack her somewhere, shoulder or head or arm, whatever's easiest to hit. Glaring down at her from up in the trees is... a raccoon. A very large raccoon, in clothes, with what looks like a homemade gun slung across his back.

"Watch where you're shootin', humie," he growls.

Yes, the raccoon just spoke.

Aral Vorkosigan | OTA

[use_everything]

Barrayaran encampment

[The arrival of the strangers and the simply strange in the middle of the war meant that all manner of displaced people stood out, through time and space. This particular one had slipped into the rank with startling ease. His accent was mild, but a perfect match for the soldier's around, and the greens he wore, with a captain's rank at his collar was just as ubiquitous if in much better shape than the locals. And he spoke that horrifying, mutated mismash they bandied about as 'Russian' like he was raised on it.

Usually short at 5'9", the scarred man was at least stout and handy around the camp. If kept itching towards the officer's tent.

It was time, Aral decided, to get his mind off of these things. He sizes up the nearest man or woman (good god, what was this doing to their history to have women in their forces at this crucial, changes-everything period in time? Only good things, Aral reckoned.) and waved them over curtly with a heavy, square hand.]

How fair of a shot are you? [There was hunting to be taken care of, and he knew these hills.]

Recon and possible small scale combat

[He'd signed on with this particular mission, one of simple observation and tracking, as a pathfinder. The mission was simple, brave the deadly winter in the Vorkosigan District, see if there's change in the enemy patterns, see the extent of repairs or sometimes more tellingly, changes in the game trails, and report back.

If you're out with them: it's bitter cold: the sort where you come back with less digits than you went out with. The steady old sorrel mare Aral has lead carefully this far huffs in gentle upset but it otherwise quiet beneath the wraps protecting her nose.

The reason why the silent signal to get down and stay down was given a few moments ago becomes clear shortly after. The crunch of snow of a small scouting patrol makes their way past the ridge.

The orders signaled are Stay Down and Watch.

Do you follow or are you itching for that skirmish?]

Encampment

[dendarii]

[ Miles has been a much more distinctive figure around the camp. Stunted and still a bit twisted - the reconstruction had done much to straighten him out, but it wasn't perfect - he'd trailed hex signs and dark looks everywhere he'd gone. It was draining. He'd endured so much as a child that he'd thought he was finally inured to this sort of nonsense. But he wasn't prepared to go back in time to nearly the worst era he could possibly get stuck in. Having to fight to prove his right to take each breath is tiring, even as he stubbornly keeps throwing himself at that wall ...

So he straightens a bit when this captain gestures him over, steeling himself for a hex sign and an argument. He opens his mouth to respond --

And freezes. Oh, no. Apparently this whole damn nightmare isn't done playing tricks on him. He stares at Aral like he's suddenly grown another head, jaw gone slack. ]

I - I'm decent. A decent shot. Captain.

[ His own accent is also natively Barrayaran, just in case recognizing those captain's tags aren't enough. ]

Konstantine Bothari | OTA (potential CW)

[bothari]

Village

[Bothari hadn't talked much to anyone since arriving. It did do to talk to it when it happened. There were people, the cold, the hunger, the smells. All of them seemed real, but Bothari had long since found that it always SEEMED real. The only divide he had was knowing that it wasn't. When he lost that boundary, he lost everything.

The uniform had caused trouble. A sort of resentment. The brown and silver livery stood out, but Bothari wasn't to be parted with it. The suggestion had been stared down, a sort of dark violence stirring in the enormous man's eyes.

He passed the time, the small celebration whirling around him and his small slice of silence, trying to figure out where he really was. Solitary? He hadn't been there for decades. Unless those years, too, were a dream.

He spat, warding off that black, miserable thought. His Lady would see to his treatment soon, and this will all melt away. A shadow crosses over him. He doesn't look up.]

Sod off. [The mutter was deep, barely audible, when you pass too close. But the intense malevolence radiating from the man couldn't quite be mistaken.]

[dendarii]

[ The longer this goes on, the more Miles has to wonder if he's going insane. This (new?) arrival is no exception. He stands over Bothari with a mix of sorrow, longing, and flat out disbelief. Not that he has much to stand over Bothari with. At least the man appears to be the right age, even if Miles is now thirteen years removed from the event. And Miles himself ... He's an inch taller, his spine (mostly) untwisted. But the price he paid for it is evident in the needler scars poking up from above his collar. And the lines on his neck that indicate blood drainage for a cryorevival.

He swallows thickly, trying to marshall his thoughts. How many times had he rehearsed this in the months after Bothari's death? How many apologies had he laid in front of the incense burner? They won't come now. They've turned to so much lead in his mouth. ]

Sergeant Bothari? [ His voice is quiet. ] It's me.

