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.
Lord Miles Naismith Vorkosigan | Vorkosigan Saga | OTA
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.