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

Aral Vorkosigan | OTA

[use_everything]

Barrayaran encampment

[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?]

Encampment

[dendarii]

[ Miles has been a much more distinctive figure around the camp. Stunted and still a bit twisted - the reconstruction had done much to straighten him out, but it wasn't perfect - he'd trailed hex signs and dark looks everywhere he'd gone. It was draining. He'd endured so much as a child that he'd thought he was finally inured to this sort of nonsense. But he wasn't prepared to go back in time to nearly the worst era he could possibly get stuck in. Having to fight to prove his right to take each breath is tiring, even as he stubbornly keeps throwing himself at that wall ...

So he straightens a bit when this captain gestures him over, steeling himself for a hex sign and an argument. He opens his mouth to respond --

And freezes. Oh, no. Apparently this whole damn nightmare isn't done playing tricks on him. He stares at Aral like he's suddenly grown another head, jaw gone slack. ]

I - I'm decent. A decent shot. Captain.

[ His own accent is also natively Barrayaran, just in case recognizing those captain's tags aren't enough. ]

[use_everything]

[There's no spark of recognition in those sharp grey eyes. No cloud of suspicion even hint them, but Captain Aral Vorkosigan existed well before Miles was even a topic broached with the indomitable Commander Cordelia Naismith.

Instead there was a thoughtful frown crossing his face. Aral regarded the twisted man, a mutant, probably. The years were not kind in this period, but the situation had been desperate enough to let him into service? Unlikely... Some prejudices were too deep. (His own itched to dismiss the strange figure, not wanting to be slowed down or endangered) But, his gut told him something else is going on here.]

Hm. [Not the bow, he imagined.] Powder shot or stunner?

[dendarii]

[ God. Miles is nearly as old as his own father, too. And that's a timeline that Miles knows far better than Piotr's own. Miles has a lot of Cordelia in his eyes, so the fact that there's no recognition at all ... It's entirely possible that Aral hasn't even met Cordelia yet, isn't it? Likely, in fact.

He needs a drink. He needs a lot of drinks. ]

Stunner. I've little experience with powder, I'm afraid.

[ A few misbegotten experiments with Piotr that had ended very quickly as soon as Bothari had caught up. ]

[use_everything]

[He rubs his chin, squinting out over the snow. He inclines a nod.] I'm rusty with it myself. [It was offered, aside, then that keen glances falls back on Miles.]

Your accent is local. Do you know the ridgeway run?

[Up near the very edge of where the maples had spread, the game ran fairly freely. It was dangerous for human travel because of the often concealed cave vents.]

barrayaran encampment

[truevor]

( The man is only hard to miss if one considers height to be the defining trait. Olivia, shorter than he, would have to be more than blind to miss him. He projects himself to be taller than he is, with a quiet but firm authority that makes those around him fall into line. It's a quality that is sorely needed among the Barrayaran forces; his rank as captain seems at odds with it, as is his interest in the officer's tent.

His wave over that day is met with a raised eyebrow, but Olivia finds herself predisposed to indulge him in the interests of finding out more. )

Not very. ( Olivia confesses, although that is hardly news to anyone. She knows how to wield a sword and dagger well enough to defend herself -- she won't be caught unaware in a war zone, reliant on luck and chance that someone else is there to save her, not when she has the tools to do so herself. Peace, the moment where she can set all this behind her and wash her hands of bloodshed and war, was too far off for her to contemplate. The only thing that matters is winning -- the rest will come after.

But there's something familiar about the other man, although she can't put her finger on it. It occupies most of her mind, however, and she gives him a shallow nod. ) Although doubtless you have far more than your share of skill at it, Captain-- ?

( A name would help place him. Some son of a Count she met at court, perhaps? Or some younger son without title and prospects. )

[use_everything]

[Aral Vorkosigan, in some way, had been prepared for Piotr. Even a young version, in some - who knows what this is? A strange hole where wormhole jumps to nowhere finally end up? Some surprisingly linear fever dream? Some surgeon's cocktail at the Ministry of Political Education? Any seemed as likely... but he'd taken it in stride.

This? Though...

