[ open log ]

[forwardmomentum]

WHO: Miles Vorkosigan and YOU
WHAT: Weird little space man enters orbit, immediately breaks arm, generally gets in the way
WHEN: From Cloudreach 30 through the first week of Bloomingtide
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: Miles's info post is here! i'm sorry, you're welcome

rift entry (first come, first serve)
It's a classic dream: Miles, back in his academy days, suddenly finding himself sitting an exam he hasn't studied for and is drawing dreadful blanks. More ridiculous still that it's a test on a book he already knows inside and out. It's sitting right in front of him, even. His hand is shaking, gripping the light pen a little too hard. He's been sitting here far, far too long without having written a single thing. Oh, god, he's starting to feel dizzy. His palms are suddenly slick with sweat. The room feels like it's tilting on him -- no, it is tilting -- and then the room vanishes away altogether.

By the time Miles realizes he's falling, it's already too late. He tries to curl in on himself and hit the ground rolling, but he connects with it at entirely the wrong angle and lands on his left arm with a sickeningly familiar crack. Dammit, the fall couldn't even have been that far for how fast it happened. Miles gurgles out a curse, only barely registering the unfamiliar scenery and just how strange the air smells amidst the shock. Oh, that's a broken humerus right there.

The odd-looking little man rolls over onto his side with a groan. Too tall and too skinny to be a dwarf, but at only about 4'9, still much smaller than the average adult human. It isn't until he takes a look down at his cradled arm that he notices the bright glowing green fucking shard in his hand.

"What the hell," he wheezes, trying to sit up, "kind of dream is this?"

those who can't with this guy, teach
Miles is a quick study, and not a terrible student, especially with his abrupt and avid interest in all things Thedosian. Part of it is a transparent and desperate attempt at distracting himself from the situation at hand, the rest genuine interest. Everything here is so new, so different and familiar all at once. There is so much here that reminds him of home in odd, fractured ways. Learning more about this place will smooth those edges, break it down into things he can understand.

He will devour just about any subject matter, but the things that will grab his attention most are military history, politics, and magic. Oh, man, he's got like, a million questions about magic. Maybe your character finally has a willing audience to babble on about their pet subject of choice, or maybe your character's just unlucky enough to have been drafted to give the new guy the Thedas 101 course. Either way, Miles will only stop asking questions long enough to breathe.

sleep? in this economy?
There's a lot about this that's hard to swallow. He's a pretty flexible guy as far as his sphere of belief goes, or at least he likes to think so. Sure, this could all still be a dream, but his broken arm feels pretty fucking real. Hell, where he's from they jump through wormholes. He can take this at face value, at least for now. The only part he's having a hard time stomaching is the part where he doesn't go home.

The trick is not leaving himself any room to think about it. Sleep? Way too much room to think in there. So mostly, at first, he doesn't, except in short shifts when he's exhausted enough to pass directly into blissful unconsciousness. So late at night, when there's no more lessons or real work to keep him occupied, he haunts the library. It's late, and he's generally disinclined to ask for help, so when something is out of his reach, he's more likely to try and scale the shelves himself, as one with a broken arm does.

put that thing where it came from or so help me
Miles's Thedas 101 only goes on for so long, and then he is left to stew in frustration over not being able to join most of Riftwatch on the sudden rescue operation. It seems that as quickly as he'd gotten here, some shit had hit some fan somewhere, and everyone's off on a mission. And he can't go, because quarantine.
Realistically, he understands. He can even admit to himself that he probably wouldn't even be able to contribute much, with his broken arm and only nascent understanding of this world. (Mostly the arm.) But that doesn't leave him any less vibrating in idleness, and he's spent a lot of time in the library, and when Miles doesn't have anything else to engage him, he is at the whim of his own curiosities.

What is he doing? Great question. Probably something he's not supposed to be doing, somewhere he's not supposed to be doing it, although he may or may not be aware of that fact. Feel free to find Miles with his nose in anything mildly illicit, awkwardly personal, or hey, unexpectedly benign.

wildcard
[ feel free to find miles anywhere around the gallows or hit me up at runawayballista for a starter! ]

Comments

[bouchonne]

"What a pleasure," Byerly says, in that way of his that never sounds remotely sincere, "to have the privilege of teaching you about the South."

