Voice Testing Post

[use_everything]

Canon

A.

[You may find yourself facing large, heavy gates. Behind the bars, you can easily see the enormous, austere residence spread both tall and wide against a backdrop of a lake, stables and a small, private cemetery. The unbridled horse grazing, unhitched beside a carriage, by a liveried servant is in direct opposition to an obviously futuristic lightflier not far from it.

Even the guard that narrows to nervous attention holds both a sword and a strange, small device.]

And you are?

[The voice comes from behind.

Aral, for his part, neither looks, nor feels the part of the lord. Having taken the long way, treacherous and unmonitored paths and foothills back to the residence, he smells of sap, a chemical tinge of smoke and the exertion it took to get back. His green dress uniform had survived in all but the pressed edges, looking as if he'd intended the slight look of disarray and set jaw.

He lifts a hand, stilling the guard from comment on him, and focuses all of his attention on this newcomer.]

B.

[The Counts and Minsters poured out of the building first. The debates of the evening being traded in words so sharp that they might as well have been blows. Aral followed much more sedately, having taken a bit of time to brief his intelligence officer and leave orders for the evening.

It's by chance he stumbled across a stranger, enough out of place to inspire both caution and curiosity in equal measures.]

You seem lost.

Mask or Menace

C.

[It helped to liken the city to a space station. It had the bustle of a large hub.. the rowdy clash and wild fusion of fashions and cultures that defied any easy identification of a trend or perhaps some anthropological hint as to the people - and species... intelligent and alien, the very thought sent his mind into fits of fantasy and planning at once. It was like water, as far as he could tell. Formless, impossible to grip, but could fill the air around you and sweep one far away should he let it. There were colors and layers fitting the ghem Cetagandan... lack of modesty known to the Betans... the maliable gathering of anything adorned by a Jacksonian mindset...

And yet, nothing that fit anything else.

There was only one way to begin. Diplomatically.]

Might I ask a question?

OTHER

[Pick your poison, or let me know and I'll cater a starter to you.]

Comments

YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS

[dendarii]

[ It's a rather dreary morning here at De Chima #7. Rainy and wet, just warm enough not to be snow but hardly conducive to going outside. Miles, certainly, has no intentions of moving from his spot on the couch. He and Gregor had gone through quite a wide range of power testing last night, with the result this morning being something Miles can only think of as a nanite hangover. A pounding headache, surpassed only by the dull lead burn in his bones. He's not sure if adjusting his size exacerbates the strain or if the relief of being smaller makes him feel it all the worse. Some combination of the two.

Gregor had insisted on taking on Miles' pain; Miles had insisted on shuttering Gregor out until the painkillers can kick in. They had reached the compromise of Miles being permitted to close the link the most of the way, but Gregor going out to buy groceries and other necessaries in the abysmal weather. Miles can only hope, fervently, that his Emperor doesn't come back with a cold as a result.

(There is something else in the back of his head too. A strange pulse - a new strand. He chalks it up to the powers experimentation doing something to his telepathy with Gregor, much the same way his excursion to the bottom of Gregor's soul added a new twist to their link. If it frets him too much he'll have Charles look at it. For now, he carefully shutters his exposure to that as well, much like the rest of his link.)

Now that he's taken the first set of painkillers, the only thing to do is wait until they start making a dent in his headache. He sifts through a pile of 2-D holovid disks - no, movies - the most urgent thing on his mind being whether he should watch Blade Runner or Alien first. ]

ALL THE GOOD THINGS

[use_everything]

[There any number of factors that might slow a man's reflexes down. Being in the safety of one's own home, under the influence of a headache and sequentially, its panacea. A key in the lock is a familiar sound.. but the timing is too early.

The steps too heavy to be Gregor's.

The hands that clamp firmly, like iron - are definitely not of a friend. Or even human.]

[dendarii]

[ There is also the fact that Miles just hasn't made any enemies here - that any truly dangerous and also unknown parties would surely make themselves known to Gregor first. He's let himself grow so lax in just a month ...

He wasn't expecting Gregor back so soon, though. Turning back on the couch, he opens his mouth in puzzlement. ]

Did you forget something? The umbrella should be --

[ All the breath goes out of him. That's not Gregor. That's - not even human. Hands close around his shoulders like a vise before he even has a chance to get up from the couch. Shit. He considers his surroundings wildly - finds the belt with his dagger sheath on it within reach, and immediately snatches it up. ]

-- Who the hell are you?

[use_everything]

[From behind Miles, view obscured by the faceless, too-smooth facsimile of a man, the door closes, and a loud bang can be heard from it. It was as simple of an act as driving a wedge under the door with the hard slam of a booted foot.