Death seems to pale the memory like nothing else does. It sapped the lines from her cheekbones, the color from her eyes, the highlights from her hair. Even as a child, when his young hand - without talent - tried to draw her, the details failed far too quickly. He remembered the way one of the heavy wooden table legs embedded itself in the antique pantry. It was at an odd, nearly 30 degree angle, all of the plateware shattered.

He could recount how every single piece of the crockery fell by his brother's limp hand. But not her smile. Her voice.

But right now, they were washing back in, filling decades-old gaps like water in a desert creek.

He ended up just. Looking at her far too long. He cleared his throat, buying an inch more time.

Naismith is what he had used with the troops, with his father displaced in time. He'd had no qualms claiming the surname of the woman who'd struck his heart whole. But here...]

Aral, ma'am.

[truevor]

( In the too-long time it takes for him to answer, Olivia has picked out the parts of his face that belong to the Vor she knows. She is married to the man who holds the most familiarity, after all, how could she not recognize the lines of his bones in his face? The single member of that family -- not the most powerful, never the richest -- but always loyal to the Emperor.

Perhaps not the single member, although this man must be nearly a decade older than Piotr. Her lips purse, but she inclines her head slightly at his introduction. Aral. Piotr had never spoken of a brother, let alone any family member sharing her one of her father's name. Olivia had assumed that, if he had any, there were all dead by the beginning of the invasion. )

An uncommon name, Aral. ( An impossible suspicion begins to curl in her mind, one that she doesn't voice just yet. She feels as if she's grasping at straws, or viewing part of a painting -- there's an idea, but she can't see the entire image. ) A family one, perhaps?

( He has to be Vor, Olivia knows that much -- so much intermarriage tends to leave its genetic marks on a population. But is he some heir, some third or fourth son who's parents enjoyed the sound of the name, or -- What is she to do, if he's neither? )

Recon

[komarran]

[ Wandering in the harsh winter is perhaps not the smartest move Duv Galeni has ever made, but it is preferable to remaining in what he considers the enemy camp for long. Overstaying his welcome is an understatement and the less time he spends there drawing attention to himself, the better.

His clothing is, unfortunately, Cetagandan in style, having had to resort to the standard issued winter gear or freeze. It makes traversing the mountains a far more dangerous task alone, but if he's going to be trapped in the middle of the Cetagandan occupation then he's going to see what clues he can gather from surrounding areas. If only this were some kind of historical reenactment. Things would be far simpler.

The land's unfamiliar to him and he doesn't notice the recon party not far from his current location. His coat is pulled tighter around him as he attempts to make his way through to (hopefully) what passes for civilization in these mountains. ]

[use_everything]

[They watched the straggling Ceta for some time. With a better grasp of the land, it wasn't hard to keep out of sight and general earshot, pacing the man's travel.

This was far from the usual patrol pattern and rare to see one out solo. A forward scout for a retaliatory strike? No.. why not use a lightflyer for that? It left the possibility it was some poor hypothermic bastard a few steps from taking off his clothes in paradoxical fit of heat and curling up for his last nap. Or some ghem upstart looking for a quick way to make a name and land a haut wife.

Either way, the Ceta's progress was heading directly towards the Barrayaran encampment. A head is a head, and while it's still on shoulders, there's a chance for information. Waste not, want not.

Aral holds the group with a hand, and takes a steady aim of his stunner over his forearm.]

[komarran]

[ His breathing is ragged as he scouts the area. With the snow, everything looks similar. Any hope of gaining insight into the surrounding area is growing dimmer, he'll be lucky if he makes it back to his (hopefully temporary) camp safely.

The incoming Barrayarans haven't registered. He has survival training, instinct honed from his own childhood, but being out in the elements is far from what he's ever dealt with in climate-controlled Komarran domes. How have Barrayarans survived at all when it gets this damn cold in the winter? His studies had been spent inside when the weather turned south and he never thought he'd long to be holed up in a library studying for an exam again.

The stunner fire is the first he hears of the others. He's alert, ready to strike at nearby assailants, something that only lasts for a moment before the stunner blast hits him and drops him in the snow. ]

[use_everything]

[When Duv comes to, he'll find his feet and hands firmly bound, but not cruelly tight, wrapped in a bedroll near a fire, and under a hastily fashioned lean to. The night, somehow, is even more wicked. The wind takes bites at his nose and ears.

