☆ the vorkosigan saga psl post, volume 3

[runawayballista]

welcome to hell

Comments

[hellsbel]

....so what's the punchline?

[runawayballista]

me. i'm the punchline. always

[hellsbel]

isn't 'me' a little short for a punchline

[whatdidisay]

I want this with the usual suspects please and thank you

[forwardmomentum]

Their first clue probably should have been the fact that the seats in the theater were only half-full, and most of their fellow patrons seemed to be well over the age of forty, fifty, even. But, whatever -- no judgment here, and perhaps the dark of the cinema is the only place the really stuffy old Vor types can allow themselves to have any fun. Not that Miles is really inclined to think that hard about it. Besides, when you see a holofilm titled The Blush of a Desert Rose at Dusk, how much time do you really spend thinking about why other people are here to see it?

But the lights dim and the music starts along with the opening sequence, fading from black, and Miles is instantly full of regret. Abort, abort, abort, they should've just gone back to Vorkosigan House for the air conditioning instead of the cineplex, this is not a racy softcore Betan flick.

[whatdidisay]

It had been Miles' idea, and not Ivan's fault. Obviously. Ivan had trusted both his cousin and the title, and thought it was his aunt's influence at work on Barrayar. One thing he'd thank her for, but it's not turning out anything like he expected it would. So he turns to his cousin and, in a rather loud whisper, asks him the question that's been burning up in his mind since the movie started.

"Why aren't any of the women taking of their shirts yet?"

[vorrutyer]

I have a thirst for By and Sonia, I can give a more specific prompt if you need something more specific than "the princess and the trashpile"

[vorbratta]

their in-game CR is a perfect launchpad so give me a starting point for a scene to kick it off and i will write the fuck out of a starter

[vorrutyer]

Obviously her showing him her photographs

[butcherofkomarr]

( continued from here )

Aral does not glare at his cousin so much as he sighs, resigned. "Just so. Although I think all present would have preferred it to go differently." But at least Cordelia is still holding his hand -- he has not lost her, not at this moment. If that holds it remains to be seen, but Aral isn't in the habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Turning back to his guest, he gestures with the hand that isn't in her grip. "We are still at your service, dear Lieutenant. Whatever we can do to make your stay more comfortable, you need only to ask. Or if there is anything about Barrayar that has you confused." They are, after all, the best people to ask about that.

[vorbratta]

[ she was stupid to let herself to get captured. maybe it's easier than blaming gavalas or carolina or her sister, but god, she's terrified. for all the horror stories she's heard, she's rarely encountered cetagandan soldiers herself. she doesn't know what to expect. she paces nervously in what she feels is a little generous to be called a cell, anxiously chewing on the end of a long curl of hair.

when there's a chime at the door, she jerks her head up and stands stock still where she is. ]

[vorrutyer]

[ This is, he thinks, an exercise of courage, or something like it. Or masochism. Possibly. He's lost his ability to really feel out the difference.

The best thing to do would be to avoid her. It wouldn't be threatening to his cover to not want to see one of his former friends. Honestly, it might even strengthen his cover - this might look much stranger. This, here: this runs the risk of blowing his cover, it gets him nothing, it gets her nothing. But here he is. Slinking into her room, eyes fixed on the far wall, silent and subdued. ]

[vorbratta]

[ of all the horror stories she's heard about barrayaran captives behind enemy lines, this is not one of them.

her stomach clenches the second she sees him, a painful pang of surprise, and her chest goes tight, a sudden hiss of breath inward. it seems to be the only one she can get in right now, trapped in her lungs. tears touch at the corners of her eyes before she can stop them, and she doesn't get any less tense, hands clenched at her sides, and she's shaking -- just slightly, just enough, from anger, from hurt, from some unplaced fear, all of the above -- she doesn't know. she just knows that her mouth is suddenly dry and her voice comes out just as shaking and hurt. ]

You.

welcome to dragons and magic, miles. at least they have swords.

[dirthena]

Lavellan had meant to come see him ages ago.

No one knew what to think when they found someone collapsed in the ruins of the Temple of Ashes, dressed strangely and passed out -- no one had seen him walk through, true, and he didn't bear any mark. It had been a mystery that they couldn't afford to be distracted with, not when closing the Breach had been their main priority. And after -- Lavellan had meant to come see him once she could extract herself from the party. But then things had gone, well. Poorly to say the least. She hadn't thought she'd have the chance to find out about him when she marched out to face down Corypheus.