And he's brought supplies. Under one arm: a rolled-up map. In the other hand: a bottle of wine. Wine that's middling at best, of course; who's going to waste the good stuff on someone who has not yet proven their usefulness? But it's wine nevertheless. He pops the cork, pours two glasses, slides one over to his diminutive pupil, and says - "Now, one of the nations I'm going to tell you about is far superior to the other. I'll have you guess. You'd better not get it wrong."

[forwardmomentum]

No one had given Miles a name for his tutor today, just been told someone would meet him in the library right around now. He hopes that the rotation of Riftwatch tutors getting him up to speed is a normal thing, and not because most of them seem to leave the library with an enormous air of relief.

When Miles first sees his new tutor's face, his initial impression is one of nagging familiarity. A skewed reflection, not a mirror image. But as soon as he opens his mouth to talk -- that voice -- Miles's mouth opens to respond in greeting but just sort of hangs there as he thinks son of a bitch, this guy looks and sounds just like Byerly Vorrutyer.

Can't be Byerly Vorrutyer, obviously, and it's not him. Too old, and too put-together, and the accent's wrong, of course. But good God does that drawl have the creeping ring of familiarity, in a way that makes the hairs on the back of Miles's neck stand up just slightly.

He realizes his mouth is still hanging open. "Ah -- I'm sure I'll be able to figure it out," he says quickly, clearing his throat. He eyes the glass of wine. When they'd told him there wasn't any coffee, he was convinced he'd ended up in hell. Wine is not a particularly good study aid, but might have some spiritual benefits. "But first I must thank you for your hospitality. You're the first to bring something other than a book. Less dry, too."

[bouchonne]

"Only semi-dry, I fear." By lifts the glass to the light with a highly critical wrinkle of his nose.

The wine is not, of course, drugged. By isn't a barbarian, after all. Besides which, there are only a scant few doses of his particular tongue-loosening tincture. And also, he certainly does not require it to get some strange, small Rifter to be honest with him. A boring history, a desperation to numb the mind, a glass that's topped up rather too often, and By should be able to get the fellow's true address. (This, not a trick learned from his spymaster, but actually from his own difficult, cruel grandfather. The most subtle of his diplomatic plays, deployed with great effect upon thirsty Orlesian envoys.)

The fellow does have a rather odd look in his eye, By notices as he looks back at him. Strange. He runs a quick hand over his face to make sure there isn't any porridge clinging to his mustache or something (seems to be fine), then takes an emphatic sip from his glass. See? Not poison.

"But such is the nature of wartime, eh? We must all make sacrifices. Though is there any suffering greater than being stuck with a too-sweet vintage?"

[forwardmomentum]

Oh, that's weird. This is a weird vibe and Miles does not like it. Miles's eyebrow quirks slightly at that slightly exaggerated sip, but he lifts his own glass and takes a sip, because it's the polite thing to do. Wine is a great temptation right now, but Miles knows to pace himself, especially without the promise of coffee to pick himself back up later.

"Nothing comes to mind," he agrees blandly, setting the glass back down carefully. It's not terrible, actually. Of all things, Miles is really not sure what to expect of the wine quality here at Riftwatch. Then, as though remembering himself, he sketches an bow from his chair, a little awkwardly around the broken arm. "Ah -- Lieutenant Lord Miles Vorkosigan, by the way, though I'm sure you already have me at that disadvantage."

[bouchonne]

"Lieutenant Lord? Maker preserve us," Byerly murmurs. Then he presses a hand to his heart, sketching a seated bow that is, in Byerly fashion, really quite distressingly neat and graceful. "Forgive me; I fear I don't know the appropriate way to hail someone of your background. Your Lordship? Messere?"

As before, there's a faint mockery to his manner, but not anything particularly extreme. Indeed, it's even made mild enough that it could be ignored, were someone so inclined.

[overharrowed]

It isn't so strange for Julius not to have the library entirely to himself at this hour of the night. There are more than a few members of Riftwatch who don't sleep well, and a few he suspects don't sleep, period. But with most of the Gallows empty, it's a little more unexpected than it might be otherwise.

