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

[Aral had paused in the threshold himself. While years of command could keep such trivial emotions such as uncertainty from his face, that beast had no less of a hold on him.

The child he knew... It wasn't hard to recall how the hands he'd placed his own in barely could hold two each of his fingers. He'd seemed small, solemn and almost mute, unbearably aware of what was going on. Sharpened by the dizzying sequences of trauma, no doubt.

He no more knew what that young boy thought than the man he saw in adulthood here. That vague static of emotions he'd misunderstood and dismissed when he'd first arrived was now patently gone. What years he'd spent grooming this man was a mysterious future and an inscrutable past. There were no hints, no clues.

Some part of him wondered if he should offer a hand to the kitchen, but he didn't have the first idea of left from right in THIS battlefield. Ezar, you never mentioned this challenge. The old spirit was probably laughing hysterically.

Finding no answers in the pause, as it drew out, he offers a similar, steady,] Sire.

[An acknowledgement, a question and an answer at once.]

[God. Sire. And Gregor daren't say a word to convince him to call him aught else in private, for fear of how he might take it. The last thing he wants to do is give some signal to Aral that he doesn't accept and own his position, with rather more grace now than he ever has, really.

But it's certainly true that a somber-eyed child reluctant to express himself has grown into an adult much the same.

He hesitates a moment, but surely he owes Aral more than letting the man stew in confusion indefinitely about the nature of their relationship. His arrival had been such a whirlwind mess that Gregor has not really had a moment to be merely at peace with him.]

Would you like to join me? [A ghost of a wry, self-conscious smile. Surely he can afford to seem human this much.] Not a requirement, you understand. Though it feels very strange to have to say that to you.

[He wants it to be absolutely clear that he doesn't require anything of him.]

Please.

[A strange tension, so diffuse he could hardly find its source or give it name, eased at that. Even one who so routinely ignored the definitions, lines and rules was by nature, comforted when they simply exist.

It wasn't a sketch but the first lines were beginning to be laid on what had been a blank page. Gregor knew the power of his words and was conscientious of them... It was enough to be a little hopeful for how long he'd stared at his own inadequacies in such a crucial role.

He lets some of that cautious reserve give as well. He remained as close to formal as he ever manages, but the chair he pulls from the table gets turned before Aral takes his seat.]

You've learned that here?

[It's such a familiar position for him to see Aral take that Gregor involuntarily glances over at him. The tiny smile makes another brief reappearance. Some subtle tension likewise eases in him, too.

There's no actual bad blood between them, now or ever, so why is this so damnably hard? Onward and through, Gregor reminds himself.]

Oh, yes. Some kind soul took pity on Miles and myself and taught us enough so that we wouldn't starve. It's been... educational, being here. [But Gregor does not appear disgruntled in the least by that; on the contrary, to an observant eye he can be read as bemused, even fascinated, as he idly stirs stir fry in a pan.]

You don't find it poor. [It's an observation, rather than a question. It's level, giving neither judgement nor sign of anything behind it past curiosity.

He'd seen - Had himself be the subject of the late Prince Serg's fits. Tantrums, he had called them, privately. But he'd also seen a child whose face lit at Drou or Cordelia entering the room - the chance to get away from his tutors - while Aral handled the demands of governance.]

The education this sort of life offers.

[Gregor really can't help himself here, though it prickles him simultaneously, aware he could be giving a very bad impression.]

Throwing off the yoke of the Imperium temporarily and living as a peasant, you mean? No, I'm quite enjoying it.

[He sounds mild in the extreme.]

[There's a moment, another look of hooded evaluation, just before Aral's lips turn upward, just vaguely. For the reserved man Gregor knew, it was practically a guffaw.

Missing the teenage years, the struggles of early adulthood, the subtle wedge that settled itself during the accusation of high treason... they were all missing. What Aral had to establish himself, was these opening lines and his own sense of propriety, for what it was.

He gives a gracious turn of the hand towards the stove.]

I hope you can imagine the expression on some of those old bore's faces.

I imagine it will be an excellent spice.

Edited 2016-01-17 00:52 (UTC)

[Ah. Maybe they really can do this after all. Relief pangs through him in an unexpected rush at seeing that sign of humor.

It's impossibly difficult for Gregor to fathom what he must seem like to someone who's missing all of that that ordinarily lies between them, ever unspoken but silently felt as immense weights.]

I like to picture Count Vortrifrani, personally. [The head of the conservative party in Aral's time, the reference transforming Gregor's continually mild words into a blatant joke. And, too, a silent message that Gregor is no conservative.]

He has the most experience turning purple on the slightest occasion.

[He concedes, the wry mirth still apparent.]

Is he still banging the war drums... [His statement, uncharacteristically trails, as the simple magnitude and impossibility it all seemed.] How old are you now?