And even stumbling through the mountains, collapsing into the snow while Cullen and Cassandra ran to her -- there had been bigger, more important issues to be dealt with. Infighting among the Inquisition, Solas's revelation that the orb was elven made -- ancient and powerful and that she needed to do something in order to keep them from casting her out or turning against her.

And so she brings them to Skyhold, and the skinny dwarf fades from her mind during the march as he's carried by the Iron Bull. And after Skyhold, she is named Inquisitor for them all and her life explodes. But at a word from someone, Lavellan slips away from her duties to the small room they've given him to take up leaning against the far wall. Better that he have somewhere there when he wakes up, rather than dazed and confused like she was. It's strange to think that there might be someone in all of Thedas who could understand that part of her life.

Lavellan looks as nondescript as possible; no staff, no armor. Just beige leggings and a matching top, arms crossed, waiting.

[forwardmomentum]

Miles is having a really, really bizarre dream.

That isn't all that strange in the wake of Dagoola, scarcely a month now -- dreams of Beatrice falling, over and over again --- but this is different. Well, that's sort of nice, he supposes. Polite of his psyche to shake up the misery a little. Mostly this one is just disorienting, though, flashes of a strange world and bouts of a constant jarring, a bit like being on a boat, but bumpier. It's all very strange and disorienting, enough to make his head hurt, and he's glad when his consciousness finally decides to swim out of it and relieve him of bad dreams for a while.

He knows that something is wrong before he's opened his eyes. The smells are all wrong. The air here is fresh, not the recycled air of the Triumph, and this isn't his cabin he's lying in. Sure as hell doesn't feel like his bed, either.

So he jolts upright all at once, head jerking around in alarm and bafflement, because none of this is familiar. Oh, shit. Is he still dreaming? Is this going to be one of those 'dream within a dream' horseshit scenarios? And then his eyes fall on the lady in the room, and his mouth opens. How do you address a figment in a dream, exactly?

"Um," is all Miles manages, eloquently.

[dirthena]

Her eyes widen -- although that's hard to notice -- when he jerks awake. Lavellan knows the feeling, of suddenly being one place and then another with no memory of how. The gap of that memory still presses back, what is she not remembering, and Lavellan sometimes wakes with the unfamiliar feeling of having almost stumbled across the answer. But she can't remember those dreams, and that too is disorienting. She's a mage, she should be able to recall them in some manner, even if she is not a Dreamer like Solas.

Lavellan says nothing until he does, still marveling at how a dwarf could be so small in statue. Leliana had asked Varric, who hadn't known either. Just as strange as she is, then, in his own way.

"Disorienting, isn't it?" Her voice is slightly accented, lilting and light. They don't know him, and they don't trust him, but they didn't with her either, in the beginning. She was given a pass because she was their answer -- he does not have that. Yet Lavellan finds some sympathy in her heart for him, for his predicament.

solas

[forwardmomentum]

Miles is still, frankly, convinced this is a hallucination. Arguing with every figment he comes across isn't going to make for a fun ride, and as far as figments go, he quite likes Lavellan. She's sensible, to the point, sort of charming. And now she wants him to speak to this Solas fellow. So he goes along with it, making a half-hearted attempt to sit still before springing to his feet to pace restlessly around the room. He takes the opportunity to look around the room -- Lavellan's, apparently -- out of increasing curiosity. There's what looks like a small shrine to some obscure gods, and the desk is covered in papers -- the important-looking sort, official correspondence with all the seals and fancy calligraphy. For a hallucination, it's a pretty detailed one.

It isn't all that long before Lavellan returns though, well before Miles gets bored enough to actually start sticking his fingers in things, and she's brought this other man back with her -- Solas, right? By the look of it, he's an elf, too, though a good bit taller than Lavellan. Some quick introductions are made before Lavellan dashes off -- what to, Miles isn't sure. Some important Inquisitor business, probably. He hasn't really had the whole Inquisition business fully explained to him yet.

"So -- Solas," Miles says brightly, neatly masking up the internal panic rollercoaster with a slightly too-wired smile but a genuine look of interest. "Lavellan said you could explain a few things to me."

Like, say, everything.

[lonesomewanderer]

When Lavellan had interrupted him to speak, he had thought she had heard an important discovery from her advisors. A matter that required his expertise and one they would need to leave quickly to attend to lest the Breach and the rifts spread out through Thedas grew out of control. What he does not expect is for the request the woman lays before him. So the man they had found required answers. He wonders how interested their guest truly is in what he inquires about or if he's conveniently fishing for information for whatever purpose brought him here. There's enough unknowns to have him curious and he agrees to explain what he can to the dwarf.

