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.]
no subject
Survived to retirement? Seems I'll owe Illyan those ten marks after all.
no subject
[Obviously he's not too Betan.]
no subject
Truly spoken.
[He gives it another moment if consideration, thinking back. An actual vacation. Cordelia would be over the moon... But him?]
There's much to think on. It's mystifying to go from those first messy steps to the end result workout... Everything between it.
no subject
I'm sure. It is... less mystifying but no less bizarre, for me. I am not used to being the one who knows more between the two of us, at all.
[A nice dry comment there as he starts to pick at his own food.]
workout = without. Thank you phone, you're a helper.
A reversal, then? Why not.
oh. my brain just fixed it for me without me noticing. the real helper
Thank you helper brain!
Well, then. Never let it said I didn't give you every opportunity.
no subject
You did, [he says quietly.] You always did.
no subject
Such gratitude, approaching reverence for actions he'd yet to engage in. Teaching he hadn't offered. Aid yet to be rendered. There was a gulf in perception that he couldn't overcome, but at the same time, an emotion he could do nothing but accept. A consternation and a balm to the soul in the same breath.]
Be it one year in or five years after, I am yours before any other.
[It's simple, but the tone and heartfelt intent of a vow. He couldn't accept the honor for what he'd yet to do, but pledge to be worthy of it.]
From what I've seen, I do not think my word or my service misplaced.
no subject
He's overwhelmed by this reaffirmation. He knows very well that Aral, for all his obligation to duty, would never offer an oath like this unprompted unless he was sure of it. There's a million ways to fulfill duty without putting your heart right along with it and Gregor has watched him do it a hundred ways, a thousand times, has learned that ability from him, to keep going forward as your liege-sworn and your troops need from you no matter how it burns you.
This is not that. This is the other, this is Miles's loyalty as clear and uninhibited as sunlight across a pond, brightening everything down to the depths. Aral's has a different quality to it, more to him like light filtered through forest leaves, spotting the earthen floor just enough to enable growth.
His hands are not tight; they rest peacefully in his lap, but something in him burns.] I will do everything I can never to make you think otherwise. [And he opens the link between them just a little, a creaking of a door, so some of Gregor's pervasive awe and his own burning need to live up to his faith, to serve, can peek through.]
no subject
His shoulders lift with the breath and drop as it lets it out, slowly. It was just a little over a conservative link, but the events of the last year had left him a man starving. He lets it wash over him, through him, leaving a contentment bordering on peace in its wake. There's an echoing pride in the man in front of Aral, delicate, cautious and very new.
He offered no words. Only a nod, deep, the missing words in its conveyance.
After a moment, he glances down at his own fork, hovering halfway above the plate, and the food on it.]
It's not bad. [It's offered.] Might stand some practice. [While they're here.]
no subject
That one glimpse is all Aral gets before it eases closed again, his shyness reasserting itself. And it is shyness in at least equal measure to the self-protectiveness, now; those two motives are rebalancing themselves, where before it'd been all the latter, and a quiet surety that he'd be found wanting. Now he thinks, maybe, he won't be. Not with that pride echoing back, a bewildering gift he'd never thought to look for and is being handed all unasked for. The delicate newness of it is of no bearing at all in face of the fact that it exists.
Small steps. But really, he's going to have to share this moment with Miles later, because Miles will understand.
Gregor looks down at his own plate and laughs just a little, tension flooding out of him all at once after that exchange.] I know. It's pretty bland, isn't it? But it's edible and I'm managing to feed myself, so I'm satisfied just with this. Funny to think it might upgrade to good instead of not bad if I'm here long enough.
no subject
It can be a goal.
The last time I'd need to provide I believe Cordelia found it wanting as well.
no subject
I can't imagine you cooking, [Gregor admits.] You always have better things to be doing. I've been joking with Miles, actually, that it's fine that I do all of it because I need to provide for the Imperium. Though the Imperium seems to have tripled on me recently.
no subject