Aral regards struggling form. The name he'd caught on chance, browsing through the newly offered network: "Miles Naismith." A laughable title of Admiral appended to a man long since deceased but in his wife's memories and quieter moments.

That would not have been enough if he hadn't seen the conversations, following with increasing ire the claims of the barbaric practice from Jackson's Whole attributed to him.. and enough resemblance to honestly make him wonder. The slander and honest, rolling hatred that came from that odd, not quite familiar face.

He'd simply intended to drag him, bodily, to the local law, lay his charges and see him stripped of power, deception and authority.

But then he saw that flash of gems and steel... Even in the brief moment, he could call its identity. A predatory confusion stretched itself out into a boiling, terrible rage. He stalked forward, using this new ability this world had bestowed to seal a knot on this impersonator's skills, binding them down to nothing as he caught the armed hand and divested it, summarily of the family heirloom.

He made no comment, circling the couch, merely slammed the blade to bury itself almost to the hilt in the coffee table in front of Miles.

With deceptive, sedate speed, he moved a chair to the other side of the table, the dagger - fine, masterfully forged steel still quivering from the forces exerted on it - between them. He found his own seat across from the other man, and waited.]

Miles Naismith, is it?

C

[keep_nothing]

[ She looks over the same things that he's seeing, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the bright sun beating down on them—too much time on Barrayar already? she asks herself, have you gotten used to those dreary, dim days that never happened on Beta Colony? But she's seeing the different flavors and clashes of culture around her, some seemingly familiar and others excitingly foreign. Even covered by shade as they are, it's easy to discern her excitement from the look in her eyes. The smile she's wearing also helps.

Unfortunately, Aral can't see either of those until she leans in from behind his left shoulder to mock-whisper in his ear: ]

Only one question?

[use_everything]

[He whirls, at first, from the hapless native he'd stopped. Taken off balance by a presence so familiar, so accepted by him that she slid into his guard without it even lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.

Alarm and surprise, clear on his face as the cool, cloudless winter sky, both step aside, making way for the procession of relief and joy in their equal measure. No thought of selfishness, nor in sparing her. This whole foreign, confusing and slightly menacing world seemed trivial or, at the least, less indomitable than it had a moment before.]

My dear Captain, [He resists the urge to simply sweep her up, off of her feet, and settles for taking her hand, a deep bow over it.] You, alone, are a necessary answer.

[keep_nothing]

[ Her grin widens as he bows in front of her, gripping his hand probably with more force than is strictly necessary. It'd been a risk sneaking up on him like that, knowing full-well how badly he could have reacted, but getting this reaction was well worth it.

When he straightens up, it's all she can do not to step in close and kiss him in full view of everyone there, the cautious excitement of being in this new, strange place already making her a bit giddy. She makes herself settle with merely reaching out with her free hand, curling it around the side and back of his neck, her small and ring finger sliding down past his collar. Her eyes and hand are hungry for him, deeply familiar in this unfamiliar place. ]

Though I alone can't answer any other questions we both might have here.

C!!

[rathercommon]

Oh - sure.

[ Kitty's eyebrows draw down just a bit. Usually, when she hears that question, she answers it with a ready cheerful smile - but there's something about this man's accent that sounds...Well. Familiar. It's not Russian, to be sure. It's just a little off from that. So why does it seem so familiar?

Still, after that first frown, she does compose her face into a smile. ]

Ask away. I should be able to help you.

[use_everything]

[It could be how very different this man in dress greens is from the solemn soul she'd been hearing that not quite Russian from. Sharp, grey eyes regarded her keenly, a spark of curiosity at the change of expression.]

I had not meant to trouble you, so I will make it brief. Should you know of any place one might begin some unbiased research?

[The propaganda was not something subtle, posters, 2-D holovid newscasts in the stores he'd passed - even if he hadn't been looking for it. The mere thought of a planet composed of vulnerable, factioned countries was odd enough. It seemed a reasonable place to get his bearings.]

[rathercommon]

[ A new imPort, then, almost certainly. The clothes - not strange, but not of here - lend support to that supposition. A prickle of suspicion runs through her mind. Greg's accent - it sounds like his. ]

Sure. Historical research, or current events? I can recommend books for the one and blogs for the other.

C

[protagerrant]

Sure thing.

[Yuri gives him a quick, assessing look and waits, head lightly tilted.

Even in such a diverse crowd, Yuri probably stands out a little despite having swapped to native clothing: On the tall side, long-haired which was obviously not much in fashion with the men on this planet, and, of course, carrying a sheathed sword in his gloved hand.]

