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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! ]

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"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."

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."

"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?"

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."

"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.

The corner of Miles's mouth twitches. The hell you don't. But he doesn't say anything, just lifts his eyebrows slightly and spreads his good hand.

"I didn't think the concept of nobility with a rank was so foreign here, but -- no, just Miles is fine." Nearly force of habit, introducing himself as though he were on Barrayar. Barrayar is the only comparable metric he has for this place, and it's...a weird fit. He tilts his head slightly, chin jerking up at his new tutor. "I'd settle for your name in return. Nice to know who I'm addressing the thank-you cards to."

He would love to put another name to this guy's face beyond his mental placeholder of 'fantasy Byerly', just to banish the association from his mind.

"Merely a card?" he responds mildly. "I should hope I'll earn more than simple platitudes. Gifts, perhaps, are welcome? But - forgive my intolerable rudeness."

He executes another bow, one that ends with him plucking up his wine and taking a sip. "Byerly Rutyer, at your service. Of the Diplomacy division."

Miles is still in the midst of crafting a suitably diplomatic but witty reply when Byerly's name hits his ears, and he immediately chokes on his own tongue. His mind must be playing some kind of cosmically cruel joke, but no -- Miles sees Byerly say the words, knows he didn't dream them up out of thin air, and covers his shock in an abrupt coughing fit, quickly smothered into his sleeve.

His mind is racing. Byerly Vorrutyer. No, Byerly Rutyer. Here, presumably still queer, and very much not Barrayaran. You've gone native on me, Byerly, he thinks madly, tries not to let a laugh escape into that strategic coughing, and downright wheezes. This is insane. This is absolutely insane. This can't be Byerly. Byerly is a town clown, a social parasite with an embarrassing habit of getting kicked out of otherwise very nice parties for being too sloppily drunk and, well, Byerly-levels of obnoxious. This man is at least five years too old, probably more, and he seems far too composed. But no, there's no mistaking it, even as much as Miles would desperately like to deny it. Miles is pulled through some mysterious dream realm, worlds away from anything even remotely familiar, and here is Byerly fucking Vor-Rutyer. Oh, Miles is gonna laugh his way into a padded room, if they even have those here.

He controls himself, with difficulty, and swipes the water from the corner of his eye. "Sorry," he rasps, reaching for his glass. "Just, a -- " He clears his throat. "Must have inhaled a bit of dust."

That...is certainly a reaction.

"Of course," he replies quite pleasantly. "Dreadful, this time of year. Especially given the weather - we haven't had a chance to air out the old pile fully yet this season."

Damn it all. If he'd known that his name would send the man into some sort of strange little paroxysm, he'd have withheld it. Deployed it strategically. Still, it does lead him a little further down the road of some of his odder little suspicions. Perhaps...

He tops off the wineglass soon as Miles sets it down again. Tops his off as well. "So," he says, with a smile, "let us speak of Ferelden and Orlais. How much do you know of those lands?"

God, he wishes Ivan were here. When has he ever wished for Ivan, until now? Stuck on some distant planet with Byerly is by far the cruelest curse.

He's extremely conscious of himself now, immediately regrets not suppressing that reaction. Damn it all, he's been badly knocked off his guard. He doesn't touch the glass, smoothing his features into a bland, almost vaguely contrite, smile.

"Not much," he admits, leaning back in his chair. He is also extremely conscious of the fact that his feet don't quite reach the floor, and that he could do with just a bit of a booster seat. "Other than that the two aren't entirely friendly, and that the former is apparently home to some wonderful wine country."

"Not too bad," Byerly says, his smile cheery. And I wonder, dear creature, which country you will favor more, in the telling? By certainly has a guess, and it is a strong one indeed.

"They are countries you must know much of - Orlais in particular, as she is instrumental in our fight, the battleground upon which much of this war is waged. So they are worth spending time upon. Do you know why they are not entirely friendly?"

Miles has caught snatches here and there about this war and that conflict, but his mental map of Thedas is still very incomplete. Besides which, he's rather curious how Byerly wants to tell it. He sits forward, eyes glinting with interest.

"I'm afraid not, short of 'a lot of war'," he says, folding his hands together on the table in front of him. "Please, enlighten me."

