use_everything | Voice Testing Post

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

[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.]

[ 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.

I tend to find one indelibly tied to the other.

[There's a touch of wry humor to his tone.]

I would not turn down either.

[ She gives a little nod and pulls out her communicator. Casually, she says: ]

I'll text you some links and some titles. You're an imPort, yeah? What's your name? I can look up your contact number by name.

[There's a moment where the irony of his introduction presents itself to him, drawing a wry smile to his face. Lord of no where anyone has heard of. Admiral of no fleet yet even conceived of.

Still, they were more than clothes. If he didn't have Barrayar, even in honor of it, he had nothing at all.]

Admiral Aral Vorkosigan.

[A compromise. There seemed to be far more military here than nobility.]

[ Vorkosigan?

Oh, shit.

Her eyes flick up just a moment, widening just a little. It's only half a breath and no more than that, a moment of real surprise and real alarm. And then that moment passes and she gets herself under control. She forces her gaze back down to the phone. Her heart is beating. How can she warn Miles - how can she warn Miles without letting Vorkosigan know - shit, shit...

She controls her voice as best she can. It comes out just a little too light, a little too breathy, a little too casual. ]

Got it. I found your number. Right, give me a moment to think of which ones would be best. Political history, I'm guessing? Is what you're interested in?

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.

[ 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.

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.

[ Her eyes don't change. Her smile doesn't flicker. But someone like Aral will no doubt see warning signs: her right hand drops away from the phone to hang at her side, right next to her purse, fingers curled just a little - tensed to go for a weapon in there. And her weight shifts back, the stance shifting into something with an even balance of weight. She's scared of him; she's also ready to fight him. ]

Your name?

[ Her laugh is just a little bit too breathy. ]

Am I to know your name? What was it again, Vor-ki-gan?

[They couldn't be clearer. Some distant part of his mind is compiling strategies for an opponent with unknown abilities, unknown prowess. An idle muse if he could get the purse away without breaking her wrist, from this distance.

Deciding, he paid respect to the fear coming off of her. He traces a shallow bow, using it as the excuse to step back, offer room.]

Vorkosigan. [Each syllable twinged with a sardonic edge, something just on this side of a taunt.]

It seems your memory is short, Miss...

Jones.

[ The increased distance does relax her, just a little bit. Her fingers get less tense, and her weight shifts just a little bit forward again. She's on her guard still, but less intensely so.

Which is probably stupid. It's not like he couldn't easily shoot her from this distance. Or...whatever. ]

Anyway, is it? I don't know, are you famous? I hope you're famous. Even if it's just back in your world. I've always wanted to meet a celebrity.

[ She goes now for trying to seem a little airheaded. It usually works. Middle-aged men especially often seem to want to expect a teenage girl to be shallow and thoughtless. (Her eyes, though, are just a little bit too intently fixed on him to really sell that illusion.) ]

You said you're an Admiral. Of what?

[Shave another twenty years off of him, he might have taken that outlook at its face value. But age, and to some great extent, Cordelia has broadened him.

But even at his most old Vor, he could not have missed the armed weapon behind her eyes.]

The Imperial Navy of Barrayar. [Formerly, and he'd a mind and a nearly complete plan to overhaul that convoluted system. With his new duties, Admiral was, perhaps, understating, but abandoning such rank would give the illusion that one could simply retire from the Emperor's service.

Still, if she wished to play THAT role, he could put off the inquiry by her own script.]

It's a droll, political story.

Barrayar? I've never heard of that.

[ It's a lie she sells fairly convincingly, too. She is a good liar. If she hadn't been taken by surprise, she very well might not have let any clues slip - and even then, someone not so observant or astute might have missed her reaction, or taken it as reacting to something else. ]

Will you tell me about it? I'll buy you a coffee if you do, Mr Vorkosigan.

I would enjoy that, Miss Jones. [His expression is some practiced mix of pleasant and distant that Alys was possibly most familiar with.] As I'm new, I will trust in your taste.

[ Too bloody right you will. Like I'd go anywhere you directed. Kitty shoots a perfectly pleasant expression back at him and invites him: ]

This way.

[ And, as they walk: ]

Is your Barrayar - is that a country where you're from? From your world, I mean.

[He doesn't need to feign anything here. To speak of Barrayar takes nothing at all. He clasps his hands behind his back, keeping pace as to not fall behind her or walk in front.]

It is a world and a people, together. Troubled at times, not entirely terraformed, but inarguably it is home.

[ This bit of confusion is unfeigned - the first honest moment from her so far. She asks: ]

Erm - terror-formed?

Terraform. [He pauses only a moment to step out of the path of a young couple, and regains his stride. This explanation is simple, mild, and laced with some private humor.] Though I've chance to witness some worlds for whom your interpretation is correct.

It can be as simple as removing hostile environment and replacing it with a more Earth-like one, though I'm aware other Empires have some more sophisticated means.

Oh. Like...terra. Earth.

[ She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear, just a little bit flustered - half at her ignorance, and half at the almost warm way in which he'd corrected it. Vorkosigan, she reminds herself. The family that ordered a clone-body for one of its members. Not sweet. ]

That's how you live on other planets. Shaping them to humans' preferences.

Quite so.

May I ask where your own world is, in regard to space exploration?

[While he could hazard a guess, it didn't mean that there wasn't some wild, new explanation. By god this dimension was maddening and intriguing for its unpredictability.]

Nowhere near that. We've barely even broken leaving the atmosphere.

[ Sidestepping his questions - ]

Anyway. How does your navy work, then? Is it a space navy?

Outside of an honorary relic, almost entirely, yes.

[The bare minimum of an answer without going monosyllabic.]

An honorary relic.

[ She says that like she's puzzling over it. ]

That's really amazing, honestly. Do you have much technology that we don't have, then? Like - you know - biogenetic engineering, cloning, laser guns, all that...

[ The cloning is dropped in as casually as it can possibly be. ]

C!!

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