He's standing ready when the pair return and he watches as Lavellan leaves. To his credit, his gaze does not linger on her for long despite the temptation and he turns his attention to Miles.

"Yes. She mentioned you were unfamiliar with the Fade?" Given he's speaking with a dwarf, Solas can see some possibility for that. They weren't able to dream with their complete disconnect from magic, a life Solas is grateful he will never have to experience. "With your people's trade dependent on lyrium, I thought dwarves would be better versed in those matters."

SORRY SORRY

[jacksonian]

He wonders when they're going to kill him.

It's going to happen. Obviously it's going to happen. All those insane lies about brother, and freedom, and you have a name, all of that was a crock of shit. Total crock of shit. All that Vorkosigan was trying to do was lull him into a false sense of security and win him over to his side so that he could use him in his escape from Ser Galen's clutches. And whose fault is it that he fell for all that insane propaganda, anyway? Not his. It's not his fault that he bought into it. It's Galen's, for not preparing him well enough for Vorkosigan's lies. Or - or Vorkosigan's fault himself, for being so good at lying. Or something. It's not his.

He wedges his hands under his thighs and hunches defensively in his chair as yet another Dendarii mercenary swarms past him on some frantic task. He feels like he's the only one not moving here, in this little makeshift command center. Everyone else has a task, a job, and here he is just sitting uselessly, waiting for death. Waiting for the nerve disruptor to the back of the head, or the kiss of the hypospray that'll render him unconscious for the organ-harvesting surgery. But so far he's been here in the Dendarii headquarters an hour - and it's been four hours total since he helped Miles escape from the Komarran safehouse - and he has yet to be killed. Miles has come into this room and left six times, barking orders, chattering frantically as he tries to sort out all the information so that they can complete their hunt of Galen and his compatriots, and he has yet to have his throat cut. It's torture. It's complete torture.

And so, when Miles comes into the room for the seventh time, the clone snarls at him in terror and fury - "Just get it over with already!"

FINALLY DIVES INTO THIS

[forwardmomentum]

It had been a gamble. It had been a major gamble, only enabled by a stroke of sheer dumb luck, because Miles hadn't counted on the clone being so curious as to steal away time enough to talk to him without Galen's supervision, and now it's just a mad rush -- so, all things considered, a day ending in y for the Dendarii, only this one's really got a capital Y. Miles had been so delirious with relief that Mark had given in, decided to test that guarantee just barely enough to help him escape, and Galeni too -- so much so that he'd nearly forgotten to have Galeni dropped back at the Embassy with rapid-fire instructions to investigate that damned courier while the Dendarii hunted down Ser Galen. That, and after the days he'd spent in captivity, the beatings -- Galeni really, really needed some rest.

And Miles? Ha. Rest is the punchline to a joke only he thinks is funny. No, Miles can't rest, not yet, even though the cuts and bruises from those beatings are still fresh, even though he's still not sure how long it's been since he's properly slept, because they might have the clone -- Mark -- but they don't have Galen, and they can't afford to let him get away. So the second they got on board the Ariel and Miles made it explicitly clear that no one was to harass, jeer at, or so much as breathe on Mark while he got this sorted out, he put himself and everyone around him to work. The little sparkling whorls at the edge of his vision, that unpleasant sensation like his stomach is trying desperately to digest itself -- he'll deal with those later. He's got plenty of fumes to run on still.

And he is so thoroughly and tightly wound, working on overdrive and wondering if the lights are too bright in here or if it really is just him, that when Mark barks at him, he jumps like a spooked cat, startled on reflex by the sudden interruption. More than that, it forces him to stop for more than two consecutive seconds, and so Miles just blinks at him, bewildered, teetering slightly.

"Er -- get what over with?"

WINE MOM SONIA

[vorbratta]

Ten years after the end of Mad Yuri's War, life finally no longer feels like a war zone. When the last shocks and pains finally wore away, when Sonia's grief for her husband progressed into deeply cherished, if aching, memory, when Vorbarr Sultana finally began to rapidly rebuild itself -- when it was over, Sonia almost didn't know what to do with herself. She'd spent more than half her life entrenched in one war or another, even if she never was too close to the gritty truth of it -- until Mad Yuri's War. The Massacre changed her, the Dismemberment changed her -- she remembers that fraught and furious argument with Piotr over her insistence on participating -- but her dear late sister's work was not all undone. When the dust settled, she was still Sonia Vorbarra Vorpatril, and some things never change.

