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.

[changeth]

There's a sound peculiar to the plucked bowstring, to the sound of a projectile cutting through the air. Arthur's heard it so often that he's moving before the ramifications even register in his conscious mind, a sharp sidestep away from the tree in question. Not necessary, given how wide of his head the arrow lands, but without the instinct he'd have been dead several times over before ever being drafted into this war.

Thankfully for everyone involved, the step moves him away from the trap and not actually onto it. #SmallBlessings.

He frowns at the arrow, straightens warily and draws his sword. There's one culprit that can be ruled out easily enough: Cetagandans much prefer their alien technology to likes of bows and arrows.

"Show yourself," he orders -- well, in the direction one can assume the arrow came from, voice pitched to carry (and, unintentionally, probably scare off any squirrels in the vicinity sorry about your hunting trip, Daryl).

[pigsfeet]

That was pretty funny. There's no harm in keeping doing it, is there? Daryl loads another arrow, this one a little closer to the kid's head, but it's still not going to hit unless something awful and miraculous happens. He lets the arrow fly through the crossbow, into another tree, and waits.

This kid is hilarious.

ruDE

[changeth]

Sometimes he misses royal status and sometimes he doesn't at all. But, oh, for the days when a frown or a stern word actually meant anything to anybody.

"My servant has better aim, and he can't tell one end of a broom from another on some days."

So he resorts to insults, maturely. Including insulting Merlin, who isn't even there, because he's a good person.

u deserve it.

[pigsfeet]

Daryl wonders if this kid knows how to track arrows. They're all coming from one direction. He justifies this as a training exercise, then, to show this kid how to track, and trains his eye for an opening. Insult his aim, huh? This time, he'll show you about aim.

His arrow whizzes through the air, and hits Arthur's upper sleeve, pinning it to a nearby tree. Take that, kid.

from the other* pretend i can type???

[changeth]

He has, theoretically, spent time learning how to track arrows. The law of funny simply wins out. Or, perhaps, he's too piqued to quite make note of where they're all coming from just yet.

Especially with that last shot -- a clean shot through his left sleeve, securely embedded in the tree trunk. Not only does his not-assassin have actual skill, but apparently also a sense of humor.

(You know what else he misses? Chainmail.)

He pulls his sleeve free without much care, tearing it more in the process, and then...actually starts to move in Daryl's direction.

"You can't hide forever."

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.

[changeth]

In truth, he'd been warned. And in truth, he'd shrugged off the warning. He's had mead before, is hardly some fresh-faced boy having his first goblet of ale; the logic had seemed perfect up until the maple mead started burning its way down his throat. He can only be thankful certain people (not naming any names but those like Merlin and Guinevere come to mind) aren't there to notice the undignified way he chokes, eyebrows shooting up.

Which isn't to say that no one does. He doesn't balk at being noticed so much as he might've, noting her as a fellow draftee and somewhat younger at that, just answers dryly.

"It'll keep anyone from freezing, that's for certain."

[littlemissfutility]

"Because their throats are on fire." It almost makes freezing sound okay in comparison--except that she's been chilled since she got here, even in the wool clothes she's been given, and it's really not okay. Why anyone would choose to live in weather like this, purposely, is beyond her. "The rest of them could be blocks of ice."

It's a joke, if not a particularly good one, and it's accompanied by a smile. "Are you one of the new arrivals, too?"

[changeth]

Camelot's winters can be something like this, air cool enough for every breath to fill it with steam, snow piling up till the roads are nigh impenetrable. But he doesn't think they're this cold, or at least he hasn't known them to be -- not within the walls of the palace, where servants work double-time to keep the drafty halls as full of warmth as they can.

"Yes." He can't imagine why a slight, friendly-faced girl such as this would be anyone's choice for an army; but he resolves to keep an eye out for her, at least. "I'm beginning to wonder how many of us there are."

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?"

[changeth]

A fact: Arthur hasn't spent time around children of this age -- of any age -- since he was one himself. And even then, truth be told, snowball fights and winter play slowly gave way to training in knighthood and diplomacy, skills for his future.

"I'm beginning to see that," he says, all affronted raised eyebrows as he wipes snow off his face. His nose has begun to go all red from cold, but don't tell him that; it's just as well Clara makes the decision to move them elsewhere. "Not shy, are they?"

[ex_bossily211]

"Why should they be, when they have the advantage?" Gripping hold of his hand a little tighter, she laughs as she leads the way toward a big enough bank of snow that they can crouch and hide behind it. She's still just in her dress and tights, and really will go get some furs and other warm things eventually but right now she's focused on the game at hand.

Her bare hands ball up some snow and she peeks out beyond the bank, spying one of the small boys coming at them. Not hesitating, she throws it and hits him right in his face.

"Go on, you hit the other in the face and we'll pop off toward safety."

[changeth]

"So it'd seem."

Clara's easy familiarity is something of a novelty to the vaguely medieval, particularly to the vaguely medieval royalty. Most people wouldn't ordinarily have the nerve to direct him about or tell him what to do, but he can't say he minds. He might admit to himself and no one else ever, if pressed, that something about it all reminds him of what it was like to have Morgana around -- before everything went to hell.

He peers over the bank himself, spotting the other small boy attempting to be sneaky. Sneaky, in this case, meaning crouching next to a half-finished snowman about half his height.

"You know," Arthur suggests, "there's no shame in surrender."