[use_everything]

[The man before him is stocky, wearing pressed military greens as if they were born to them. He stood at parade rest, finding it a comfortable default in this truly foreign world.

His own evaluation produced a satisfactory result. The younger man held the balance of a warrior, not merely a noble carrying a sword. Another imPort was likely to be as close to a mutual perspective as one could find in such a diverse crowd.]

You seem one to ask of the military state of this world if I am not mistaken.

[protagerrant]

[Military type, huh... Yuri was never a fan of guys in uniform, for good reason, but he could give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Most soldiers weren't all that bad, just a little too attached to following orders. He wondered if this guy fell into that category.]

That depends. I've been asking around, but I'm not exactly from here. What do you want to know?

going to skip initial meeting for impact later.

[vorbarra]

[It's intensely awkward.

There's really no other word for it. Gregor has the links to everyone but Miles shut down tight, though it's some strain on him to keep them so tightly closed. They naturally want to be at least a little open, leaking feelings piecemeal, but he patently can't handle that on top of everything else.

Here he is, making dinner-- nothing complicated, granted-- when Aral arrives home. He is abruptly hyper-conscientious that this is not an Imperial activity to be doing, in the way he never is with Miles. Hell, sometimes he enjoys how un-Imperial it is, and it's not like someone else is going to cook his food for him here. Miles is even more hopeless than him. Gregor has nothing to apologize for.

But all he can think of is Aral discovering his guilty midnight raids into the Residence's kitchens when he was a child and taking him to task for it, an event that had never happened but he used to live in fear of, at age twelve.

Gregor pauses where he is at the stove, glances over at him sidelong, and clears his throat. He quietly offers a,] Welcome home.

[use_everything]

[Aral had paused in the threshold himself. While years of command could keep such trivial emotions such as uncertainty from his face, that beast had no less of a hold on him.

The child he knew... It wasn't hard to recall how the hands he'd placed his own in barely could hold two each of his fingers. He'd seemed small, solemn and almost mute, unbearably aware of what was going on. Sharpened by the dizzying sequences of trauma, no doubt.

He no more knew what that young boy thought than the man he saw in adulthood here. That vague static of emotions he'd misunderstood and dismissed when he'd first arrived was now patently gone. What years he'd spent grooming this man was a mysterious future and an inscrutable past. There were no hints, no clues.

Some part of him wondered if he should offer a hand to the kitchen, but he didn't have the first idea of left from right in THIS battlefield. Ezar, you never mentioned this challenge. The old spirit was probably laughing hysterically.

Finding no answers in the pause, as it drew out, he offers a similar, steady,] Sire.

[An acknowledgement, a question and an answer at once.]

[vorbarra]

[God. Sire. And Gregor daren't say a word to convince him to call him aught else in private, for fear of how he might take it. The last thing he wants to do is give some signal to Aral that he doesn't accept and own his position, with rather more grace now than he ever has, really.

But it's certainly true that a somber-eyed child reluctant to express himself has grown into an adult much the same.

He hesitates a moment, but surely he owes Aral more than letting the man stew in confusion indefinitely about the nature of their relationship. His arrival had been such a whirlwind mess that Gregor has not really had a moment to be merely at peace with him.]

Would you like to join me? [A ghost of a wry, self-conscious smile. Surely he can afford to seem human this much.] Not a requirement, you understand. Though it feels very strange to have to say that to you.

[He wants it to be absolutely clear that he doesn't require anything of him.]

[keep_nothing]

[ Awkward is the word of the day, it seems.

Cordelia is barely half a step behind Aral when they come back inside; indeed, almost bumping into Aral from behind when he stops. She catches herself in time though, spared that small indignity in front of the men she's supposedly raised in the missing years she can't yet account for.

She stays to the background for now, watching the tension as if trying to figure out how to navigate it before taking the first plunge ... ]

[dendarii]

[ And of course Miles is here too, having worked things out with Aral (more or less) and past Cordelia's initial impressions too. He's ... honestly not sure which is worse, though one has left the more obvious mark. He's on the couch while Gregor cooks and talks to Aral, both shoulders bound up by casts; the left arm is in a full sling as well, having been the more badly injured of the two. He's desperately grateful to have healers who can take the worst damage away from him; this will all be gone tomorrow, once Lucy has had a chance to recover enough.

He's awful quiet, though. Mind still whirling, working through the enormity of the situation. Then he sees his mother standing there, apparently working through much the same thing. ]

Better give them a bit of space, I think.

[vorbarra]

[His attitude toward Cordelia entering is entirely different to anyone schooled in reading Gregor. He still seems distant, reserved, but he is much more openly shy, flicking glances over at her rather than forcing himself to meet her gaze directly or not at all.]