She had vowed, long ago, never to let loneliness take hold of her and crush her so desperately as it had in her youth. Her late husband, dear, sweet Ivan, had never wished anything but happiness on her, and God, he had brought it in droves. But he is ten years passed now, and Sonia has allowed herself to move on, his memory never far from her mind. She will never remarry -- that honor belonged to Ivan Vorpatril alone -- but Sonia never was in the habit of depriving herself of much-needed company.

The memories of her youth in the war have never quite faded, not as much as the photographs she's kept all these years. She remembers them all, remembers the fantasy of a Barrayar she could fit into that always seemed just out of reach. There are still parts of her that don't fit here, things that sometimes make her wonder if she and Padma would be better off on Beta Colony, but she can't bear to part with what family she has left. And so Sonia finds her own element in the Vorbarr Sultana social scene, not just becoming a part of it but shaping it, because the Lady Princess is a hell of a lot more cosmopolitan than most of her Vor lady peers. It's well known that Lady Sonia Vorpatril, cousin and oddly close friend to Emperor Ezar, throws the best damned parties in the District.

a. party at the imperial residence
Sonia is in her mid-forties now, though she's impossible not to recognize from her youth, her half-Betan genes aging her much more gracefully. She still has that bright light in her eyes, that sunny smile and that wicked look, that same long, tumbling mass of dark curls down her back. But she looks different now, no longer in war-worn village clothes, now dressed in the height of Vorbarr Sultana fashion, as immodestly cut as social graces will permit her, because she lives to challenge every social norm in her sphere of influence. She wears jewelry now that, in retrospect, would have seemed oddly missing on her younger self, and her hair is adorned in fresh flowers.

Whatever the occasion the party is for, it isn't clear, but the Imperial Residence's banquet hall is full of people, talking, socializing, dancing. Sonia seems to be everywhere at once, chatting, laughing, a glass of wine always in hand.

b. city strolls
Sonia loves Vorbarr Sultana. She had hardly seen it for a decade, and it was ravaged by war for so long. Now that it's rebuilding itself, steadily and surely, she spends as much time as she can soaking it in, never tiring of it. They had fought hard for it, and she will bask in their spoils.

She can often be seen walking through the city on idle errands, with or without her son Padma in tow, or visiting her brother-in-law and nephew at Vorkosigan House. She favors the view from the Star Bridge, the bustling city center, the quiet beauty of the Royal Gardens. Really, it isn't hard to find Sonia in Vorbarr Sultana at all, these days.

c. wildcard
go ahead, just fuck me right up

miles experiences a broken arm and questions reality

[dirthena]

Once Miles's curiosity is sated for the time being -- and has stopped calling everything a hallucination -- Lavellan decides that she might as well at least show him around Skyhold. He'd be there until he decided he wasn't, and it wouldn't do for him to get lost. Well, Solas might appreciate it, but Elera found herself far more sympathetic to someone who was in the same position she was.

The garden first, and then up to the ramparts and down again, past the building with her requisitioned supplies. She doesn't spare Cassandra a glance, gesturing to the tavern on their right -- the woman is always practicing on the training dummies, she's just used to it by now. "They're calling it Herald's Rest whether I want them to or not," Lavellan explains, gesturing to it.

i'll renew my paid later w/e

[forwardmomentum]

Miles has stopped calling everything a hallucination because it seems to offend them all so much, and honestly, after that talk with Solas, his head is still spinning a little. This is still disorienting as hell, only all the more so for the fact that it persists in feeling so real, and at this point, Miles is finding it easier to just play along. It's a little more pleasant that way, too. It's like being inside a goddamned holovid.

"Herald's Nest? Really?" Miles raises an eyebrow. "It hasn't occurred to them that it makes you sound a little...avian?"

Oh, hello there. Pretty lady in the armor catches his eye -- terrifying pretty lady, actually, pounding on some training dummies with impressive ferocity. Miles trails off, his feet still moving, but his gaze stays stuck on Cassandra.

for lakshmi

[forwardmomentum]

Miles is very, very annoyed.