When the little boy's eyes meet Arthur's, he abandons all pretense and makes a dash for them. Clearly, the time for diplomacy has passed. Arthur scoops together a snowball and lobs it at the child, his aim true.

(He's not petty enough to get payback on a child, but you know.)

[ex_bossily211]

Clara laughs as the snowball makes contact and the little boy whines, having to cover her mouth with both hands so she doesn't make it worse for the poor little thing. "You go off now," she calls out in her best teacher voice, peering up over the edge of the snowbank. "Go home!" Pointing, she's just barely able to hold in a fit of laughter.

The second the boys turn and run away she loses it, laughing so hard that she plops down to sit in the snow. Given her luck, she sinks right in until it's even with her head, and that causes her to yelp and sputter as she scrambles to stand up again. She's definitely not dressed to be covered in snow and ice this way, and looks about as happy as a cat that's been dunked in water by the time she's upright.

"And now," she chatters as she glances back over at him. "We're going to retreat before any of the rest of them get ideas."

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."

[changeth]

Arthur pauses when she hails him and sets his sword down so that it supports his weight, the tip sinking a few centimeters into the cold earth. He'd been generally aware of her presence nearby with her own weapon and dummy, just enough to note her apparent inexperience. With the sword, anyway; there's nothing about her that suggests inexperience in a field of battle.

"You're in luck, then. I've worked on my swordplay since I was old enough to walk."

Training for a future king; training to qualify for the knights once he was of age; training for Camelot's many tourneys. It was only expected he not let the people (or his father) down by being sub-par. Alien (literal alien) technology may be far beyond his experience or abilities, but swords, at least, he knows.

[sibearian]

"That is good to hear! I can certainly see your skill, and my eyes are as untrained as..."

She pauses, thinking.

"Something very untrained." Nailed it. "I think perhaps I might need help selecting a sword I can even hold properly. I am sorry, my friend, I understand if you do not wish to teach such basics."

[changeth]

His eyebrows go up at her difficulty coming up with a comparison, but he tries to smooth it over with a nod. He considers, briefly, the out she offers him. It's true that he doesn't usually spend much time on training novices: only the finest amongst Camelot are considered for the knights, their training meant to further hone their skills. And truth be told, he's never taught a woman. Morgana used to spar with him once, a long time ago, as they learned the basics; Gwen, a blacksmith's daughter, learned whatever she knows at home. No woman has ever tried to join the knights, and he couldn't say he'd know what he'd do if one did. The idea hadn't even crossed his mind before arriving here.

But this is a war, and they can clearly use every body they've got. The stakes are far bigger, but the circumstances remind him a little of Ealdor once. Gwen had said the women have as much right to fight for their lives as the men do! and she'd been right (she always is right).

He shakes his head and straightens, picking up his sword, and gestures that they move towards the armory.

"Every swordsman..." Hang on. "And swordswoman...began a novice. Having a well-balanced sword, suitable for its wielder, is the start to winning any battle. A poor weapon can jeopardize anyone's chances, no matter how well-trained they are."

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?"

[changeth]

He hadn't planned on getting involved in a snowball fight, least of all with children, but as the snowballs keep coming he doesn't see much of a choice. Particularly if, theoretically, there's a maiden to be protected. Whether or not she's laughed at him. Arthur leans only long enough to craft a couple snowballs of his own, lobbing them back at the children before turning back to her.

He's not had much opportunity to meet the Dendarii yet, but they're hard to miss: they lack the pervading unease amongst the people brought here, unfamiliar to this land, but clearly aren't of equivalent status as the hillfolk. He inclines his head, eyebrows raised.

"Ha-ha. My citadel would never fall so easily, whether snow-made or not." This statement would, perhaps, hold more dignity if he didn't have clumps of snow hanging off his clothes and gloves. Or if he didn't then have to dodge another snowball. "Though I'll grant that they're surprisingly tenacious."

[vorbratta]

"Yes, the Dendarii hillfolk are all as tough as stone, I've found. I think they'd have to be, to thrive up here." Sonia grins at him, clearly amused. He's clearly one of the outsiders, but he seems like he could almost fit in here, with a little training, maybe. He seems nice, though, and probably more refreshing conversation than the soldiers. "Ha, and where would that citadel be? Oh -- "

One of the children, ever relentless, lets out a high cackle as another snowball hits Sonia square on the back. Sonia turns around to deliver a clearly chiding remark in Barrayaran Russian, but she's still laughing a little. "Sweet little terrors, aren't they? Oh, but I don't think I ever got your name."

[changeth]

He takes pause just long enough to cast another look about the mountains and the village nestled within them, as though reconsidering after her assessment. Hardy folk indeed, to make such a difficult geography into home and eke not only a living but a life out of it.

"You must be right. This is hardly a home for the faint of heart."

He's not sure he'd call the children sweet so much as terrors, but he doesn't argue with her. Instead, he hefts another snowball and throws; though it misses when the child ducks and stumbles...right into a snowbank. Victory enough.

"Arthur. Arthur Pendragon, of Camelot." He doesn't speak with any real expectation of recognition, this far from home. "And you?"

[vorbratta]

Sonia smothers a rather unprincesslike snort in her hand when she watches the child topple facefirst into the snowbank, and she brushes a stray lock of hair away from her face. She doesn't bow, and she doesn't really curtsy either, but the tilt of her head and her smile more or less approximate the gesture.

"Sonia Vorbarra. A pleasure to meet you, Arthur."