Kaidan Alenko | Mass Effect | OTA

[standsentinel]

The Reaper War had been won. The Normandy might have been battered, bruised and limping on FTL drive alone, but they'd patched her hull, broken atmo from an uncharted garden world and pointed her at Earth. An Earth with her great cities still buried in rubble and smoke... but an Earth that had survived, and a galaxy to go with it. 'Battered and limping' was a reasonable description for Kaidan Alenko himself, with his ribs still complaining about being hit by a flying chunk of LAV, but he'd eventually managed to find a space to grab some precious rack time and reflect on the prospect of peace.

He'd woken to find himself halfway to buried in a snow drift, and had been halfway to deciding this was all an elabourate hallucination before wearing an unfamiliar uniform had nearly gotten him shot by the search party that had stumbled across him. The Alenko half of his heritage lent him a certain surface resemblance to the Barrayarans, but his accent, his facility with tech, and his squeaky-clean genes were far more galactic in nature. All the same, he'd found himself quickly pressed into work.

He'd had little time for his customary reflection, but one thought kept cropping up: finding out that he'd come down with a late-breaking case of L2 biotic psychosis might have been better than the reality that he was hip deep in another war before he'd even made it home from the last one.

a. Village Life:

The villagers may be adapted to the climate, but that they're so happy to share what little they have with the guerillas has been bothering Kaidan, or more specifically the lack of reciprocity from his end of the equation. The final straw had been when a widow had seen him shivering at the tag end of a patrol and had grabbed him by the ear in a gesture that could have been carbon copied from his grandmother. He was released to the camp stuffed full of venison stew, and sporting a pair of knitted socks and a bemused expression.

He'd figured out at least one way to try and even the score a little. Thus, his next span of off-duty time sees him back in the village, this time with a shovel in hand as he balances precariously on the roof of the widow's cabin to try and clear off the snow load the way her arthritis no longer permitted her to. He could probably use a hand... although whether in terms of assistance or mocking applause is entirely up to the observer.

b. Camp: Fireside

It's not a proper fireside booze-up until the drunken singing starts. Maple mead appears to be a slightly less lethal (and much tastier) feral Barraryaran version of ryncol, and even the tolerance that his amped-up biotic's metabolism grants him isn't enough to overcome it. Kaidan, flushed and weaving slightly in his seat, is somewhat thickly trying to encourage a little cross-cultural musicology after discovering that some of the very oldest Barrayaran drinking songs share a common Earth origin with some of the oldest ones he knows. "No, see," he's attempting to explain. "The way I learned it from Pressley is only one person actually has to remember the words. Everyone else just sings 'How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now' and the 'God damn them all'. Dead easy."

The song that consisted mostly of creative profanity involving Cetagandans was a lot easier to get going.

c. Camp: Training!

Although somewhere in another time and place he was Major Kaidan Alenko of the Systems Alliance, and a Council Spectre to boot, this meant precisely dick-all here on Barrayar. His initial reponse of name, rank and serial number to the questions posed by his rescue party had been met with nothing more than a flat exhortation of prove it. While a better debrief had come in time, he was still out in the training field alongside every other new recruit, sternly ordered to keep the techno-witchery of his biotics tamped down and to focus on hand to hand combat instead.

Being trained was an opportunity to assess his trainers, as well as his fellow trainees, and in between the throws, the knife work with wooden practice blades and a series of thoroughly nasty and effective close quarters techniques that would make a Phantom jealous, Kaidan's been developing a solid appreciation for what the guerilla forces under Count Vorkosigan are capable of, and of just what kind of leadership the man himself inspires.

Some of that appreciation is visible on his face as he takes a breather on the sidelines and watches another round of trainees get introduced to the many uses of a well-placed elbow.

d. Cetagandan Base: Water Treatment Plant

"Oh, come on you son of a bitch." The classic cry of a tech being thwarted by a willful bit of machinery is followed by the clang of a wrench being applied in a precision strike to a recalcitrant valve. There's a hopeful gurgling of liquid through a pipe soon after, and Kaidan pops up from out of cover with a satisfied huff shortly after. Welding and pipefitting's a little more manual labour than the electronics his sentinel class training has him certified for, but he's another pair of semi-trained hands that can, and has been, put into service to get the water back on line.

"For people determined to keep their planet in the feudal age," he reflects as he gathers his tools and moves on to the next spot on the main intake line, "They sure know just where to stick a shaped charge."

[[OOC: Also open to other suggestions! PMable, or pingable over at minor_ramblings.]]

b.

