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

Arthur Pendragon | Merlin (BBC) | ota

[changeth]

The village;

It's hardly the lower town, but the small village could almost feel like one of the many in Camelot's countryside. Arthur spends more time walking about the place than speaking with the locals; and when he does it's little more than quiet formalities. Rather than being uninterested in mingling, he's more keen to discover what he can about the mountains and wildlife, reckoning (incorrectly) that's best done by exploring.

The hill children, as it happens, haven't the faintest bit of tolerance for Regal Snow Brooding. Snowballs catch on his cloak, then shirt as he turns, and a protestation (a jest, really, something along the lines of I'll grant you courage for striking a king, but in my lands -- ) gets drowned out by a very well-aimed snowball to the face. Terribly dignified indeed.

The Barrayaran camp;

He'd like to believe that he's just as capable with a servant as without, but he'd be wrong. While he's all too ready to volunteer for hunting and training, the more menial tasks - the one he'd normally set Merlin to do -- go wanting; he hardly notices he does it. He can be found at the armory, inspecting the weapons at their disposal (quality, number, type, all thankfully familiar compared to the likes of Cetagandan weapons).

More often, he trains with them, favoring swordplay. He mostly attacks training dummies, though he won't turn down a spar.

PVP;

Amidst alien lands and fantastical technologies, Arthur finds himself feeling almost at home in the middle of a battle. His weapon of a choice is a sword from the armory; and if it's not the finely crafted blades of the royal smithies which he's used to, it's sturdy and balanced to excellence, shines with reflected light off the snow. Still, he's neither bloodthirsty nor needlessly violent, cuts his way through the skirmish with scarcely a glance to ensure his enemies' deaths. It'll likely get him shot in the back one day, but for now his focus narrows onto the person newly before him.

And he hesitates, sword stilled.

"I have no quarrel with you," he says, low. "This war is neither mine nor yours."

Wildcard;

Any other scenario. Get paired with him for recon! Find him choking after a pull of maple mead (and pretending that never happened)! Go wild.

ye olde wilde carde.

[pigsfeet]

Blond prettyboys with fancy accents and bright blue eyes. Daryl feels like these are the kind of people he has to keep an eye on, except he's not sure what direction. Should he try to scare them away from Beth? Should he try to steer them in her direction? This is all the gooey, weird part of being friends with a teenage girl that he doesn't want to deal with. But he's seen this Arthur around and kept an eye on him despite himself.

When the idiot goes plodding through the forest, Daryl is out hunting. He's trying to catch a meal, maybe a nice one to leave at the Count's doorstep... tentstep. To leave at his table. The ground is thick with traps, and it looks like Arthur's heading right for one. He's going to mess it up, or possibly get one of his toes cut off. Shit, shit, shit.

Daryl is camouflaged against the treeline, covered in a coat made of pelts with twigs in his hair. It's not pretty, but it hides his scent damn well. He doesn't have time to get up and yell for Arthur.

So he aims his bow, and fires on a tree near the boy's head. No harm in messing with the kid a little, if it gets him to stop.

wildcard as well, please

[littlemissfutility]

As a rule, Beth doesn't touch alcohol. She gave herself one chance to get drunk, and she did, and that was it for her. The way it made the problems of the world drift out of focus was too comfortable; she could see why it had taken hold of her father in his younger days, and how it would dig its claws into her if she ever let it.

She's never minded being around other people drinking, though. It was a good thing back in high school, because it's not like there was anything else for them to do out in the country, and it's a good thing here for similar reasons. The natives of Barrayar drink heartily at night, and as cold as it is, she guesses she can't blame them. It must help keep them warm.

Meanwhile, watching the not-so-natives sort out their tolerance for the maple mead being passed around is some of the best entertainment she could ask for. There's a boy sitting nearby, and she happens to glance over when he tries the mead out.

"Is it that strong?" she asks the guy, biting back a giggle at the look on his face. This must be what it was like from the outside, back when she took her first sip of moonshine.

village

[ex_bossily211]

There's the sound of laughter from behind him as Clara watches him get pelted right in the face by one of the smaller children.

