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

[keep_nothing]

[ She gives a low whistle, that little smile coming back, oblivious to that hint of bitterness. ]

Indomitable, huh. I hope I wasn't too hard on you then.

... Can I ask, how ... how old are you now?

[dendarii]

[ Oh. That's - he can't help the tears that spring to his eyes; he barely keeps them from spilling onto her shoulder. He sucks in a sharp little breath. ]

How? I'm deformed, Mother.

[keep_nothing]

[ Moves immediately, walking next to him then sitting beside him on the bench, the length of her thigh pressed to his. He's not the only one who wanted some contact; to prove to herself that he's not going anywhere out of her sight. ]

[use_everything]

Indeed.

[As brief as it was, it set every formidable instinct Aral had into a loud red alert. There's no menace or change to his posture, but the genial distance he might afford a lady is gone. He studies her as a predator might devour fresh prey.]

It seems like you might be uniquely qualified able to pick out a subject or two that might interest an old Vor.

[dendarii]

[ Miles hesitates. More than anything, that Allow me an apology, please rings true. Between that and the note of contentment his defenses are utterly shot. God. He nods, weakly, after a moment. ]

Give it back afterwards. All of it. [ And then, more softly: ] Please.

[keep_nothing]

[ Mother. It rings in her ears, causing her breath to catch. She pulls back far enough to look at his face again, taking in every inch of him. ]

You're my son. There's nothing more beautiful than that. And anyone who thinks differently can say it to my face.

[ Her tone hardened towards the end of that, not quite masked by the tremor. It's the same tone Miles has heard reserved for his grandfather. ]

[use_everything]

[Some tension left his shoulders and when his hand drops, it is chastely, companionably settled just above her knee. Before putting out any question of himself, he searches again for any hint of command or hierarchy.

His gaze automatically settles on 'Admiral' and fixes at the name that follows it.]

Dear Captain, may I ask you a somewhat uncomfortable question.

[vorbarra]

No-- no. It was not a comment meant to censure, I assure you. [More just a child's in awe of his protectors, a bastion of safety in an extremely dangerous, frightening world for Gregor from very early on.

He hesitates a moment, then looks over at her directly.] I'm twenty-five; Miles is twenty.

[keep_nothing]

[ She can't quite see what he's looking at from the angle she's sitting, frowning faintly at his tone. ]

What is it?

[rathercommon]

[ She's quick on her feet. She immediately flips a charming smile up at him, all polish and sparkle. And she says, an affected little laugh in her voice - ]

Don't call yourself that. An old bore? Please. You're lovely to talk to.

[dendarii]

[ It is the same tone he'd heard about his Grandfather; it makes him wince, both at the memory of Piotr as well as hearing that tone come from her mouth, again. He resolves never to repeat that particular phrasing in front of her again.

Maybe he doesn't need to. Not with his mother staring him in the face, saying that like he really is the beautiful thing he could possibly be. God. He sucks in another sharp breath. ]

They don't much here. I'm - practically normal with the range of imPorts.

[use_everything]

[There's a hundred questions he has. From the technicalities, to the events of the future, to the most simple, human: Have I done well by you? That disastrous first decision and its bloody, costly aftermath was still bright in his memory, but not something he need to burden on anyone else. His own doubts he shuttered and placed back into their drawers.

The gaze he gives Gregor is even, subtle relief only marking the edges of him.]

And Barrayar?

[vorbarra]

Oh-- [A helpless breath, Gregor shutting off the heat, then turning to face him directly. Clearly this is someone used to facing down Aral Vorkosigan and giving his honest opinion, no matter how it makes his stomach flip over with nerves. This is the man he'd learned his stoicism from, frankly; they are a picture of subtle cues.

The tell is all in the words.]

It's like herding squabbling children, most days, except they're well-armed children with small legions attached, and they all think you must be stupid because you've said nothing for the past twenty minutes, when really you're just giving them rope to hang themselves with. My birthday comes entirely too close to Winterfair, and there's practically an entire month of drunkenness. We've fought Cetaganda off again, a minor skirmish here and there-- I correct myself, you fought Cetaganda off again-- and we are dragging ourselves painfully, ruthlessly, into the thirty-first century as a galactic power.

[A beat. Then, even more quietly than before, laced with painful earnestness:]

But not bloodily. I would not wreck the gift you gave me, still whole.

[use_everything]

[There's a hesitation. His own stubbornness could be as difficult as his temper, especially when let away from himself.

The please is what ends it.]

My word on it.

[With a THWOCK of a strong hit, the wedge is dislodged and the oldest of locks broken. He moves to sit again, tiredly. Every joint, ones even a round with Bothari had overlooked complained as if he'd sprained them.]

[keep_nothing]

Good. I'd hate to have to start on the wrong foot with a number of people so soon after arriving.

[ But that seems to break her sudden intensity and tension, pulling back a bit more and still grasping his hand, her other relaxing, sliding down to gently cup the base of his neck. She realizes she can subtly feel the top of his spine from there, the slight protrusion that's less than ordinary—no, now is not the time to prod him in that way. ]

How long have you been here? You and Gregor ...

[keep_nothing]

[ She shakes her head a bit, dumbly, just trying to imagine what she's missed. She looks him over, head to toe and back again, trying to reconcile the little boy she knows against this man standing before her. ]

Twenty-five ... so you must be Emperor now. Have been for a few years.

[use_everything]

Could you describe your father for me? His looks, specifically. I don't think it has chanced to come up before.

[keep_nothing]

[ Her frown deepens, but describes her father anyway, trusting his reasoning even if she doesn't know what they are yet. The description decidedly does not fit this Admiral Naismith. ]

[dendarii]

[ Miles does jolt at that - with the accompanying flash of pain, sorry Aral - and looks at him with new eyes. That ... is a surprisingly human side of him, one he only rarely sees even now. Feet of clay, he reminds himself. This is still the same man who begged for Miles' life at Vorhalas' feet not so long ago.

He just nods again, to start. Thirty minutes is fine; thirty minutes is a relief, knowing what he'll be going back to soon enough. Beyond that ... he ought to say something. What? How? Where does he begin with a gulf of twenty years between them?

There is one thing he ought to clarify to begin with, he supposes. Being careful not to jostle his shoulders, he bows his head. ]

I never meant to drag your name into it. The only one I thought I was smearing was myself.

[dendarii]

[ He sort of flinches a bit, feeling her touch that curve. He won't pull away from his mother, not ever, but it shocks him to think that she hadn't known about it until just now. Couldn't have, in fact. ]

Only a month or so. We arrived after the first of the year, together.

[use_everything]

I will confess, I've hope to avoid that particular title.

[A quick calculation ran through various scenarios, one after another, testing them mentally against that bright, perfect smile, and saw flaws in each one. The guard was up against subtlety and politics.

He was no Cetagandan, with their art and wiles however. Even now, he preferred to see what a plainly spoken word does.]

I would ask what of my reputation has followed my name across a dimension of all things.

[keep_nothing]

[ She makes sure to stop moving her damn hand at his flinch, keeping it still, a warm hand on his back and nothing more. ]

And only the two of you?

[vorbarra]

Yes, for better or worse, [he says, with a whole host of complicated, indecipherable emotions behind it, and it really speaks to his relationship with the Cordelia of his time that he says up front that he has mixed feelings about it.]

[keep_nothing]

[ She offers a soft smile. ]

Better, I'm sure.

[use_everything]

Used to?

[The prompt is simple, attentive.]