(Julius used to simply work in his room whenever he couldn't sleep, but Petrana had actually drifted off, and he felt it better to let her get a few hours if she could.)

He's inclined to let whoever it is get on with their own work, until the unmistakable sound of a book hitting the floor from a height breaks the silence more conclusively. He clears his throat as he approaches the aisle in question, not wanting to startle whoever it is. So it's possibly not entirely a surprise when man in his early forties, wearing robes (mage, not a dressing gown), looks around the corner and starts to say "Do you need h...oh." A climbing expedition had not been what he expected, much less a climber with a broken arm.

[forwardmomentum]

Miles had winced when the book hit the ground, hoping it hadn't disturbed anyone nearby -- the library is a big place, after all. He is clinging to the shelves about six feet from the ground, surprisingly monkey-like, his bad arm trying to reach for the books at an awkward angle. Awfully hard to get a grip on those damn things with his arm in a sling.

"Actually, I could do with a hand," he admits, looking slightly sheepish. The man is clearly wired, though. He realizes he probably looks absolutely ridiculous, so restless he's scaling bookshelves in the middle of the night. "I, er -- couldn't find a ladder."

Admittedly, he did not bother to look. This had seemed...faster? It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

[overharrowed]

Julius is a little over six feet tall, which means he's used to being asked to fetch things off high shelves. (Slightly less used to being asked by someone halfway up the bookcase. Then again, he did teach children who largely weren't allowed to go outside, once. He knows what stir-crazy looks like.)

"Of course," he says, as if it's a very natural request, having recovered from his initial surprise. "Can I help you down, first? I wouldn't want you to land on your other arm." Not that the one-armed climb wasn't impressive, even if it hadn't been entirely successful.

Other than his eyes, he's doing a great job of not appearing as if this is in any way funny.

dignity for all

[forwardmomentum]

"Oh, yeah, then I'd have two broken arms," Miles agrees cheerfully. He seems awfully wired for someone who's been up since dawn. He wags his broken arm, then winces slightly. "Doesn't take much with these bones. They're about as good as chalkstick."

He'd been expecting -- not outright mockery, no, but a certain snideness that isn't there in Julius's voice. Hell, maybe he's got a similar sense of humor. Miles starts to extend his bad arm, realizes he can't really put any weight on it, and that he also cannot reach out with his good hand because he'd have to let go of the bookcase, and that would leave him on the floor. Grab hold of the shelf with his teeth? Hm, no. The librarians might not appreciate that.

"So, uh..." Miles squints at Julius in the dim light, still clinging to the shelf, and waves his slung arm vaguely. "How...d'you want to do this, exactly?"

[okayimin]

The Rifter they bring into the Infirmary has Sawbones stopping and looking twice. Her automatic categorization is "dwarf," but the proportions are off, even for one who might have been malnourished as a child (like her for instance). A stunted human perhaps. Uncommon without the aid of dwarven blood, though not unheard of.

That all gets filed away when she gets a better look at the state of him. "Right, put him over here and bugger off, I don't need lurking," she says, all business and fetching up to get what she'll need, "I'll call one of you when he's ready for whatever it is you need, shove off. See if you can find one of the healers while you're at it. Now, can you move your arm without pain?"

And she's hoped up onto the stool she uses to put herself on somewhat equal footing with the infirmary beds. She's a strange sight for most topsiders, if she were the type to think about it, she'd wonder what she looked like to Rifters; a tiny woman, smaller even than this man, dressed in religious garb with a large brand on her cheek.

[forwardmomentum]

In his own defense, Miles would claim, he was so disoriented from pain and -- well, everything else when they brought him to Sawbones that he couldn't help but stare, a little open-mouthed. Not so much disbelief as sheer bafflement. Everything is just so much today.
For starters, he's never met an adult smaller than him. It had been jarring enough meeting his clone, but this tiny thing -- this tiny thing with the effortless authority of a real son-of-a-bitch commanding officer. He finds himself smiling, stupidly, by the time she's actually turned her attention towards him. How utterly charming.

He immediately tries to move instead of answering, and winces in regret, lips pulling back from his teeth. "Ah -- not as such, no. I'm afraid this isn't the first time this has happened -- or the first, or the third -- brittle bones, you see." He wiggles his wingers at her, which he also regrets, but not as much. "Just a heads up, so nothing else breaks in the process of setting it."