"Careful," she warns, amusement evident in her tone. "The smaller they are, the more determined they are to bring you to your knees." As she says it, there's more childish giggling, as two very young boys stand on either side of her. Clara runs an affectionate hand over both of their heads, before giving them a playful swat and a fond off you go to send them away to play with the other kids.

They only make it about ten steps away before two snowballs come flying directly at them, and Clara takes hold of Arthur's hand to drag him away before he's hit again. "See what I mean?"

barry camp!

[sibearian]

Zarya has been watching Arthur for a while, quite impressed. She's tried to imitate what she's seen him do a few times to her own dummy, but can't quite get the stance right.

Eventually, she gives up. Clomping over to him, she is confident even as she asks for help.

"доброе утро!" she calls out in greeting. "I have been wondering, my friend, could you perhaps show me some techniques? Swords are new to me, ironically."

village

[vorbratta]

A laugh rings out as one of the children pelts Arthur squarely in the face, a little too dignified to be a snicker, but still plenty amused. There's a young woman in the heavy winter wool clothes of the Dendarii, apparently her own battle party in the snowball war judging by the clumps of snow clinging to her clothes, but she seems to be faring better than Arthur.

"A king, really?" She lets out a startled laugh as one of the children throws another snowball at her, and she deals another one back as she walks over to Arthur, although her shot goes wide. She doesn't have the greatest aim. "I don't see any castle. Did the children knock it down?"

Dowager Princess Kareen Vorbarra | That One Russian Space Opera | ota

[likealways]

[cw for the canon blind: Kareen is an abuse survivor from a dated SciFi series, some bad shit might come up. hmu ooc if you want me to steer clear ]

The Cetagandan Base

This is a game she knows by heart. Bow your head, soften your voice, make yourself small. Do not move too slowly, do not move too swiftly. Smile when it will please them, but be blank. Kareen does not know the art of war, but she is skilled beyond compare at surviving.

So, she is this: a woman, very obviously a native to the planet, dressed in the clothes of the laborers. She moves very softly and very quietly, her expression very carefully pleasantly bland. She works steadily, but clumsily, a person clearly not used to doing physical labor and it shows when her soft hands blister and her stride takes a slight limp from more on her feet. Still she doesn't complain. She does not speak unless she is spoken to and rarely with animation, but there is something in her eyes at times, some dark spark of knowledge, some fire. She has survived worse, she will survive this.


The Village

In a sense, much of this is something of an adventure. More than she had ever desired, to be sure. Who among her generation would want to relive the harsh days of the war (the names that spring immediately to mind are just as quickly and grimly dismissed, there are questions she will never ask because she knows they are foolish). Still, she has far more freedom of movement than she ever did as Princess Vorbarra. Here and now, she is only this: a woman, wandering the outskirts of the village in plain, threadbare clothes, under the pretense of gathering what supplies she can find.

She could run. She could try to escape to the relative, theoretical safety of her people. The thought lurks in the back of her mind as she plucks her way through the snow, her normal hyperawareness turned inward and ignorant of her surroundings for once.

village.

[pigsfeet]

There's a faint sound, something quick and small flying through the air. It misses Kareen by a fair margin, but it's still close enough to be noticed. That, and when it hits its target, it brings with it the dark color of blood against the blinding white of the snowy ground.

An arrow hits a white hare, and the creature twitches, pinned to the ground and trying to escape death in its last desperate moments.

base

[mirrortide]

Lapis complains. Loudly. All the time, about most everything in the Cetagandan base. Maybe she shouldn't, because that's clearly not the smartest thing to do in a foreign situation where she's powerless to stop just about everything on her own. Her human form is weak, frail, squishy, but after spending 5,000 years trapped in a mirror not being able to voice something as simple as an opinion, she's going to make herself heard.

Thankfully for the person in front of her, it's not a complaint that Lapis is loudly voicing. It's an observation. "You're limping. Don't humans normally do that when they're injured?" There's a small edge of curiousity to her voice. If this human is injured, why isn't she in the med bay? It's not like Lapis isn't a frequent visitor to that place herself (she's learned a lot of things, very fast, very unfortunately), but she's yet to see this person there.

village

[vorbratta]

"Ooh, you little devil, you're going to pay for -- oof!"