This was a dodgy enough mission as it is -- buying off what sounded like stolen Cetagandan biotech? That'd look bad, if it was ever found in Barrayaran hands. But for Admiral Naismith, proclaimed enemy of the Cetagandan Empire after the shitshow that was Dagoola IV, bumming a few bioweapons schematics just to spite the Empire itself might not be entirely out of character. Whatever possessed those ghem officers to go rogue and steal haut biotech is beyond Miles, but he'll admit, he'd rather it be in ImpSec's hands than Cetaganda's -- or anyone else's, for that matter. He suspects that was at least half of Simon's reasoning when the reports had come in. Get to it so no one else has it.

At least that was the idea. That was the idea right up until Miles made it to the station they were supposed to rendezvous at and found a couple of corpses where his contacts were supposed to be, and no sight of the merchandise. Someone had clearly had the same idea, only they weren't as willing to pay for it. But he'd gotten enough intel off station security, and a little extra courtesy of Captain Thorne's crack intelligence team -- enough that he knew, at least, what ship they were looking for, even if he had no idea who the hell was piloting it. So he'd taken off in the Ariel with Captain Thorne themself, the fleet's fastest ship, with a few more not far behind, because letting that tech slip away into unknown hands is out of the question. The mystery thieves had left a clear enough trail to follow. He just has to keep on it.

"Sir," one of the communications officers raises his head toward Miles, "we're picking up a distress beacon not far from her. Damaged ship, crew in need of help -- seems like they're just barely limping along. They're pretty banged up."

"We're not on a rescue mission, Lieutenant," Miles reminds him, and if he sounds a little terse it's only because he hasn't slept since they left the station and he's been running over what intel they made off to try and figure out just who the hell intercepted his rendezvous.

"They look pretty bad off, sir," the lieutenant says, almost looking guilty over his sympathy. "They're close enough for a systems scan, and it looks like their engine containment's starting to fail. Life support could be going offline."

Damn it, that does sound bad. And letting a crew of any size die stranded out in space doesn't exactly sit easily in Miles's gut. He drums his fingers rapidly on the dashboard. "Can you hail Nuovo Station for a pickup?"

The comms officer looks borderline sheepish now. "We're out of range, sir. I don't know if they'll get that far."

Miles shuts his eyes and counts to five, then curses his own bleeding heart in three different languages. Fine. It's fine. He'll do both. He can do both. He can totally do both.

"Open up a comlink," he orders, hopping over to the nearest comconsole and throwing himself into the station chair. "Try to get us in visual range, but audio's good enough for now."

"You're on, sir," the comms officer reports a moment later, looking a little brighter. Miles tugs his Dendarii uniform collar up, the admiral's insignia clear, and clears his throat.

"This is Admiral Naismith of the Ariel. We've picked up your distress beacon. What is your status?"

[mahalakshmi]

It's nothing but static, the empty roar of communication desperately trying to establish itself, in those first few seconds. Sitting in the stolen UIC cruiser - not meant for a fight, it was no more than a light ship, meant to have a sting but not much more, but a fight it had gone through. Like it's crew, it dragged itself by its teeth the rest of the way.

Then it breaks, and it's not much more than a voice, clipped flat command. A woman, tired and exhausted and, oh she could describe herself in a hundred ways that begin and end with wretched at this point. "We need help."

Which - is that how she's meant to answer? She doesn't know. She isn't sure she cares at this point. As they drift on broken limbs and come in close enough to get visual. His face in exchange for hers. He's clean, removed, military if she had ever seen it. Open faced where she isn't and as she realizes he must be able to see her back, and her gaze goes from the console that she is bent over to look up at him on the screen - right, that should be where to look, right? Not like the UIC, nothing so modern and galactic. The bridge of the plate helmet, the chain mail and coif below it. From the amount of blood that is splattered across her face, there's enough to say it isn't for show. But it's all harsh cheeks and the jut of her chin in determination.

"Admiral Naismith, I have a crew of ten, all wounded. Three of which require urgent care." She can't tell about the ship, what would she know about it? The UIC had stopped their ability to access them as the technology progressed for centuries. "And there's a button next to 'life support systems' that has been flashing red for the last hour."

It's grim, ugly humor, as she looks screen through screen directly at him. There is a too ugly gash on her cheek, though the blood has stopped some time ago now. Her words rasp, she has been shouting and for too long now, she has been doing too much of everything, for too long now. Not that she shows a sign of faltering but it's there: the lines under her eyes, the sag of her mouth that even as she tries something dry, the glaze in her gaze that says something of blood loss and shock but not enough to stop herself yet. What commander ever stopped when there were those that needed them?

"I am begging for our lives, Admiral and if not for mine, then for theirs. Does that answer the question?"