"Not true," By responds. "Not exactly. It was not a lot of war, but rather a most civilized occupation of a barbarous land, and a rebellion against it."

By's manner gives nothing away. His smile is wry, good-natured; his voice is quite nearly academic. A near-perfect imitation of the cadences of Sister Edith, who'd taught him to read the Chant and paddled his bottom for disobedience many a time in his youth. Ah, simpler times.

"Orlais, you understand, sought to expand her borders back in the day. The Orlesian Empire is the largest, richest, and most artistically glorious country in all of Thedas, and so she cast her pitying glance to the southeast. And so she looked to take Ferelden for her own. Ferelden, sadly, resisted, with great force; even so, she took several decades to cast off Orlesian rule. The Occupation lives still in the memory of living people, and so the relations between the two nations is certainly strained."

Laying it on a bit thick? Hm. Perhaps. No matter.

Oh, he's laying it on thick, alright, but Miles is thoroughly hooked. The tale of the underdog rallying against an overpowered and overdressed enemy is one that would appeal to any Barrayaran's heart. Miles even almost forgets that it's Byerly he's listening to.

His keen interest is apparent now, not that he's made any attempt to hide it. He latches onto the information hungrily, not just because it piques his patriotic spirit, but also because he wants nothing more than to drown himself in Thedas knowledge. Miles's brows draw down in thought, and he looks at Byerly intently. "Just how long ago was this Occupation?"

He doesn't even have to stop to think. "The Orlesians were driven from Ferelden forty-four years ago," he replies. "After fifty-eight years of them occupying the land." Then, conversationally - "There's actually a fellow here - Alistair - who's the bastard son of the king who fought them off. Pleasant enough sort. You should ask him all about it."

Do not trust Byerly Rutyer when he suggests a topic for conversation.

"So feelings, you understand, are still rather - hm - tender."

Miles's eyebrows arch slightly. Tender indeed. He notes Alistair's name and mentally pins the likelihood that he's excessively fond of Byerly to be rather low. Definitely someone to talk to, though.

"So your father and grandfather's generations, then," Miles says thoughtfully, turning his gaze to the map. It's difficult not to draw parallels between this world and his, especially with Byerly fucking Vor-Rutyer sitting right there. God, this is like the mental equivalent of watching a slightly out-of-sync holoprojector tuned to his least favorite channel. It's going to make him go cross-eyed eventually.

But thankfully for everyone here, Miles fucking loves the history channel, and he is keyed in now. "So how did the Fereldans fight back during the Occupation? Fifty-eight years is a hell of a long war."

By shrugs. "Well, truly,," he replies, "it is only a war from a certain perspective. One could argue that it was fifty-eight years of decent governance of a lawless land, during which those uncivilized people attempted to bruise their caretakers. Like an untrained mabari tearing at the hand offering it a meal instead of the proffered steak." He holds out his hand, tilts it to the side. "Or it was fifty-eight years of unjust oppression, during which rage simmered low and constant, until finally they could bear no more and the Rebel Queen took up the sword."

Then he smiles at the small fellow across from him, picks up his wineglass once more.

"Which story do you think is true?"

This is...almost too much. Miles has the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of being very seen. How hard did Byerly just cold read him? Or is this just how he is on the subject, as inclined to drama as he obviously is? Miles hates that he cannot tell. God.

Because by his bright eyes alone it is very plain which story Miles is inclined to believe, and he doesn't try to hide it. Give or take a generation and smudge the timeline, and you'd have a perfectly apt description of the Barrayaran and Cetagandan narrative. Miles is beginning to wonder if this place has some sort of cosmic sense of irony.

"I think," Miles says, lifting his wine glass with an electric smile, "that anyone who tries to dress up war and occupation as a crusade of civilization is a tyrant wearing a white hat, and usually a spectacularly sore loser, at that."

"Hm," says Byerly, and takes a sip.

No; there's no doubt of it. He doesn't think that this strange little man is the little lord in disguise; as eccentric as Miles of Ferelden is, this would go a little far for him. No. What it is, By suspects, is that one day, or one evening, Miles-Ferelden lay down, and closed his eyes, and dreamed a dream in which his name became Vor-Kosigan, and in which he was a man of another world. He dreamed himself younger, and rather less frail, and then whatever odd Fade magic manifested these Rifters into the real world acted on the little lord's dream and this Miles-Vor-Kosigan was born from Miles-of-Ferelden's imagination. How else could it be explained? The name, the appearance, the mannerisms, the inexplicable arrogance that really was so odd coming from a man that small and weak. The way he'd looked at Byerly, like he knew him but couldn't place him. The sympathy for his homeland.