Sorry, Kareen, you get one plainclothes princess in a spirited snowball war against the local village children, stepping back to wind up for her next pitch and promptly backing right into Kareen. Sonia drops the snowball and neatly hops around to face Kareen, her expression quickly going startled and apologetic.

"Oh -- gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you!" Sonia brushes her snow-crusted gloves off on the front of her skirt. "Are you alright? I didn't step on your foot, did I?"

village!

[latrodectus]

Natasha has somehow acquired a coat— sky-deep grey and overlarge. She does not seem to be bothered by the cold, but it would be a mistake to say she looked warm.

"Do you think of escape?" She recognizes the look. She has been to prison before, and worse. Worse places than this, anyway. Beyond, the horizon looms, high as a mountain, white as death. Beautiful, in its way. Natasha shakes her head. "It will not do."

[vorrutyer]

There's something about the woman. By touches his lips as he squints at her, trying to place what it is. She's not a local - you can always tell a hill-woman, with her broad swinging gait and her firm placement of her feet - but she is a Barrayaran. Those features are Barrayaran. The genteel refinement of her steps and her bearing hint at Vor, he thinks - even By, good as he is, can't be sure of Vor at fifty paces, he has to get ten or closer to be sure - but he hasn't seen her up at the camp. She's not one of Piotr's high-born refugees. So who...?

Well. Only one way to find out.

He sets off. Then, a few feet in front of her, he pretends to stumble, goes down to one knee - hisses in a good imitation of pain, clutching at his ankle. "Damn these mountain roads!" he snarls, and trusts that the woman's good-samaritan instincts will kick in.

Darkstalker | Wings of Fire

[threemoons]

A. Barrayaran Camp - A Tent

It's been a long day, there's no doubt about that, and the growing storm wasn't helping. The heavy wingbeats of an approaching, exhausted dragon were lost in the wind, giving almost no warning before a miserable black dragon thrust his way into the warmer temperatures of the tent. Darkstalker shook his wings and talons in annoyance, flurries of snow falling around him at the entrance. He looked up at that point, flashing a winning smile to the room

"So what are the chances of one of you wonderful and sympathetic scavengers offering your blanket to your favorite dragon, who I might add just brought back a ton of food from hunting during an ice storm and is very, very cold."

He was shivering a little bit as he picked his way through the room to his cot, laying across it awkwardly. It wasn't exactly made for someone his size and creaked under his weight, tail and wings pooling over the sides.

B. Recon

Snow. The climate back home was so temperate he had almost never seen it, and certainly not in these quantities. It made him think of what the Ice Kingdom must be like, the frozen wasteland where his father was from. He hated anything that reminded him of Arctic. It made him even more irritable than the cold alone would have, and he desperately wished he could still breath fire. Darkstalker was a little worried about that. Was he sick? He'd never heard of a NightWing losing their ability to create flames before, but then he hadn't heard of getting magically teleported to a world with talking scavengers.

He stamped his claws on the ground, shuffling unhappily and trying to keep warm.

"We've been out here for hours.This is clearly not working, let's just go back until we can figure out a better plan."

Vex'ahlia // Critical Role // Voice Test - OTA!

[moneytwin]

a) Riverfall Village

*PAFT!*

Toppling backwards dramatically, there's a soulful cry of "Augh!" as Vex throws up one hand to her forehead, her pointy hat tumbling to the ground behind her, and the white 'stain' of blood decorating her chest. There's shrill giggles from her slayers, while her child allies cry out in dismay. "No...you! Must.. Avenge meeeeee..."

The display has earned more than a few amused looks and chuckles from the parents and the village's guardians, all lurking in plain sight. And it's hard not to laugh as the 'enemy' start pelting her fallen body (and her team) with more snow balls, and one young lad roars a battlecry to rally his group together. As the snow throwing grows overly enthusiastic, those near by better duck! Or do you plan on joining them?

b) Barrayar Camp / PARTY

There's booze, there's good spirits, and the Outsiders are getting to mingle on a warm and welcome level that's been a long time coming. Their success deserves this celebration, even in the midst of such chilly weather. Which is why Vex'ahlia can be found winking and swaying and weaving her way through the grouping with gusto, doing her best to be friendly and flirtatious in even measures regardless of her target's gender.

