Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
use_everything) wrote2016-01-16 07:55 am
use_everything) wrote2016-01-16 07:55 am
Voice Testing Post
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.]
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.]
SORRY FOR THE DELAY, I kept dreaming up the politics
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
[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.]
no subject
Hospitality could be its own armor, and the ministry was a common ground, filed with ears. Not to mention, he was curious as to how and why the young man escaped his own delegation.
Rather than directly answer, he gives the young man a bland look and motions for him to lay his request.]