Such a strange twist of fate. By wonders what would happen if he brought the real man up here. He'd often lamented that the real fellow couldn't be exposed to his own arrogance, that no one would ever look at him with the withering judgment with which he looked at others. If he put them in a room, and locked the door, would they fight? Tear each other to pieces like two mantises in a jar? Oh, what a joyous notion.

"So you prefer other dressings to war?" he asks, his smile utterly unreadable. "After all, she must always make herself pretty."

Miles frowns, brow furrowed. "Quite to the contrary. I don't think war ought to be dressed up at all."

His frown stretches into something thoughtful, critical. A look of utter conviction, because Miles must always have conviction for his little balancing act to work. "To make war pretty is to deny the suffering of those trampled beneath it. You romanticize it, and you undermine your own desire to see it end. You're tempted to another one. You're drawn into it, time and time again."

He thinks, mostly, of Cetaganda's dogged attempts at reclaiming the face they'd lost to Barrayar all those years ago. How many other invasions had they mounted, only to have them sputter out in their fetal phase, foiled by Barrayaran interests and many others'? Maybe that was why they had taken to Marilac, then. Another feisty target for them to feed their egos on. Those haut really had done a number on those last few generations of ghem. And he is aware, to some extent, of his own hypocrisy. Mercenaries thrive on the conflict of others, after all. But at least he can assure himself that as long as he's acting in Barrayar's interests, nothing they're doing is violence for violence's sake. Miles blows out his breath.

"No, war is an ugly thing. Seems rather self-deluded to pretend it's not."

"And yet," By responds with just a hint of dryness, "the history of the world is the history of people being drawn into it, time and time again."

He lifts his glass to nothing and no one in particular.

"'Tis why we're here."

"Ah," Miles says, smiling slightly, and inclines his head as he takes a small sip . "That is the romance of war. And who among us is not tempted by romance?"

Present company excepted, as far as he's concerned. The most romantic Miles has ever seen (Barrayaran) Byerly was a truly ghastly mockery of a poetry recital at a Vor function a year or two ago -- self-nominated, of course. Miles had taken great pleasure in a certain degree of heckling, although admittedly, victories over the sloppily drunk ring just a little hollow.

"You don't strike me as the war-mongering type, but then, I suppose if you had no stomach for war you wouldn't be here." Miles might have a shaky grasp on this world, but the immediate urgency of their present situation has been firmly impressed upon him.

"Don't be absurd. Of course I'm a war-monger. A chance for glory? I never found a chance for glory before." He taps lightly on his arms, none too impressive under his sleeves. "Look at this shameful lack of musculature. But now, I've the chance to be a proper hero. Oh, I do hope I die on the battlefield."

His simpering performance is perhaps a little closer to what Miles is used to. Hard not to fall into familiar habits when confronted with a (falsely) familiar figure. But self-mockery is so very easy when sitting before judgmental eyes.

"Besides, didn't you hear how righteous this one is? I'm sure you've been told all about it."

Miles actually lets out a snort, lulled into that sense of familiarity, uncanny as it is. He desperately craves familiarity right now, as his mind shies away from every thought of never returning home. Better Byerly than nothing at all. God, I miss Ivan.

"Oh, yes, I've heard a thing or two. This Exalted March seems to be quite the affair." A crusade all its own, it seems. The most alien thing about this place -- besides the whole magic thing -- is perhaps how much religion permeates this entire place. His mother's own casual theism had never approached the fervor that seems to grip the majority here. Perhaps a battle in the name of one's god is much like one in the name of own's honor. Something about his impressions of the Chantry thus far makes him squirm, though.

"But this Corypheus sounds like the sort who inspires righteousness naturally by sheer virtue of being so vile." Admittedly, he hasn't gotten a complete picture on that yet, but the impressions have been clear enough. "How long has this war been going on again?"

"Several thousand years," Byerly answers casually.

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i forgot miles's arm was broken for a minute

you bring this sort of thing on yourself

and i love it. i love it all

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