faderift | [ open log ]

Entry tags:

[ open log ]

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! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Miles raises his eyebrows. You've lost him, By.

"Corypheus," By answers, "was - or claims to have been - one of the Magisters Sidereal, ancient Tevinter priests who ripped open the Veil and were transformed into the first Darkspawn. That was in 400 Ancient, and it is now 46 Dragon - Dragon being the ninth Age - and as such, it was approximately thirteen hundred years ago that Corypheus began this war."

A smile. "Or so the claims go."

Miles sits back, blinking. No, he hadn’t heard this part of the story yet. Several thousand years, huh. It sounds like the stuff of a very imaginative holodrama. Probably one he'd watch, actually, even if he doesn't really have time for a holovid habit these days.

Then again, these days are behind him now. There might not be any holodramas here, but he's got all the time in the world, now.

"Ah," he says, digesting that, and tilts his head in concession. So the claims go, Byerly says, but nothing seems all that farfetched in context, here. Miles carefully indexes all of this information, maps it out to the larger picture of Thedas he's still putting together. It's going to make a hell of a mental panorama once he's finished, he's sure. He sits up a little straighter. "Then I suppose if I'm going to be any use around here, I'd better get on studying my history."

He's serious, and all too eager to get to it. If he's here and there's a war on, he might as well throw himself bodily into it. There's nothing else he can throw himself into anymore, his brain morbidly reminds him, and if what they've told him is true, Riftwatch is probably the closest chance he'll ever get to military service again.

Hm. Byerly watches the little man a moment, his smile as opaque as ever. "How eager you are."

Miles senses that he is being baited, that all Byerly has done since entering the room was bait him in one form another, and while it's annoying, what really bothers him about it is that Byerly seems to be very good at it. Like he has already guessed which spots to probe. Miles offers an edged smile back, spreading his good hand.

"Should I not be? As I've been given to understand, this is my home now. One should want to defend one's home, eh?"

"As you've been given to understand." He tilts his hand very slightly from side to side, then takes up his glass, hoping that taking a light sip will encourage Miles to drink a little deeper himself. "Do you always take what you are given, milord?"

Miles's mouth twitches. He does not touch his wine glass, as though in polite refrain. "Not without a grain of salt, no, but I haven't met anyone yet to gainsay any of this. If you have an alternate take, I'd be glad to hear it."

For instance, he would absolutely love an alternate take on this whole 'you're stuck here forever' business.

"Not at all," By replies cheerily. "I should quite like for you to swallow everything wholesale, buy in, and be willing to lay down your life for the sake of this army. It would make my life easier, to be sure."

Yes, and I'm sure you've already decided I'm the perfect fit for a cannon, Miles thinks, a little sourly.

"You should do recruitment posters," he remarks, his smile showing teeth. What, exactly, is Byerly's game here? Rile up the cripple for a laugh? That'd be...disappointing, actually. A thoroughly mundane motivation. Maybe Miles has been a little too passive in this conversation. "Is that how you became head of Diplomacy? Rousing speeches to inspire wayward Rifters?"

"Are you wayward?" A slow, innocent blink. "You seem quite agreeable to me. Not contrarian in the least. Is that not so?"

"Oh, no, I'm the perfect picture of a patriotic recruit," Miles agrees with irritating cheer. Ha. "Born to be a soldier, that's me. It's even in my name. But..." He drums a few fingers on the table. "I imagine not every Rifter is of a military mind."

"I have never," he says gravely, "met anyone with a greater soldier's heart than Miss Wysteria Poppell."

Ha.

"But you're right." He drops the act soon as he puts it on. "But our Rifters, generally, we just let them come or go as they please. We're not really in the business of press-ganging them into the war. But - " A shrug. "Often they end up helping out regardless. We might lack charisma, but the other side has a way of inspiring one to fight."

Well -- it is sort of heartening to hear they aren't drafting Rifters against their will, although Miles wouldn't quite blame them if they were. There is a war on, after all. Regardless, Miles is here to jump in feet first without much more thought than that. He has skills. Skills he can use here. If he doesn't use them, he'll lose his entire damn mind.

"I don't know, it's got a certain rag-tag charm," Miles remarks wryly, but then seems to shift gears. "I am interested in hearing more about the other side as they are now. The history's all well and fine, but I haven't got a clear picture on what we're facing now."

He's suddenly all business, his face intent as he studies the map, as though they're in a mission briefing and not a history lesson. It's an easy role to fall back into, comfortable and familiar. It either has not occurred to him or it does not particularly bother him that this is not the subject Byerly has come to teach.

"I know who we've got on our side for the most part, but I don't know a whole lot about them. What can you tell me about our opposition?"

His eyebrow ticks up, very slightly. Well. The man's energy is not to be underestimated. Truthfully, By had expected rather more resistance; the Miles of his own acquaintance would likely scorn the information due to the source of it alone. How could a degenerate like Byerly Rutyer ever be of use to anyone, after all? Perhaps this dream-self is simply more agreeable. What a pleasant notion.

"Celebrants of the old ways," By says. "Those who believe that the world was better off before Andraste's teachings broke the Tevene whip. Once, Tevinter was the world; they want to see it so again." A shrug. "So there's them, and then there's also those who see some advantage to traveling alongside them. Mages, for example - no love lost for Tevinter for much of them, but they can see the charm in the Tevene worldview."

Oh, he'll surely disavow Byerly of that notion in no time, but for now, he's going with it. Miles is hungry for information, any information at all, and he can vet it later. He can think of a few reasons Byerly might lie to him -- largely, he thinks, as a joke -- but he can sort it all out later. He frowns in thought at the map, rubbing his chin, then turns that frown on Byerly.

"That'd be because Tevinter has a different cultural view of mages, right? They seem a bit more built into the Tevinter social structure."

"One could say that," he agrees. "Inasmuch as here they are treated as near-abominations, just one bad day away from turning into true monsters and slaughtering those around them...while up north, they're given the reins of power and leave to rule." A shrug. "The fate of Rifters has, to this point, rather been linked to the fate of mages. They don't really know what to do with you - treating you like mages is as close as they can come to figuring you out."

So is that enough to get you to sympathize with our northern enemies?

Miles does not like feeling like he's being tested. Byerly's clearly probing him for a reaction, and he reels in his wildly diverging thoughts before he can get too carried away. He likes even less that he feels...threatened by Byerly. Not a pleasant taste, that. So he refuses to jump on the bait as he's sure Byerly is waiting for him to do -- isn't he? What about him, exactly, can Miles count on really knowing about him? The lack of raw data on that is giving him a headache, if he could just --

Focus, boy. Miles frowns at the map again. A convenient expression, that. Much harder to look rattled or annoyed if you're intently studying a map. It's a theory he has, anyway.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the danger with magic..." He still feels a little saying it. "Is that the people who have it are at risk of, er, demon possession, right? I'm assuming that doesn't change if one sets foot inside of Tevinter's borders."

and i love it. i love it all

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