Yet she's barely sipped at the drink in her hand, tasty as it is, and when an appropriate amount of time has passed, she tucks herself away, scooting out of the main tent to find temporary shelter near by. Now more than ever she feels the gnawing absence of her twin, the lack of Trinket at her side. Vox Machina should be here with her, kicking this party up a few notches. Perceptive as she is, now is the time you might catch her staring out across the camp grounds, and up at the falling snow.

c) Recon - either side!

"Maybe we're in the Elemental Plane of Ice."

The words are muttered softly under Vex's breath, pristine white fog escaping from the scarf wrapped around her mouth. The hood of the patched cloak she's wearing is pulled up over her head, hiding her ears, a mix of scrappy greys to muddle the browns and blacks of her clothes against the frozen landscape. The loss of Pass Without a Trace is keenly felt, yet Vex still moves with surprising speed and much grace, leaving little in the way of tracks thanks to careful placement of footfalls and minding her weight near unbroken snow.

She's sure Whitestone wasn't half as bad as all this, and they'd been there in the midst of Winter. Fighting vampires and demons and zombie-giants.

None of which are likely to pop out of the snow here, though the half-elf is still holding out hope that an Elemental will appear to confirm that yes, at least there's that still similar to the things she knows from home. Until that happens, she'll at least occasionally engage in natter with her assigned traveling companion, who she pauses to look back at, brown eyes dancing.

"Having trouble back there?

d) Wildcard

Choose your own adventure!

Lavernius Tucker | RvB | OTA (Totally late to the party here; hope it's okay?)

[lovernotafighter]

a. Barrayaran Camp Party

Okay, you know what? This shit fucking sucked. Not the people (well, a little) or the food (well, kind of), but the weather, with its frigid air and cold winds and snow, fucking snow everywhere. The desert was looking pretty pleasant compared to this, and that in itself had been hell, with the seemingly impossible way could sand find its way inside his armor and him. The heat back then had easily reached a level that was damn near oppressive.

Yeah, all that was feeling significantly more welcoming than this.

Because it still wasn’t snow. And snow made sleeping naked impossible. It made most things impossible, really, like being able to feel appendages that he needed to use when swinging a sword and feet that – who knew- came in handy while walking. Tucker was beyond over this.

But hey, at least the celebrations were fun? He wasn’t one to turn down a party, especially one including some well-deserved alcohol; pass him a cup and he was imbibing to an almost impressive level unless stopped. He just wanted the warmth back inside his blood because fuck this cold. And fuck another war he never asked to be in, but still seemed to attract anyway.

What the hell, right? What the hell.



PVP – Either side


Dude, seriously getting a little sick of bullshit wars here. Tucker wasn’t sure how he kept finding them (okay, well, the first one he understood because enlisting was the only way to get away from...you know what? Nevermind, not talking about it.), but after the Freelancer drama, then stuck in the desert, then more Freelancer drama, then the shit with Chorus, he was over it. He needed a vacation. No, better yet, he deserved a vacation.

What he got was another war. Much like with Chorus, filled with people he didn’t know and politics that he probably should have stayed out of. Hell, he wanted to stay out of it; he just wasn’t given much of a choice. It was starting to feel like a running theme. Fuck you, universe; your jokes aren’t funny.

Which was how he stood there now, weapon in hand, looking about as enthused as he could be. At least Chorus wasn’t this goddamn cold, even if it was littered with shitty space pirates and shittier mercs.

“Look, dude, I’m not exactly feeling this whole fight you, fight me, kill you thing. Why don’t we just call it a day so my badass natural skills don’t completely embarrass you, okay? Sound fair?”



Wild Card-

[Throw something at him! Let’s see what sticks.]

a. hope an NPC tag is okay!

