[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?]
Aral Vorkosigan | OTA
[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?]