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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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"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."

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?"

Edited 2020-05-13 16:35 (UTC)

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.

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."

"Or head first." He's looking at that arm, his own head at a contemplative tilt. "Makes you wonder how many have fallen through the rifts and died. Or were injured, perhaps, and lingered for a while before they were found. Or were simply never found at all."

His eyes lift to the face above the arm. He smiles. Though not especially broad, it's welcoming enough.

"You are lucky."

Edited 2020-06-02 21:16 (UTC)

Miles frowns at that thought, looking vaguely ill. Oh, that hadn't occurred to him at all. How many like him had indeed been missed by the Riftwatch welcome crew? How close had he come to avoiding that fate? He shudders inwardly, suppressing the thought. The present circumstances are harrowing enough.

"Just so," he agrees, his returning smile a little uneven. "If in a rather macabre context. I'm Miles, by the way." With no free hand to extend, he instead sketches Leander a neat bow by way of introduction. "Riftwatch's newest recruit-trainee, as I'm sure you've gathered."

He has gathered—along with whatever might be gleaned from an all-over look, hairline to shoes and back again, in time to answer with a cordial nod. Lingering. The little brown cigar smouldering at shoulder level.

"Miles," he repeats; how lovely. "Yes. You've been assigned to Scouting—so we're in the same division. Who did you see?"

For the arm, he means, and indicates with an easy gesture.

Miles's eyes light with a little ah at this small revelation, filing away Leander's face for memory. He'll get a name soon, he's sure. Never too early to start networking, after all; besides, there's something to be said for the sorts of people you find walking around libraries at night.

"Sister Sawbones," Miles says, with just a touch of sheepishness. He'd damn near been in hysterics on arrival. Not best-ever first impression, but he came away rather appreciating her. "She has a terrific bedside manner. And a surprisingly firm grip."

"Mm," by way of agreement, just before he exhales another fragrant plume. "Just the sort of nurse we've been needing in this company. Some of us could do with a little parenting now and then."

Not to gossip, of course.

"She's well accustomed to working without mages, but I think a fractured bone is always worth a look—unless, of course, the break was grievous enough to warrant support even after healing. I'm Leander, by the way. Lovely to meet you." In the torchlit doorway of an empty library in the middle of the night. (In the Gallows, for extra spook points.)

One corner of Miles's mouth twitches in amusement, the strangeness of the moment not quite lost on him. For a moment, he's seized by the absolutely hysterical idea that he's been talking to a ghost -- there are stranger things in this world, after all, and it has been very long since he's slept -- but he suppresses that with a swallowed giggle, managing instead to just look sort cheerfully twitchy.

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you." A sincere enough sentiment. Leander seems promisingly interesting. Miles likes interesting. On the subject of his arm, though, he clears looks a little embarrassed.

"Ah -- no, it wasn't that bad of a break. The good Sister offered to get a healer, but -- " He clears his throat with a rueful grimace. "I was feeling a little overwhelmed at the time, and we don't really have magic where I'm from, and it was all just a little too much for my nerves. So I heartily declined. I imagine that'd seem a bit, er, backwards to you." It sounds silly now that he says it out loud. Eugh.

He did come back from the dead, once... ostensibly...

"Not at all," he answers, with the hint of a smile. "Most people here are terrified of magic and revile those who wield it. You'll fit right in." Assuming he'll have to explain, he goes on, "This fortress was once a place where mages dwelt—what we call a Circle. I'll leave it to you to guess why it's on an island."

The nervous energy this little man seems to emanate—Leander expects to be annoyed by it before long, but it's entertaining enough for the time being.

Edited (edits a million times, sORRY) 2020-06-05 03:12 (UTC)

"Ah -- no, that's not what I meant," Miles says quickly, holding up his good hand. It's not as though he hasn't heard enough of Byerly's snide opinions about magic to get a grasp on the cultural situation. He shakes his head. "It was just...a lot of new things all at once, at a thoroughly disorienting time. At the time, the idea of cutting off the shirt I was wearing felt damn near traumatic."

He clears his throat, feeling a little awkward. "I don't think there's anything repulsive about magic -- quite the contrary. I'm curious to learn more, preferably from someone who actually uses it."

In retrospect, turning down magical healing in a world without morphine is the sort of move that only panicked idiots make. Well, a panicked idiot is as a panicked idiot does. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Your good fortune continues."

He's extinguishing his cigarette, carefully, with little pinches of finger and thumb, tucking the remaining half away in a stiff paper pouch as he goes on.

"I happen to be someone who uses it." Uses—what an ugly verb to apply to a mage's relationship to his magic. If he weren't of a mood to put this Miles at ease, he might say so. "How much have you learnt so far?"

Edited 2020-06-20 04:38 (UTC)

"Mostly the sociopolitical angle," Miles admits, his mouth tilted to the side in a slightly rueful expression. "I've learned a good deal about the public opinion of magic, and the bulk of the why and how, I think. But the perspective I've gotten so far seems...skewed."

He offers his good hand in a gesture, open, palm out. "Call me crazy, but I'd rather hear about it from the horse's mouth -- so to speak. Something tells me there's more to being a mage than the risk of demon possession."

He's rolling up his sleeve, now, with crisp flicks of a wrist. "There's more to everything than just the one thing." Feel free to digest that meaningless nugget while he turns up the other cuff as well.

It's not a conversation he cares to have with a rifter at this hour—or any hour, honestly, one does get exhausted of these people at times—and so a more practical answer is attractive to him. There's only so much one can explain of magic; the true eloquence is in the thing itself.

"I could show you, if you like."

"Just so," Miles says, watching him in mild bemusement. His eyes light up with keen interest. He looks a little too wired for this time of night, but hell, he'd love to not have a broken arm. "Really? I mean -- yes, by all means."

He holds up his broken arm without thinking, then winces. Stop moving, Miles.

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covers timestamps with my hand

time is fake