He turns purple and succeeds in making me think he's going to start frothing, so yes.

[Gregor has to pause, though, at this second question, and how much he knows lays behind it. He stirs aimlessly for a moment, staring down at the vegetables going round, before saying quietly,] I'm twenty-five. You've seen me safely to my majority and well past it.

[There's a hundred questions he has. From the technicalities, to the events of the future, to the most simple, human: Have I done well by you? That disastrous first decision and its bloody, costly aftermath was still bright in his memory, but not something he need to burden on anyone else. His own doubts he shuttered and placed back into their drawers.

The gaze he gives Gregor is even, subtle relief only marking the edges of him.]

And Barrayar?

Oh-- [A helpless breath, Gregor shutting off the heat, then turning to face him directly. Clearly this is someone used to facing down Aral Vorkosigan and giving his honest opinion, no matter how it makes his stomach flip over with nerves. This is the man he'd learned his stoicism from, frankly; they are a picture of subtle cues.

The tell is all in the words.]

It's like herding squabbling children, most days, except they're well-armed children with small legions attached, and they all think you must be stupid because you've said nothing for the past twenty minutes, when really you're just giving them rope to hang themselves with. My birthday comes entirely too close to Winterfair, and there's practically an entire month of drunkenness. We've fought Cetaganda off again, a minor skirmish here and there-- I correct myself, you fought Cetaganda off again-- and we are dragging ourselves painfully, ruthlessly, into the thirty-first century as a galactic power.

[A beat. Then, even more quietly than before, laced with painful earnestness:]

But not bloodily. I would not wreck the gift you gave me, still whole.

[For the man who taught HIM, this young Aral is animated, far less worn to tempered, still sharp around the edges and expressive in ways he can't quite help.

He listened and watched as a man starved. It wasn't merely the complaints, the positioning of the words, but how they differed from his own turns of phrase, how he held himself delivering them. They were held up against the concern that he'd inadvertently fashion a parrot or a tool, inspected and filed with care.

A sane, strong man stood before him, telling him of a troubled - when isn't it? What a deep, frantic mess his one, beloved home was - but whole world.

His eyes drift closed, and a blatant tension leaves his shoulders.]

I hadn't dared-

[He leaves the thought. It wasn't worth completing. He opens his eyes and meets the gaze of his charge, his Emperor, his Gregor.]

What you return to me is peace and determination immeasurable. Thank you.

[It takes Gregor aback, to see such open hunger on Aral's face, an expression he has never seen. He can well imagine what drives it-- it's no surprise to him; he knows all of these worries back to front-- but he doesn't usually get shown them. His relationship with Aral has always been a calm surface with strong currents underneath, fraught with unspoken and deeply-tied knots.

That makes it sound awful. It wasn't awful. It was just very... stifling, at times, with how much lay between them. It was always obstructive.

This abrupt lack of obstructions is startling, and Gregor had never dreamed to have open gratitude from the man, a snap assessment that he must not be doing too badly as Emperor, after all. He'd never dreamed to fulfill his hopes and has to squash a very ill-timed desire to blurt out that Miles had dived into his soul and proclaimed him free of madness completely. It has the character of a child wishing to show a parent his crayon drawing.

All of this passes through Gregor in silence, some aspect of that starvation finally fed returned in his gaze.] I give back only what you first gave to me. I know you must wonder how we are with each other, at my age. I count you an immense support.

[Which is nothing but the truth, for all that he's sweeping years of teenage nonsense under the rug.]

[They were all missing. The first time Gregor had snapped back at Aral. He'd received a dressing down at the subject, but an open compliment on his fire. The subtle sighs of relief when a young Miles talked about Gregor's empathetic tears during a hunt, guilelessly related. The arguments, privately held of Barrayaran sentiments versus Betan. Watching and having to let Gregor make his own mistakes, even if they could cost Aral all he had left.

To the man who'd become a practiced tiger, hunting through the political works of Barrayar, it had been watching a chrysalis for years - knowing that no young man knew who he was from one day to the next - wondering what species would emerge, grasping at little signs.

But to him, he was meeting him almost for the first time as an adult. His eyes had scarcely strayed from Gregor, taking constant measure there. He'd always believed you could know a man by his eyes.

He folds his arms on the back of the chair, that keen, hungry interest giving away to a cooler sort, save for the upward turn of his lips.]

Oh, I have more than a few wonders.

[You didn't think you were getting free without this, did you?]

[Ah. No, he really didn't think that.

For all Aral is clearly positively predisposed to him, most of his biggest concerns soothed away already, Gregor still feels a bit like he's had a pop quiz sprung on him (which Aral has done more than a few times) and correspondingly straightens up subtly.