[vorbratta]

If there's something that Barrayarans are good at, it's drinking, a lot, but this man seems like he could give most of the lot a run for their money. Maybe a little too much. The tall young woman in plain clothes meant more for warmth than fashion has been flitting around the camp during the celebrations, talking here, drinking there, and now she approaches Tucker with raised eyebrows, but a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

"That's not maple mead you're chugging, is it? You might want to be careful."

jUMPS ON THIS would've been earlier but had a busy weekend, hello tucker pvp prompt if this is ok

[protocol]

And there's Wash, standing next to him, completely unamused. A lover, not a fighter, that's how Tucker's described himself to him more than once, and maybe it's true to an extent but that doesn't mean Tucker's not just used it as a damned excuse time and time again. The weaponry that they've been given is still strange to him, alien, and he keeps turning it in his hand, keeps checking it, making sure it's right and it's functional even when he knows it is.

It's anxiety. They're just out here, standing guard, but there could be a fight at any moment, and it's another fight they really have no fucking stake in, and yet.

"Your badass natural skills still need a bit of work, Tucker," Wash starts, turning to face him, "And --"

A pause. A breath. And then he just shakes his head, turning his gaze out towards the battlefield. Another battle that isn't theirs, another world that they had no real stake in. The Reds and Blues are apparently in some way forever destined to be toyed around with by greater powers, and well, since he's one of them now, in some fashion, then.

"-- Look," he says finally, exhaling heavily. "I get it."

Would you look at that, Tucker. No lecture from Mr Washington.

pvp!

[infailtration]

York didn't want to be in this war either. He has no alliance to the Cetagandans, even if they did save the 'exotics' from freezing to death. He doesn't trust them, he doesn't want to fight for them, and he doesn't want to be here but he is. He hasn't been given a choice. No one said he had to fight for them well, though, and all of his shots either miss or barely graze the Barrayarans -- and only grazing if there's no other choice and he's going to be attacked if he doesn't. He could slaughter them all and it's clear from how he holds himself that he does know what he's doing at least. But he doesn't.

When he winds up opposite from Tucker he doesn't shoot, he listens. And grins. "I'm not feeling it either, man. But I'm not sure it's your skills that would embarrass me."

Deanna Troi | Star Trek: The Next Generation | OTA

[durango]

the village
Deanna's strange accent and eyes tend to give her away as an outsider - an "exotic" some would say, a term she's none too happy with - but it's clear from her dirty Starfleet uniform and bow slung awkardly across her back that she's no ally of the Cetagandans, so the villagers welcome her, plucking at her thin clothing with disapproval before reappearing with coats and mittens that they insist upon her taking. Not that it takes too much convincing... Betazoids are not made for this kind of weather. Especially not when mischevious little children are running around hitting them with snowballs.

Eyes dancing with amusement, she whips around in mock-confusion to search for the culprits. A nearby snowdrift giggles. Deanna taps her chin with one forefinger. "Now, where in the world could that snowball have come from?"

the barrayaran camp
Deanna misses the noise, the constant hum of other minds that has been with her her entire life - well, almost her entire life anyway. The previous loss of her senses has provided a little preparation for this - though emphasis on "a little." This time there was no Will, no Beverly, no Captain to patiently help her through this, nothing of the familiar comforts of home, of the Enterprise. Just cold and snow and tents hundled in the night.

However, at least tonight there is food and drink and good cheer as the guerillas celebrate their victory around the campfire. Even for someone like Deanna, unsure of how to proceed in the midst of a conflict she never asked to be a part of, it's an inviting atmosphere and it fills the silence in her mind. So when someone hands her a cup of the maple mead, she thinks, What the hell? and tosses it back.

(A move she's sure to regret).

recon (either side)
In truth, Deanna agreed to this recon mission more as an excuse to be alone with a fellow outsider than out of any particular loyalty to her "side." Hopefully, she thought, she would have an opportunity to pick their brains, maybe learn more about this strange situation they both find themselves in.

Except now, all she can think about is how very familiar that tree looks, the one with the crooked branch, and how bitter the wind is and how tired she is of trudging through the snow. She comes to a stop, a worried look on her face. "Are you sure you know where we're going?"

camp

[littlemissfutility]

Beth's just holding her drink, standing around and trying to enjoy the chaos of shouts and laughter. They succeeded, and it's nice to celebrate. It reminds her of evenings at the prison, though, when times were good. Makes her a little homesick--just a little.