I'm not sure anyone else will be home for it, but you're welcome to eat with me once I'm done, [he offers immediately, aching a little with missing his foster-mother. But maybe this one will not be so different after all.

He can only find out. And she is the one he emulates emotional courage from, the ability to face himself.]

B

[katharsis]

[The young man's uniform will mark him as a Martian—specifically, a Count, Martian nobility and a pilot of one of the immensely powerful mechanized suits that the Martians relied on.

The Empire of Vers, founded on Mars, was not too dissimilar from Barrayar: the Martians kept to themselves, isolated from the universe, even mostly from Earth. Their society was essentially still feudal. Despite the awesome technology the Martians were capable of due to the strange, almost magical power of Aldnoah, their planet was inherently poor in resources. As a consequence, their people were starving, kept in line by a royal family who told them that their misery was to be blamed on Earth and its selfish hoarding of its bountiful resources.

But that was all in the past (granted, the not very distant path). Recently, Mars had chosen to reach out to other planets in an attempt to procure much needed resources. Other planets with whom the Martians did not have such a loaded history as they did with Earth. There was too much resentment there, on both sides.

So that's probably what the lords had been meeting about. The Martians had incredible technology—should a deal be cut?

The young man in front of Aral is a slight blond, no more than 18. The exactness of his posture screams 'military', but he offers Aral an easy enough smile.]

I apologize, but I believe I am.

SORRY FOR THE DELAY, I kept dreaming up the politics

[use_everything]

[So this was the young man who had thrown the Counts into the large, loud frenzy this afternoon.

The isolationists, few, but loud as they were veritably frothed at the idea of not just a galactic trade partner who was not subjugated first, but another damning foreign technology to confuse and corrupt the youth.

The War Party and Conservatives, still shaken, reduced, had not lost their fire. Half yelled about the military scope and expenditures necessary to protect just a long, potentially fragile trade route. Others, greedy and hawk eyed, saw it as the perfect excuse to put warships out in areas of interest.

The Moderates and Progressives colored a wide gradient of cautious optimism, focusing on the letter and profits of the proposals, but still, like many Barrayarans didn't know what to make of this open handed proposal, or the people behind it.

Aral, himself, hadn't said a word all the long morning, watching each man as he spoke, blustered, needled or threatened.

And now... he's presented this. A guard, realizing the uniform the young man wore, leaned in to Aral's side, but he waved the man off.]

Allow me, then, to be of some assistance. Ah-

[Aral looks to his left, a plain, almost puppy faced man steps forward out of the obscurity of the crowd to Aral's side.]

Take care of the rest for me, will you? [The man gives the young delegate an inscrutable glance, and then simply nods once, taking his leave.]

these are some delicious politics

[katharsis]

I don't want to keep you.

[Mild, keeping his expression politely blank, pretending not to notice how his presence flusters the Barrayans—most of them, anyway. He doesn't insist very hard. Slaine had found the Barrayans to be just as insular and suspicious as the Martians, and as such had really not gotten much opportunity to speak with them face-to-face. It seemed as though 'accidentally' getting lost near the meeting chamber had been a good idea, assuming this man was not simply going to politely divert him.

It was both a little... tiring, and convenient, that his unique experiences with the Martians--coming from Earth as Slaine did, working his way up to Count despite Martian prejudice--seemed to be coming in handy on Barrayar. He doubted any of the other Counts, prideful and independent as they were, would have enough yield to deal with the recalcitrant Barrayans. Slaine, on the other hand, was used to playing the long game.]

[use_everything]

[As the tumultuous day winds to a close, Gregor and Miles have excused themselves to regroup, Aral gives the kitchen and the wine still in it a last, mournful look. It would be nice to let spirits take him under the table, after all this.

Instead, he meets Cordelia's eyes across the living area, standing.]

Dear Captain, shall we retire as well?

[keep_nothing]

[ She's still sitting on the couch from talking with Miles, not quite recovered from having held Miles' bone aches for most of the time they were talking. She feels drained after that which irritates her because she was only just sitting the whole time, but she reluctantly admits to herself that it's emotional exhaustion as well. All of this is apparent behind her eyes as she looks back at him, head propped sideways on her hand, elbow precariously perched on the back of the couch. She sure looks like she could use that wine too. ]

If you meant the other definition that's not going up to bed, I'd still agree with you.

[use_everything]

Hm.

[He studies the coffee table a moment, eyes finding the wound in it again.

Instead of beckoning, he takes a few steps to close the gap. Aral sits next to her on the couch, leg pressed against leg, shoulder to shoulder and arm slid behind her, a loose half embrace.]

A dimension away still might not be far enough.