Voice Testing Post

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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

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Indeed, there always was something.

[There are undercurrents of something here, deep, and even at this age, polished smooth from frequent handling. There's no marks, nor memories or words to give it any identification. Aral himself seemed to be deciding when a knock comes from the door.

Before he's even stood to see to it, the composure is back, his face inscrutable. He sets a booted foot on the table for leverage and the dagger pulled free from the depth of the wood.

He hesitates at the second knock, and lays the blade beside Miles.]

[dendarii]

[ Wells and wells of it, so deep Miles can't see the bottom. (Or layers worn smooth, in this case.)

The knock comes at a good moment, then. Miles hardly knows what to say; he's relieved to have the healer here so that he can claim his pain back and not have to watch his father deal with it.

The blade, then, is unexpected; he'd assume it would remain in the table for a while, Miles himself too reluctant to claim it. That his father is already giving it back to him, having only heard a few details of Miles' story. That this Aral is already reclaiming Miles as his son despite everything. ... Relief and awe in equal measure, poured straight down his own bottomless pit of self worth issues. God. What a mess this all is. If he could pick it up without jostling his shoulders, he would.

Later then. After the healers have taken the worst of the damage. Whoever comes in, he's obviously familiar with them - and they have done something similar for him before. Some worry, surely, and pointed questions about how this all happened. Miles deflects them by saying he only did it to himself, really (no lie in that). He settles down to let them work. ]

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[It isn't missed.. and he can't help but wonder what their relationship truly is, how damaged. But for how little he knows this man, his son, the treatment is for the damage he put there himself. It was the third time in threee months he'd nearly killed his own son.

No wonder.

While the healer works, Aral stands to the side, watching carefully the familiarity and interplay. His expression darkens a moment, a stab of remorse clear between them, as Miles takes the blame for the incident himself. But he doesn't correct it either - there's no gain to that.

As supplies are set out, soft casting material and slings, Aral interjects.]

I assume you have acquired spirits of at least passable quality for our guest. The kitchen?

[dendarii]

[ Miles looks up at that. Does his father want privacy? To preserve the illusion that Miles has set up? To simply not have to watch his son get treated? Doesn't matter. Miles himself will be grateful enough for a moment away from him. To catch his breath. ]

Yes, on the lower shelf. And a bottle in the fridge of red wine.

[ He'll let his father do what he needs to. So Miles can focus on what he needs to. ]

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Perfect.

[With an easy bow to the healer, Aral excuses himself. The wine took no time at all to locate, the glasses could wait, as he could hear the healer's conscientious warnings. He found a chair at the kitchenette and simply prepared to wait.]

[dendarii]

[ It's easy enough to track the healer's progress - the screaming pain of bones being set and shoulders being prodded back into shape washes through and past Miles easily, to dump directly on Aral like hot lead. Then, mercifully, that agony abates and relief begins to set in as the healer's magic begins to takes the edge off it. Not a full heal - with bones broken the badly, Miles will need a second session - but the immediate agony fades to something controllable.

In contrast, the perpetual fiery ache of miles' bone aches is abruptly more pronounced. Like a tension headache in his whole body, thick and leaden and too warm. It isn't even touched by the healer's ministrations. Worsened, even, by the prodding and pulling needed to get his broken bones back into place.

All stills after a moment, as the healer takes their leave and Miles sags back against the couch, exhausted. ]

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[There was no sound, no sign from the kitchen through the whole ordeal. If it wasn't for the eerie lack of pain, it might have been as if he was gone.

The wonderful thing about the mind is its robust share of defense mechanisms. While he was hardly the veteran Miles was to broken bones, his hadn't been a calm life.

His own mind simply blanked, a gap in memory during the worst. Finding himself folded over, forehead nearly touching the modest table, Aral merely took a few long, fortifying breaths, forcing control and composure back along all of his nerves.

Aral hadn't quite intended to finish the facade of fetching the wine - to offer a glass to Miles now would only emphasize the injury and loss of motion. Instead, he pours out a splash for himself and downs it summarily, barely tasting it. Fortification against the background pain welling up through his bones.

When he returned, it was will full composure, closed but terribly pale.]

Efficient, though a shame it couldn't be seen through entirely.

[dendarii]

[ He's well and truly cocooned now, the soft casts keeping his whole upper body immobilized. But temporary, he reminds himself; a few more sessions (at most) and he'll have no trace of the incident on his body.

(He would have appreciated the wine very desperately, but Aral would have had to tip it into his mouth. He'd rather keep his pride in that case.)

When Aral returns, Miles looks up at him - winces, gently, seeing that drawn face. Knows it very keenly, can make a very good estimate of how much pain his father must be in right now. At least the sharpest pains are dulled, even though Aral is likely not getting the pleasantly warm after effects of the healing. ]

It's better this way. [ He says with the voice of experience. ] Bones are tricky enough to heal even when they're not as fragile as mine. Better to do it in two sessions than heal it wrong.

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I'll admit I was satisfied to see the practicality of setting it. At least not all of reality has been sublimated by the arcane.

[Aral was a flexible man. By Vor standards, he was practically a contortionist. But this complete upending of the rules.. he'd had no time to even recognize his resentment, much less sooth it.