He matches that coolness, impassivity descending again-- it succeeds in making him look the most overtly Imperial yet this evening, though he'd seemed very Imperial on first meeting, in the wake of Miles's injuries-- even as he wordlessly dishes up two plates of stir fry and walks around the counter to set each at the table. The mundanity of his actions does not pierce his composure at all.

He settles himself in a chair first before nodding at Aral, with precisely the sort of inclination that indicates he knows very well everyone else waits on him and he has decided not to fight it.] Then ask.

[An open floor. But he could do offer no less for this man, his most unflagging protector.]

[He leans back to pick up a fork and stab a bit of the stir fry. He waves it, thoughtfully, letting it cool. In the mean time, he considers that. There's a lot to ask, twenty years. Those bare incidents mentioned didn't begin to cover how they had started, the factors surrounding them, how they were resolved. There's a hundred places to begin and "the beginning" was as inadequate as "current events."

But it did give him one interesting thought. He regards Gregor with lidded eyes... reminiscent of those self same pop quizzes Gregor grew up on.]

This situation. How would you use it? Would you use it?

[Two of them from different timelines, for as much as it baffled him, grated upon him its impossibility, another part of him had seized upon it. He regards Gregor with closed curiosity.]

[Gregor is having small flashbacks at this point-- it's been at least a few years since Aral questioned him like this, with him growing into his own as Emperor. He wonders how he can manage to put this version of him off of developing that habit without offending him.

For now, though, it's justified and even invited, so he answers. This first time at least, it doesn't chafe.]

Use it for what? [he invites him to wonder, then raises his eyebrows at him.] I'm not cruel enough to ask you and Lady Vorkosigan to dredge up ancient history-- near history, for you-- for my perusal. I'm sure if you meant for me to know it, you'd have told me already. And we're told that we won't remember any of this when we're sent back, so there's no practical use for it either way. I could give you a hundred warnings and you'd remember none of them.

No... the only use for this isn't practical. [Some of Gregor's on-stage composure softens into contemplation, his eyes dropping, not out of weakness but clearly just thinking as he looks down at the table. There's a lot of things he could say here, and he turns them over briefly. But all he ends up saying is,] I would be happy if Miles found some solace in knowing both of you, and vice-versa. It's the only outcome of this situation that suggests itself to me.

[Not remembering. That was the piece he'd been missing.

Now cooled, he takes a bite of the veggies... An Earth variety of pepper, by all estimate... And chews on it thoughtfully. The whys of keeping the cover still are regarded and discarded. There are more harms than death a man can inflict upon another, and even should it right itself with magic on leaving this world, it didn't mean any should suffer it.

A part of him had drifted along that route, considering the benefit and risk taken... Perhaps a simple desire to live, for a little while, away from it... As surely as the rest was listening. What was said, what was not, the focus on practicality over philosophy.

And then all of it was neatly, wholly derailed.]

That-

[His guard breaks, surprise there. As if he hadn't considered the luxury for himself yet. Not only allowed, but offered. He hasn't even asked his own life and routines at home yet, not hardened himself to them. He ends up casting a glance back to where Cordelia and Miles sat, still talking.

In one smooth motion he'd been turned upend.

God. Cordelia really HAD a hand in this man's upbringing.]

That would be ideal.

[Gregor imperceptibly relaxes, feeling like he's just successfully jumped a hurdle, and is gently, fondly amused to see Aral so taken aback by the thought. Obviously twenty years of adjustment to his wife's Betanness had inured him to it a lot more than he is now. Not that he was ever truly graceful...

But it's a side of him that Gregor is used to, just not seeing it so freely.

He takes a bite himself, given that he's starting to relax now, before answering.] It's quite novel, actually. Not to say that I can ever manage to convince myself I am Greg Vorthys-- that's Miles's trick, not mine-- but still. You realize you're not Lord Regent here. Not even to myself or Miles. You've been free of that nest of vipers for five years now.

If you'd like to get to know your family, there's very little to interrupt you but the ongoing conflict with the Soviets, your participation therein you're free to determine for yourself. I'm hardly about to request or require anything about a foreign war.

[His eyebrows raise at that. Free of it... ]

Survived to retirement? Seems I'll owe Illyan those ten marks after all.

Edited 2016-01-18 20:16 (UTC)

Well. I wouldn't say retirement. One does not stop being Vor.

[Obviously he's not too Betan.]

[That gets and answering grin, as wry as it was honest. He mimes a toast at that, and spears another bite of food.]

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.

[Worried he might find true idleness not to his taste? Itchy, almost?]

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.]

[As a man who'd just worked himself up to facing down that long haul ... It could be nothing else.]

A reversal, then? Why not.

Voice Testing Post

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

workout = without. Thank you phone, you're a helper.

oh. my brain just fixed it for me without me noticing. the real helper

Thank you helper brain!

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)