But she's hardly about to close herself off out of nostalgia, and she's having an okay time on the whole. Lots of people to talk to, lots of people to watch--like the dark haired woman (maybe a Barrayaran Beth hasn't seen before, she doesn't look too far from the general appearance) who slams back a cup of the mead with the ease of her classmates at parties before the turn.

"Want mine?" She holds her cup, untouched besides a little sip to see how it compared to moonshine, out to the woman. It's offered with a little smile, a certain impressed air.

Tarn | Transformers IDW

[sparkwhisperer]

The Village

It’s cold. It’s really really cold.

Tarn’s entire body shivers as she clutches at himself, trying to still the tremors. He's only felt cold this bitter in the harshest snaps of winter on Messatine. Even then, His frame never shook like did now. His feet have grown numb as Tarn stumbles over a snowbank, face planting into the snow.

Of course a child takes advantage of Tarn’s clumsiness, using him as convenient target practice.

"You wretched creatures!” He shrieks, stumbling to his feet. “I’ll skin you alive and use your worthless flesh as a cloak.”

This is a good an proper way to address children.

PVP
Battles aren’t something that Tarn is foreign to. Though the frailty of this new human form leaves something to be desired. Especially when Tarn realizes just how easily one might be injured.

Being hit by a stray bullet would mean nothing in Tarn’s Cybertronian body. Now, he has to cope with shooting pain where the bullet buried itself in the flesh of his shoulder.

Of course he ignores it, fighting despite the injury. If anything he comes at you twice as fiercely, gun drawn and determination written in his eyes.

Tarn doesn’t care what this battle is about. All he cares about it releasing some pent up frustration by killing a few worthless organics.

The Village

[asafepairofhands]

It's the proper way to address Barrayarran children, anyway. Ratchet hears Tarn's shrill voice as he rounds a copse of trees, his lips parting in unfettered delight as he watches the kid take aim again and comes up next to them, pulling off his gloves.

"Packs harder if you use your bare hands," he advises them as he stoops to scoop up a handful of snow, his scars on his wrists stark against cold-pale skin as he winds up and whips the snowball as hard as he can directly towards Tarn's face.

bellamy blake | the 100 | ota | prose or brackets fine

[unburdening]

the barrayaran camp | making friends, part one

You've gotta be kidding me.

[ bellamy might be able to understand not wanting to let strangers into your armory, even if he doesn't like it. weapons are clearly a limited resource around here, something else he can understand, and they can't afford to trust the wrong people. it's the kind of decision he would've made himself.

that doesn't mean he has to like it.

what he likes even less is what he sees now that he is allowed inside. he's seen the patrols, the training, the soldiers, heard the explanations about tracking technology and keeping hidden. but there's seeing and seeing, and the choices of blades and bows against, as he's heard, guns and worse is more than enough reason to scowl.

he's audible enough with his displeasure that you might hear him from outside the tent, or maybe you've come in to borrow something. if you have, you may just notice him picking up a dagger...and moving to hide it under his jacket. (there is no way this could go wrong.) and if he notices you noticing him, well -- ]

You got something to say?

the village | making friends, part two

[ it just makes sense to come here, sooner rather than later, and learn more about their surroundings. meet the people. he's not unfriendly, and the hill children don't need more than that to quickly become emboldened. bellamy can be found crouched in the snow, allowing himself to be subjected to the Extremely Serious lesson of how, exactly, a person goes about building a snowman. there's a little boy and a little girl giving this lesson, demonstrating how to roll the parts of the body and then how to decorate it just so to make it person-like.

one of the kids may just recruit you for help finding appropriate sticks to make the arms or maybe to lend your scarf for just a few minutes. ]

wildcard

[ or: making friends, part 3. i'm game for any of the other scenarios so come at me. ]

clarke griffin | the 100

[ascende]

the village;

