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.]
YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS
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
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C
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?
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1/2
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C!!
[ 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.
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C
[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.]
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going to skip initial meeting for impact later.
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.
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workout = without. Thank you phone, you're a helper.
oh. my brain just fixed it for me without me noticing. the real helper
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B
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
these are some delicious politics
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Instead, he meets Cordelia's eyes across the living area, standing.]
Dear Captain, shall we retire as well?
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