[okayimin]

The bafflement makes sense, the smile is a new one. She makes a mental note to check his head for bumps as she pulls a battered journal from the depths of her habit and takes a few notes.

"That'll make things a bit difficult. No help for it, we'll have to cut you out of your shirt to start." The journal is replaced and a pair of scissors is retrieved, once more from the depths of the habit pockets. "Turn on your good side and keep still."

[forwardmomentum]

Miles practically jumps back at the sight of the scissors, looking alarmed. "Oh, hell no -- no, that won't be necessary."

The idea of cutting clean through his uniform is distressing one, the only familiar thing here. He holds up his good hand, fending her off. "It's fine," he says hastily. "I said it hurts, not that I can't move it. Just -- give me a sec."

Determinedly, stupidly, Miles wrestles his good arm out of his uniform jacket and then gingerly starts to pull the other sleeve down around his broken arm. Oh, it's fucking agony, but he'd much rather keep the uniform.

pttwicfoshm.

[ipseite]

If the firm authority with which Petrana says, “Sit,” manages to plant Miles in what will be, in fact, her chair (at her desk, in her office) then probably no one would blame him, but if he cares to look around to the open door and the woman who has just busted him investigating her office it will become apparent that the command was in fact for the wolfhound sat at her feet and regarding Miles with extreme interest.

The chief cryptographer's office is in fact half of a pair, though for the time being it's only occupied by Petrana herself; she has been scrupulous in not encroaching upon the territory that will belong to someone else if and when that position is filled, both for reasons of being a generally tidy person and because it'll be more inconvenient to have to reorganize later than it is to have to manage her restricted space presently.

She is as neat as her office-space; blonde hair braided and pinned up, blue dress simple but well made and tightly corseted, boots much the same. The jet pendant at her throat is too fine a piece for her to have always dressed so conservatively, and her soft hands and clear skin indicate privilege as clearly as the way that she carries herself and, frankly, the very slight raise of her eyebrows as she takes him in. This is not the first time she's become acquainted with someone by their inability to regard a closed door.

“I believe we are not acquainted,” she says, pleasantly. “Is there something with which I can assist you?”

Re: pttwicfoshm.

[forwardmomentum]

Miles is leaning against a bookcase when he hears Petra, and damn nearly plants his ass on the floor on the spot. But no, the tone of voice rather paralyzes him instead, and he looks instantly startled and then embarrassed. He had been absorbed enough in the thick cryptography manual in his hands that he had, for a bit there, forgotten he had wandered into someone else's personal office space.

"Ah..." He smiles sheepishly at her, feeling immensely stupid just standing here. He clears his throat. "No, I was just, um...looking for something to read."

It sounds like an infinitely lamer excuse once he's said it out loud, and his tired mind starts to flail uselessly. He has potentially just made a spectacularly poor first impression on someone whose opinion of him actually matters, all because he was...bored. He snaps the book shut in his hands in a hurry. "It's just that I've sort of exhausted the reading material in the library on the subject, and I thought I'd, er, get some more reading in..."

In the middle of the night. In someone else's office. Well, for what it's worth, he did look fairly captivated by the subject.

[ipseite]

Certainly, as first impressions go, there have been better. On the other hand, there have equally been worse—worse here, even, albeit not specifically in this room—and while her first instinct is concern for the more sensitive information housed in her office, that is not left carelessly unprotected on her shelves and that it's undisturbed is evident enough to prevent her from immediate suspicion.

Or at least suspicion that he'd got anywhere; opportunism might have seen an attempt made, if she hadn't arrived. But for now,

“I'm afraid I'm not able to part with any of these volumes presently,” as for the most part books kept in this office are on a cycle of relevance, and when she no longer needs them they find their way to the library or whoever she borrowed them from, make room for the next project, “but you are welcome to read them here if you think you might make something productive of it.”

In other words: she's happy to make him less bored by immediately putting him to work.

“My name is Madame de Cedoux; I am Riftwatch's chief cryptographer, and this is my office. You are, I take it, a new arrival.”