[clarke has seen worse than a broken arm. a lot worse. she's seen stab wounds, gunshot wounds, poison, radiation burns. she's seen blood pool onto the ground, felt it drench her hands to the point that she'd wondered, more than once, if it would ever wash off. she's seen people she was able to save just in the nick of time, and people she couldn't in spite of all her best efforts.

yet the sight of this child in front of her, with tear stains on his cheeks and fear in his eyes, twists something in her gut.

she's kneeling so that she's at his eye level, one knee steadily sinking into snow. in these temperatures, the leg has long since turned numb, but despite that, despite the fact that every other extremity feels like it's soon to follow, that her teeth are chattering, she remains until he gives the okay to have his arm set. when she speaks, her voice is as gentle as the hand she has on his shoulder.]

Hey. It'll be over before you know it, I promise. [she gives her best reassuring smile.] Ready?


the barrayaran camp;

[spirits are high and the alcohol has been flowing, but clarke has kept mostly to the periphery of the festivities, bent over close to the campfire for warmth. even if there'd been a victory, celebration feels premature; there's a whole war to think about beyond one battle, a bigger picture to keep in mind beyond one night. they should be planning, preparing.

in one instant, though, that line of thought gets put on hold. "i bet you can't drink any of this," a soldier says with a sneer as he approaches her, and she springs up without hesitation. stands toe to toe with the soldier and looks him square in the eye, defiant. she snatches the cup out of his hand, then says:]

Watch me.

[she looks around her for a moment, as if daring anyone else in the vicinity to challenge her, and then takes a big ol' swig.

(she can be fun. yeah.)]


wildcard;

[totally open to anything and everything! if you've got something else in mind you'd like with clarke, feel free to hit me here, or we can hash out via pm c:]

camp;

[unburdening]

[ clarke isn't alone at the periphery.

if she's worried about the big picture, then bellamy's worried about the right now. it's a lot like when the ark first came down, kane and the guard so ready to hold him and finn back. we're here now, we have it covered, this isn't your job. these people have a much better knowledge of their geography and their enemy than he does, and have been at it longer, but it still feels wrong not to be much more involved in security or patrols. to not know every person on that team and what they're made of.

but none of that distracts him from clarke's exchange with the soldier or the way that she responds, because of course she does. he could suggest she slow down or point out that this was a bad idea. ]

That showed him.

[ nah. ]

Kurt-051 | Halo

[spartan051]

[Recon: the Village]

Kurt had been standing at the edge of the tree-line for the better part of an hour watching the every day activities of the village below. Children were playing in the snow and occasionally, a peal of laughter could be heard echoing in the cold air and it brought a small smile to his face. He’d spent the better part of twenty years working with children but none of his Spartans had been allowed such freedom or much of anything resembling childhood.

It was a sacrifice that had to be made and each and every one of them had made the choice to put aside childish things to become a new breed of Spartan. Still, a part of him regretted the need for such things. But in comparison to the billions of other innocent human lives that got extinguished each year as the Covenant had made their way across occupied human space, it sort of paled in comparison and made that sacrifice all the more necessary.

He had his scarf wrapped around his face both as protection and as a means to hide his location while he spied on the village. Any time it looked like his breath might fog in the chilly air, he reached for a fresh handful of snow which he would melt in his mouth to help bring down the temperature further so no tell-tale plumes of condensation could be seen. It was a decade’s old trick Chief Mendez had shown them almost a lifetime ago during winter training. Much like back then, he and the rest of his fellow Spartan-II’s had been dropped in the middle of nowhere with very minimal winter-gear and were expected to achieve a variety of stealth missions and various other mission objectives.

To anyone but a Spartan, such training might have been seen as inhumane or cruel but for someone like Kurt who had been indoctrinated into that world, it had seemed perfectly acceptable at the time. So much so that he’d carried it forward into his own training methods of the Spartan-III’s. But he wasn’t just here to lurk and spy on village children but was instead making a detailed mental map of the area and headcount of everyone he could see scurrying about their daily lives. Why? Because he was a cautious person by nature and was loathe to commit himself to anything by rashly running into to any situation before he had a firm lay of the land.