He takes a seat again, chair turned in (finally) a more familiar manner, studying his son.

There's a temptation - perhaps a cowardly one - to wait until Miles asked. But they were already operating on the spirit of his word, rather than the letter. It had taken on a whole far past half an hour.

He lets out a breath. There's no eagerness in him and the regret is mild, but present.]

You'll forgive me if this is clumsy. I have not the first bloody idea of what I'm doing.

[dendarii]

[ Miles had been gearing up to ask, in fact, but had held back for the moment, hoping not to be held to the fullest spirit of his father's word - to bear the injury until Miles had been healed in full. This is a compromise he can accept. And Aral offering first, however, clumsily, is a balm.

He relaxes by increments, feeling along the link from his side to see what he can do. Pulling it back is something he'd never tried; Gregor was smooth enough, taking it, and had found it to be as simple as redirecting a flow. It figures that Aral presents a different problem. If Gregor is water, then Aral seems as rigid as stone - both different from Miles' blazing flames.

Slowly, carefully, he tries to pull that pain back to himself. Envisions it like redirecting a column of flame back towards himself, tugging at it over a great distance. ]

Neither do I. [ He admits it readily enough. ] Just - relax, if you can. Maybe I can force it.

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[Just relax. Easy for him to say. How on earth did someone relax their MIND? It was such a foreign idea to him that he simply defaulted to attempted to physically relax and hope the rest followed. The same pattern he would take at bedtime, first the neck, then shoulders, then back...

But what happened, that pressure and the pull, it felt too much like an intrusion. That the fire banks, roaring against stone walls, but getting no further.

Aral rubs at his temples, wryly. It's a moment, then another.]

That.. was unpleasant.

[dendarii]

[ And Miles, rebuffed, gets a flash of heat right back in his own face. Ugh. This ... is not going the way he'd planned. ]

You're not relaxing, that's why. I can't get in. You're all - rocks and hard places.

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[There's a puff of air, echoing frustration.]

This IS relaxed. [It's not relaxed at all.]

[dendarii]

[ God. If Miles weren't so terribly annoyed by the situation, it would be kind of funny. His father is wound up so tight he can't even undo this minor bit of telepathy. ]

... You're about as relaxed as Illyan at the Emperor's Birthday.

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That only means there's room to grow.

[There's a flash of memory there, laced with a certain black humor. The armchairs in Captain Negri's office didn't take well to his style of sitting, so he'd flung a leg over one arm and leaned on the other. The bland looking man's inscrutable, dark eyes didn't betray anything. Aral's voice, younger still "But the results..." Cocksure, more than a little challenging.

There was a tick by the ImpSec Chief's right eye.]

... I have a different approach to our problem to propose, anyway.

[dendarii]

[ Oh. Gosh. He knows that exact memory, can mirror it with his own. Miles himself with Illyan, going over the expenses of that Dendarii mission at Vervain, the ships and the medical needs and - that same cocksure attitude vs. the same bland inscrutability. The only difference being that Miles is too small to sit backwards on chairs comfortably.

It's enough to startle him into agreeing to pretty much anything. ]

-- What are you thinking?

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[He spreads his hands. There's a disquiet in talking about it, still deeply unsure about these changes made to himself and to the world around him.]

I have the ability to silence other's skills, while here.

[dendarii]

[ Miles' expression flattens just a bit at that. ]

Yes. Yes, I had noticed that.

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[This time, that look is unerringly followed with that sardonic comment.]

If you have another tact other than "relax," I'll hear it.

[dendarii]

... no, it's valid, just ...

[ A faint huff. ]

I wish we had a solution more intelligent than turning it on and off again.

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There is waiting and seeing if a less stressful time will be more productive.

[dendarii]

It'd be faster to get drunk.

[ Which ... has a certain level of appeal. Huh. But no, not as a solution to this, not when Gregor could be home any minute to this mess. ]

Try it, then. We may as well.

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[The idea of getting drunk, dropping those inhibitions while someone else is this directly keyed into his mind... There's no shudder, no change in his expression, but Miles can feel the connection almost closing entirely on its own.]

I think I'll pass.

[He gets up and simply wraps his hand around Miles' wrist, careful not to jostle it again.

Silence.

And once again his father's expression is truly inscrutable, familiar for being that way, if not for his age.]

[dendarii]

[ He has just a brief moment to feel a bit hurt by that - he would have liked to have a glass with his father, after everything has calmed down - before the combined pain of his bone aches and his shoulders slam into him all at once. He gasps, expression gone deadly pale as it washes over him. Drowning him, threatening to blot him out -

It's only sheer stubbornness - and the thought of how much more this will hurt if he faints onto his shoulder - that keeps him upright. The gasping becomes gulps, slowly but surely finding his equilibrium. ]

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[When Miles' vision clears, he'll find Aral kneeling in front of him, hand pressed in the low center of Miles' chest. The support as much as he can do right now. Grey eyes watch Miles with concern...

He lets go, stands and straightens his cuffs when he's certain Miles wasn't going to pass out. He had, if nothing else, a good estimate of it.]