[quitsmiling]

"Who freakin' cares, are you gonna pass the booze or what?" says one of the odder "recruits", and one not well liked among the Barrayarans. The genetically modified raccoon (not that he'll admit to being a raccoon, exactly) holds out a paw with a grouchy sort of demanding expression.

miles vorkosigan (savrou crau) | vorkosigan saga | ota

[forwardmomentum]

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That's really the only word Miles can get his mind to process for the time being until he gets it unstuck enough to put together what's happened. That year on the Moira could easily have been a dream, a delusion, some prolonged drug-induced hallucination for all the inexplicable horseshit that had happened on it -- and had he woken up on present-day Barrayar, he might even be inclined to believe it. But this isn't present-day Barrayar. It's not even close. It is, on reflection, the worst possible Barrayar for him to have woken up on.

And his frigging leg is still broken.

At least it's not old tech plaster cast and he doesn't have to worry about getting it wet from the snow, but he barely manages to hobble around until he finds himself a sturdy enough stick to use as a crutch. No asking for help from the villagers, of course, he could barely get a word out edgewise before all the hex signs, once they'd had a look at his broken leg, the other one in a brace, and...all of him. It bothers him more than he'd like -- hadn't he developed thicker skin about this mutant business? But he can't stop thinking about Sylvy Vale, and perhaps the year on board a ship with aliens and gods and everything in between had made him feel staggeringly normal for a change. He kisses that notion goodbye with a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.

Dammit. He didn't even mean to be here. He'd just been investigating the Ingress, but he remembers, just barely, that slip and fall and going straight through and -- and then it was like waking up from anesthesia, no dream or sleep or stretch of time between, just blink and suddenly he's on goddammit he's not supposed to be here. He wasn't finished there, much as he'd wanted to be gone. He has promises to keep -- his word to keep. And it's so frigging cold.

But once the initial shock wears off, he's confronted with a whole new dizzying fact: that whatever made the Ingress malfunction and snatch people at random from different worlds is happening here, too. That's a reality check, or -- lack of one, he guesses, but his mind is already frantic with too many unpleasant possibilities. There's no Ingress here, there's nothing here like that, and even touching on the thought of how this might be affecting Barrayaran -- galactic history is more then a little nauseating. He doesn't know whether he's supposed to interfere or stay the hell away or -- oh, God, his grandfather is here. His grandmother, too, probably. And he's in his frigging Moira uniform, of all things. Fuck.

At least the small deluge of outsiders offers some...weirdly familiar comfort. At least a couple of them make him look sort of normal by comparison.

a1. barrayaran camp - maple mead
A chance to get drunk on maple mead? That doesn't ordinarily go all that well, but haha, Miles doesn't even have his pain medication to cause a pharmaceutical conflict of interest, and alcohol will probably keep him out of hysterics. The added benefit of it being after dark means he can mostly keep away from the firelight of the soldiers' campfire, and maybe not get unduly harassed while he sits against a cold rock to nurse a cup of good ol' Barrayaran moonshine.

a2. barrayaran camp - the help
The best thing Miles's overstimulated mind can think of while he's still trying to process all of this is to just keep out of the goddamn way, although he's still wrestling with the notion of trying to control the situation at all. Are the other outsiders -- transplants -- whatever here already irreparably damaging what's probably a fragile timeline, or can he still minimize the damages with prior knowledge, maybe? That'd mean facing his grandfather eventually, and that...

Miles isn't really ready for that.

So instead he's trying to make himself as useful as he can with a broken leg and being as small as he is, which isn't very, which is frustrating as hell, but he has, at least, managed to pick up a Barrayaran-native sort of pine brush to sweep the snow off the sides of the tents, because he can't really reach the top. Or maybe he could, if he climbed up on one of the rocks nearby. They look a little icy, but after the last year and the last day Miles isn't about to admit defeat to a couple of icy boulders, and the drive to make himself useful, to be doing anything is overpowering. God help him the day he misses being Waste Disposal Technician.

Miles has to set aside his stick-crutch to pull himself up onto the first rock, balancing carefully on his one good leg with one hand braced against the rock face behind the tents. The next step goes about as well as expected: Miles abruptly slips on his attempted ascent to the next rock and lets out a strangled yelp that turns into a frustrated and pained snarl as he lands neatly facedown in the snow.

Wonderful.

wildcard
hit me with whatever i'm here to make miles suffer

WILDCARD

[diamondslap]

Why is Aurelia here? Why is she crouching next to Miles, smiling like a demon?

Space magic, who knows.

"You seem indisposed, darling," she says, clearly enjoying herself. She raises a gloved hand and pokes his broken leg. "It seems you need help."