[PVP: Either side]

Everything about this place was strange and confusing in a lot of ways. The people, the culture was unlike anything he was used to. Kurt hadn’t realized just how hidebound he’d grown as of late, how accustomed he was to his routines. At the end of the day, the majority of his life had been spent amongst the UNSC and he was used to dealing with career military. And these people…were not. There were warriors among them, people whom he might have been able to come to an understanding with but there were just as many people who were civilians.

Honestly, the entire culture was strange to him with the widely disparate gender roles people were expected to play. To him, he’d been raised side by side with female Spartans who were just as capable and dangerous as their male counterparts. The idea of anyone telling Linda she couldn’t fight because she was a woman was borderline hysterical. She was one of the best Spartans he’d ever known and the deadliest shot out of their entire class. There were female soldiers he’d served side by side with throughout his entire military career so the idea of anyone postulating all a woman was good for was the home and hearth was truly alien to him. And in many ways, it was unsettling, enough so that Kurt often tried to find a way of being anywhere but back at home base.

The other outsiders, or “Exotics” as they were apparently were called were just as much of a mixed bag though some seemed to at least come from cultures more in keeping with what he was used to.

Today, he’d ranged a little further than was perhaps prudent but he’d needed to clear his head a little. Rather than risk leaving tracks in the snow, the Spartan had taken to skirting along the edge of a frozen stream bed. The snow was thinner here and more treacherous because it was mostly icy slush which made his footing a little more uncertain than Kurt would have liked. But it was still better than potentially leaving a trail a mile wide for anyone to track. Weapons weren’t as easily accessible here, he’d discovered and he’d done what he could to fashion one out of a relatively straight tree branch with one end whittled down to a sharp point to serve as a primitive spear. It was woefully lacking compared to the assault rifles and side arms he was used to having at his fingertips.

But you made do with what you could find and he had just bent down to inspect an unfamiliar animal track mostly mired down in mud when a trickle of unease went up his spine. Kurt-051 had always been infamous for his perception and ability to sniff out an ambush before the walked into one during training. Those abilities hadn’t gone to seed in the last twenty years and his instincts were ringing off alarms at the back of his head. Maybe it was the fact that the local birds had gone silent or that the scurrying of animals in the underbrush nearby suddenly stopped but he knew in his heart of hearts that he wasn’t alone out here in this white-washed wilderness anymore.

morgan jones » the walking dead

[purgata]

[ barrayaran camp ]
The celebrations, as spirited as they may have been, were not of any particular draw to Morgan. He can't rejoice in the loss of life, even if they were - ostensibly - enemies. The war happening here is not his war, and even if it were, he wouldn't be killing in it, and he certainly wouldn't be celebrating that killing.

So he forsakes the festivities to busy himself, tending the horses, foraging, clearing snow from tents - all the things he can do that are constructive, supporting the people he's found himself with even if not the things they do. And when the tasks are tended to, before he seeks his own rest among the crowding of one of the tents, he takes a few moments for himself to step a small distance away, find a decently sized clearing, and begin going through his forms with his staff. He moves deliberately, practiced and attentive, smoothly flowing through his routine. This is how he focuses, how he connects to his surroundings and to himself.

In this place, against a backdrop of violence more organized and decisive than any he's seen in his own world, this source of calm and concentration has rapidly become all the more necessary if he has any hope of holding onto himself.

[littlemissfutility]

You can only drink so much of that maple mead, and in Beth's case, she tries not to drink any. Since she came here, she's had one carefully metered glass of wine, shared over the course of a late-night game of Never Have I Ever. They knock back liquor every night of the week in this camp, win or lose; keeping up with them would be a terrible idea even if her daddy'd never struggled with alcohol a day in his life.

She still enjoys the festivities--it's a happy night, and she's used to being the sober person in a crowd of drunks--but eventually, she wants a break from them. So she goes for a walk, away from the noise and firelight, out into the freezing dark.

The movement in the shadows draws her attention first--a shot of worry sliding through her, not now, not tonight--and then, less concerning, the fact that it's Morgan. He draws his staff through the air with an unfamiliar grace, something far from the swordplay she's been learning here. It's curious enough that she ventures closer, the crunch of her boots in the snow the only sound she makes.