[forwardmomentum]

God, please put him to work. He would actually love nothing more right now.

"That I am." He tucks the book under his good arm and sketches her a bow, head bent respectfully low. "Miles Naismith Vorkosiga, at your service. A pleasure to meet you, Madame."

Chief Cryptographer? Oh, God, he's either just won the lottery or completely blown his chances at anyone in this organization taking him seriously enough to let him do any real work. But no, she isn't chasing him out or calling for a guard, or even snatching the book from him. That's...promising. He turns what he hopes is a blinding smile on her as he straightens as much as his back will allow. She is small, only slightly taller than himself, and exquisitely polite. A bearing akin to a Vor lady's, to Miles's eye. The wired smile slips from his face after a moment into something more nervous, a little jittery.

"That's a generous offer, er, all things considered." He wonders why she hasn't chased him out; either she's bored, or she does not view him as any particular threat. Or -- no, best not flatter himself too much at this early date. He clears his throat. "I'm, uh...I've been a little disoriented from all this, and the reading has been keeping me grounded." (Distracted.) "If you think I could make any use out of these...er, that is, I'm in intelligence. Was in intelligence. Back on my planet. Barrayaran Imperial Security."

He snaps her as sharp a salute as he can with the heavy book in hand and nearly brains himself with it. Oh, how he eloquent he is today.

[sarcophage]

"You're up late."

A most obvious remark, with timing worthy of a work of fiction, uttered by a stranger in the hallway. Designed to startle? Maybe. The classics are classic for a reason. But perhaps he is not entirely strange; Miles may have seen this young man around here or there, may even have received some gossip, if that's his thing. Quiet of late, and slow to smile, but not unfriendly. Worn sketchbook or dark-leaved cigarillo in hand. Sometimes both.

Tonight (this morning?) it's just the one, sweet smoke and all. He's not smiling, not unfriendly, only a thin stranger passing by the library door as another thin stranger comes out, torchlight flickering in his eye.

"I can't sleep, either. Must be something in the air."

[forwardmomentum]

By design or not, Miles is successfully startled. He's twitchy enough during the day, but at night he's hyper-wired, oscillating between deep focus in whatever he's put in front of him and restless pacing. He is in the restless pacing phase now, having exhausted every avenue between bookshelves, seeking new ground to tread. But Leander's sudden appearance has him jumping in his tracks, dropping the small armful of books tucked under his good arm. He blinks wide, manages to swallow a strangled noise of surprise, and jerks his chin up at Leander, an old nervous tic he never could shake.

"Ha," Miles breathes out, rubbing his jaw. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

That something in the air is the impending existential crisis he’s been fervently fending off. He wonders, half-wildly, if they offer counseling for this sort of thing. Surely he can't be the only Rifter whose response to the permanence of his new position was a chorus of internal screaming.

He half bends, a little stiffly, to pick up the books he'd dropped. “Anything in the air you can detect, or are you just a regular night owl?"

[sarcophage]

The twitch: good. Privately satisfying. This, alongside the man's slight stature and immediate interest in the library, reminds him of Mhavos. (Mhavos had that little pixie nose, those cheekbones, his hands a clever way with knives. Leander doesn't miss the elf, but he passes through his thoughts on occasion nonetheless. Hands, heads, skilfully detached—)

"In the air?" His eyes roll a casual circuit of their sockets, as though exercising some preternatural sense. What am I, if not a moth? Tell me. A little bird spearing its supper on a thorn, perhaps. Now watching the awkward attempt to retrieve those books, "Mm, no. Feathered friends only, tonight."

He could take three steps closer to help; he doesn't. Pulls from his cigarette instead, speaks through wisps of smoke, "What happened to your arm?" And a proper exhale, angled away. There's space between them, yes, but it's polite.

[forwardmomentum]

Miles appreciates the smoke not being blown his way, though it strikes him as oddly foreign. For the most part, smoking long since fallen out of vogue in the Nexus, but no matter where you go, you're not likely to see someone lighting up anywhere that recycles air. 

"Fell on it," he says cheerfully. "Hardly the first time, but I'll admit, falling through a rift in spacetime was quite the novelty. I suppose I'm lucky I didn't come out feet-first."