Other Barrayaran soldiers, teeth black from gumweed, ragged and half starved from the hard months before this new victory crowd around the fire. A pot of something with meat cooks over the fire. They deep enough in their own territory to make themselves damn near cozy. Or at least celebrate their catch.. But not quite far enough to make it back safely at night without the surer footing of a horse and a limp prisoner between them.

Sitting across from Duv, however, was a familiar face. The voice spoke from a hundred holovids, without the characteristic rasp of his early days in true political power.]

Coming about? Good.

You are here-forth my prisoner. I will guarantee your safety until we reach the encampment, at which point you are for the General to decide what to do with.

Encampment

[prideofabh]

A shot with what?

[Lafiel's eyes narrowed. She knew her ancestors had gotten along for millennia without the comforts of modern technology, but that didn't mean she had ever had to learn how to shoot a bow when she had energy weapons. Or to hunt for food that could be mass-produced in vats. On the other hand, this was just the more recent (and by far the weirdest) lesson in 'life does not tell you what is on the test before you start', so she better learn if she wants to do more than dig ditches and peel vegetables. And she does; even if she has no idea where the Abh Empire is in relation to this planet, at least she is competent in space.]

[use_everything]

Bow is the most economical. [In these leaner times, they could be carved from the one resource there is in abundance - the forest. It didn't have the dangerous energy signature of a generator to recharge power cells, or the precious allocations of powder for shot.

It was... still jarring to see a woman in service, even in times like these. Even with his own hazy childhood memories of the end of the war. Much less the appearance one would find in a body sculptor's art collection.. or one of the wilder genetic fades to spring out of Escobar or Beta.

Aral hardly knew what to do with the time displacement or the wild visitors it brought. So simply, he focused EVERYTHING on the tasks ahead.]

Give me what you can do, and I'll find a place for it.

[prideofabh]

I can pilot, in air and space and shoot klanyu... energy weapons. [Mixing up the words gets a scowl; Lafiel's English still needs work for technical terms.]

I was a ship captain.

[All things pretty useless on a planet where high tech was chemical explosives, and Lafiel knows it. She's less aware that most people expect captains to look older.]

Also negotiation. Or just threatening people. And my family kept cats.

[She is grasping at straws.]

[use_everything]

[There's a twitch of his lips at the kept cats as a skill.]

Keeping cats and a crew aren't so dissimilar, no. [It wasn't just young, but female as well that pushes those Barrayaran boundaries. In his own time, he'd run into his first woman in a command position, and it hadn't quite gelled as unexceptional to the greater world, yet.]

Energy weapons is fair enough. [He fetches out a small flat disk, barely more than palm sized. An achingly rare stunner, checks the safety and the charge, before passing it to her, tip down.]

i'm so sorry

[vorbratta]

[ oh, this one's a barrayaran for sure, though he's got to be one of the outsiders, or else sonia's sure she'd know him. the fact that he's waving at her like that really seals it -- is he waving at her? her? sonia glances around. oh, maybe no one's told him yet. that'd be nice. ]

Me? [ sonia points at herself, looking a little perplexed but mostly surprised, but then she has to bite down on a smile. ] I wouldn't know. I've never gotten to handle a bow. Are you offering lessons?

Never be sorry

[use_everything]

[He didn't know at all. In fact, the accent... An urban Vorbarra undertone? ... is a visible surprise on his face. He was expecting an outsider.

The man recovers well enough, however.]

I've time. [Is the answer, the raspy baritone didn't waste words, at least.]

[vorbratta]

[ and a touch of betan, too, though the flatter parts of her accent have been filed away after ten long years on barrayar. he looks surprised, but he isn't scrambling to bow and scrape, and that's good enough for sonia. her eyes positively light up. ]

Really? [ she doesn't give him time for a chance denial, hiking her skirt up with one hand to crunch through the thick snow closer to aral. ] Alright, so what do I do first, then?

recon.