"Baphomet" | Wicked + Divine

[goodbadcompany]

Barrayan Camp - Party

If there's one thing that's the same pretty much everywhere, as far as he can tell, it's getting completely, stupidly drunk. And hey, it's not like he doesn't have practice at that, both the drunk and the stupid. So every time the booze goes round, Baphomet's right there, making sure he's taking a swig. It reminds him of university, although that's a bitter enough memory he doesn't go too far into the comparison.

The alcohol is sweeter than he'd like, worse than the time someone showed up with Skittles vodka, but it's strong enough to start getting him drunk almost immediately. Looking round, more cheerful than he's been ever since he got dragged here, he holds the bottle up for the next person, a little over-familiar as he nudges them.

"Here, you look like you could use this," he says, smirking. His canines really are very sharp, when he does.

Barrayan Camp - Next Day

He might well be the reincarnation of a god of war (and disease and death, all very valid things to be a god of out here in the middle of nowhere), but one, they took most of that away from him when they dragged him here except a few cosmetic differences, and two, he's hungover to shit. Besides, he's a god, he can get some slack on the whole camp chores thing, right?

At least, he's trying, hiding out round the back of the stables, leant against the wall. His head is pounding, and he's trying not to feel too ill. The instant he hears someone coming, he stands up a little too fast trying to look normal, only to groan and swear when it makes him feel worse.

Recon

He's not the sneakiest of people, but he's at least capable of looking after himself. And, if he's being honest, which he never is, he doesn't exactly work well with others, which as far as he's concerned isn't his problem. Plus he's not actually that useful anywhere else, given his lack of applicable skills anywhere except hitting people with a big stick, and he can't even make that flame like he used to.

And he doesn't want to die, so he pretty much makes sure he's away from any actual battlefields as much as possible.

So he's out here, in the middle of the snow, freezing his ass off to see how well the other side is dealing with repairs after the raids. He's also bored. He half-turns, still watching the camp with one eye, face half-hidden behind his shades, keeping his tone as uninterested as possible.

"So, my bet's on this being some kind of punishment for something I did. You?"

Just small talk, no deeper meaning here...

recon.

[pigsfeet]

Daryl is taking recon seriously, because screwing it up is a great way to get yourself killed. Covered in animal skins and hidden among the brushes he's dragged to their vantage point, he's pretty well hidden. He's got a crossbow drained on some Ceta's heads, watching, waiting.

When the other guy talks, Daryl just glares at him, and puts his finger over his mouth. That oughta shut him up, right?

Jasper | Steven Universe

[stompadour]

pvp

Of course she fights. Jasper has her doubts about the necessity of this fighting (it would, she feels, surely be simpler to destroy the planet's inhabitants from space if the Cetagandans wanted to use the planet for something), but she knows how to do as she's told, and in her current state -- displaced, uncomfortably fleshy, and definitively a failure -- she doesn't have much leverage to not do as she's told. Where this stranger comes from matters extremely little to her. Her gun is pointed squarely at their head, her huge orange finger poised on the trigger, as she demands the answer that does matter:

"What side are you on?"


recon

Jasper never much minded snow before, but that was when she could wrestle monsters in a low cut sleeveless jumpsuit without actually getting cold. Now? She's definitely sick of it. It doesn't help that she has to breathe now -- her nose is still a gem, but it's a cold and lifeless one, and while in theory she's glad it's still in place... in practice it means she has two less holes to breathe out of, and the one she does have is very uncomfortable with the chilly air.

"This is ridiculous," she mutters, far less gung-ho about this than she was at the outset of this mission. "What in the stars do they want this worthless planet for anyway?"


cetagandan base

Everything about having a meat body is new to Jasper, and that includes coming down with a cold. The heavy-headedness, the cold sweat, the sore throat, how feeble her whole body feels... She winces as a cold spell shivers over her, and in her distraction the top of her head bumps into the top of a doorframe.

"This useless human body... is dying," she rasps in tones of frustrated dismay.

sufffferrrrr- i mean ceta base

[mirrortide]

Jasper isn't the only one having to deal with the ill effects of suddenly having a very vulnerable and very human body. The only thing that the other ex-gem doesn't have to deal with is the fact that she doesn't have a nose.

It's enough to make Lapis jealous. She can't breathe through hers. Its such a terrible oversight of human biology. Why would you have something you're supposed to breathe out of if you cant? It's stupid. This is stupid. This is stupid, but Jasper is just as miserable as she is, and the longer she covertly stalks the miserable Quartz, the funnier it gets.

And Lapis just watched her whack her head against the top of a door frame. Small victories, one supposes. Except it's not laughter that blows Lapis' cover. It's the sudden inhalation. Once, twice, three times... Nothing and then-

"Achoo!"

This is the worst.