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.

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.

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.