[pigsfeet]

[Daryl is in camouflage-- sort of. He's patched his clothes over with enough animal skins that he tends to blend in with the scenery. He has a crossbow, made and weighed carefully by hand, trained on their targets.]

[Three Ceta soldiers mill into a snowy clearing, communicating in smoky puffs of breath. They have a village boy with them, one of the hillfolk. Daryl doesn't know him, but he looks familiar. He might have run errands for the Barrayaran camp, at one time or another.]

[Daryl has been hanging back so far because it's the smart thing to do, regardless of his so-called superior officer's instruction. As one of the Ceta soldiers raises his hand to strike the boy, Daryl's not so sure. He trains his bow on the Ceta's head, taking aim.]

[use_everything]

[The situation unfolds fast from a simple patrol to something much, much more charged. Aral's eyes narrow, also recognizing the young boy and flicks his eyes up to the paint (flaking from the dry, cold air) adorning the ranking officer's face.

A hostage situation, a high ranking Ghem clan... Daryl may be the only man bucking orders, but it's clear in the tension and ire, that he's not the only man that wants to.

In a few fractions of a second, it's clear: there's a mutiny, a loss of command upon one side of the scales, the other side boasted a hot resurgence of conflict that a supply raid hadn't done.

And then there's one of his hillfolk at risk.

Aral unslings his bow silently, nocking and drawing aim on the commanding officer, standing back and watching the abuse. The nod was simple sign. Fire.]

[pigsfeet]

[Maybe this guy ('Aral' as a name sounds like he could be Daryl's cousin, honestly) isn't as yellow-bellied as the others. Maybe he isn't. It doesn't matter, but Daryl is almost certainly about to find out in the next hour or so.]

[If Daryl has sympathy for anyone in this stupid wasteful war, it's the people caught in the middle. The folks just trying to live their lives while their land is fought over with tears and blood and plasma rifles. That's more important than any idiotic land grab.]

[Daryl isn't gonna let some kid get beaten, maybe tortured, for information he probably doesn't have, all to prove an intergalactic point. Daryl aims, and he fires. The crossbow is blessedly fast, deadly silent. It goes right through the commander's temple.]

Re: Aral Vorkosigan | OTA

[unclassifiable]

[The only one less conspicuous was Simon Illyan but then, he'd made of a career of invisibility where Aral had done anything but. He had slipped into camp life just as naturally, albeit with slightly more grumbling about the cold. Simon had been an agent for a long time, over a decade, and he'd had all the necessary survival training—plus additional, rendered by an older Piotr Vorkosigan himself—but he was certainly not born to it. And he had not been Chief so long that he found himself bored enough to be grateful of any field work to come his way.]

Tolerable, [He replies blandly. There was nothing to tell he was stifling a habitual my lord except the faintest twitch to his jaw. No one who knew "Aral" or Simon Illyan (a perfectly unremarkable prole name) would know that they were acquainted any more than casually. They were both having to walk a fine line between making their not inconsiderable skills useful, and not drawing undo attention that might cause them to have to explain themselves to likely dubious Piotr Vorkosigan.]

[use_everything]

[Aral had, at least, put his conspicuous manner to use, retaining command when he'd shown half a wit (and more) of competence with it. Seeing his spy here was a definite benefit. Whatever the man's mission was, it was moot here.

He nods to Illyan, briefly.] Gear up, half an hour to departure. [And some time to actually talk to the man was going to be necessary.]

[ex_bossily211]

[If he's unusually short at 5'9", she's ridiculously tiny at 5'1". She's standing not too far off from him when he questions her, and she realizes a little too late that she probably shouldn't have been holding a sword to look at her own reflection and make sure her ponytail didn't leave a hair out of place. So when she realizes he's speaking to her she gently lowers the weapon and glances over at him with an awkward smile. Putting the sword back in place, she makes sure to stand as tall as possible. Because that's what will make him take her seriously.]

I've never intentionally killed someone, if that's what you're asking. But I have amazing luck with picking up weapons and being able to use them. And my aim's not entirely helpless, I wager.

[Rocking back on her heels, her smile becomes more warm.]

Why? Are you looking for someone to...shoot something?