[filthydipper]

Yngvi settles on the floor because the floor has more real estate than a table and sometimes you need the lay of the land. So to speak. (That's what he was taught.) Not that what he's chattering about requires paper but hands need to be kept busy and that's what Yngvi's doing, sketching out mechanisms and numbers as he goes. There's also at least one small squeaking pink thing peering out from one of the pockets every now and then, he doesn't seem alarmed about that at all as he scratches at a mop of hair that maybe last saw a brush two weeks back and promptly swallowed the brush, the fingers with a dirt creased into the knuckles, oil caked under the nails.

"You'll probably hear plenty of things about who made this and who made that but as someone from the folk who did it--" Sort of. Disowned because Orzammar hasn't any love for the surfacers and Yngvi less love for Orzammar because that's how the world works, half a glance spared up as he works. "Dwarves sorted out the common language. And currency. Probably knocked up that second moon up there but that's a matter of debate to some folk."

[forwardmomentum]

Miles, for what it's worth, does not seem particularly bothered by Yngvi's lack of cleanliness. Hell, less than a year ago he'd spent six weeks in a prison camp, half of that naked, so who's he to judge? The little squeaking coming from his pockets is...another matter, though Miles is trying not to pay too much attention to it. If something starts nipping at him, though, he's going to say something.

He's listening with rapt attention and active interest, a thoughtful frown on his face. This is not a cultural perspective he's heard thus far, and it's fairly illuminating. He makes a mental note with a cringe never to call himself a dwarf again in moments of particular emotional weakness. That, uh...could be easily misconstrued.

"A very industrious people," Miles says, a note of approval in his voice. "Quite the social and cultural reach, too. Was it that your people did it first, or just better than everyone else?"

[filthydipper]

Stroganugg (when is it not Stroganugg, bravest, most adventurous of nugs) sniffs in the hopes of foods then returns to nibbling the top of Yngvi's pocket when food doesn't materialise. Yngvi himself stops in his sketching, scores out a number and considers what he should say next.

Because well, there's plenty he could say couldn't he? And plenty that some - generally boring, stuffier folks - might tut about and look down their noses thinking that he should say it, that he's obligated even but then they're not dwarves, are they? Probably Orlesians. Or doglords with overinflated egos.

"Well it weren't like folk were beating down the doors down below back in them days because the elves way way back are how some of the elves are now, thinking they're too good for it all." He waves a hand to encompass, oh you know, the entirity of the Ancient Age or whatever. Close enough. "But dwarves got a knack for--" he lifts a page up of trap mechanisms sketched out, all the pieces to go in place eventually, the amount of force it'll take--

"For these sorts of things because that's how you got to be about these things if you're down below and you don't got other things. Down in Orzammar where we all came from at one point now we've got castes for things - warrior caste, smith caste, artisan caste so y'know, how d'you compete with that sort of thing? No one can. Unless you come topside obviously but still if you're a dwarf it's just in there in the bones of you. I mean it has to be best and/i> first, probably somewhere in the Memories Shaperate I reckon."

[forwardmomentum]

Miles nods along with Yngvi's narration thoughtfully, filing it all away for careful consideration and later dissection. This is quite a lot to unpack right now, and he wants to keep the information flowing. Data now, complete analysis later. He watches the nug out of the corner of his eye with a look of perturbed curiosity. The little thing is ugly as sin at first blush, but it does have a certain...charm.

"Yes, I imagine living underground would be a limiting factor to one's resources," he says, nodding. "There's a planet or two in my world that consist largely of subterranean settlements. My mother's planet, for instance, although in that case, it's because the surface is too hot for any human to withstand for long."

Then again, Beta Colony's society is considerably more egalitarian than the dwarves'. Actually, Orzammar sounds a bit more like...home.

"We have a similar social structure on my home planet," he offers, eager (maybe even a little desperate) to find something to relate to. "Not quite so many levels to it, but -- I myself am of the Vor, the military caste. Offworlders tend to mistake it for aristocracy, but we are all in the service of our Emperor." He pauses a moment, then grimaces, his expression almost sheepish. "Not...that we are particularly regarded as technological forerunners, but we can scarcely be blamed for that. We were too busy being under siege to do much inventing."