vor | Third Cream Cake: [Action/Written]

[Sleek and dark, the new horse is a glorious bay mare the color of dark chocolate with cayenne pepper, intelligent and attentive and calm, but headstrong when she wants to go her own way. Gregor has an emotionally difficult time shacking her up in a nook in a barn in the farmlands. A proper Vor horse deserves better, but with the stables full, there’s nowhere else for her.

This morning, though, he’s riding the horse through the woods and grasslands just outside the village, looking exhilarated. With a palette swap, he could almost be back on Barrayar, near the house at Vorkosigan Surleau, with an afternoon to himself, his security perimeter tactfully out of sight and temporarily out of mind. With the exception of one or two bodyguards, of course.

After a shower and a change of clothes (a tunic, trousers, and unbuttoned vest devoid of military-esque embellishments), he steps outside looking happier than he has since his arrival, and feeling freer than he has in years. His hair has grown out of its short military burr cut, but he’s in no hurry to change it back to the Barrayaran standard. It has finally sunk in that here, he has no schedule, no expectations, no affairs. No pressure to marry and have lots and lots of kids (especially male ones). No treaties, no Cetagandan threat, no disgruntled Komarrans, no slander, no ImpSec. Just himself and a future he chooses. This is the chance he ran away for, and it doesn’t even come with consequences back home. For once, Gregor Vorbarra is in an amazingly good mood. Not that it’s easy to tell from his face.

He spends much of the afternoon converting one of the rooms in his apartment into a workout space. He then peruses the weapons’ shop for…well, okay, no, they have absolutely no stunners, plasma arcs, nerve disruptors, or needlers, and Gregor doesn’t have a way to charge them anyway. Not that he really expected a place like this to carry them. Instead, he selects an excellent, if plain, concealable dagger with a walnut grip and sound steel.

In the evening, he sits at Cloud Nine listening quietly to the music, munching an appetizer, and writing in the journal, laid flat on the bar with the cover down. He needs to tape over the name on it already, dammit.]

Does anyone need any work done?

-GB

[Filtered to Rin, 90% unhackable]

Rin, I believe you and I have a race to run.

[…Yup, definitely in a very good mood.

Run into him anytime during the day.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[...Oh god it's a pet. Someone wants him to rescue a pet.]

Did he get back out?

Aye, and he's simply awash in treacle, little scamp!

...So you...want me to clean your pet.

No, mate: you want to clean my pet.

You'll have an interesting time convincing me of that one.

Were you not looking for work? Or were you simply curious about the needs of the general populace?

I was asking if anyone needed work done. Emphasis on needed.

He's a VERY sticky cat! And I'm a bit laid up at the moment!

Laid up how?

Bruised ribs. Lash wounds. Knife wounds. Blunt-wooden-object wounds. Unattributable wounds. And a hangnail.

And all of it, lad, covered with treacle.

Edited 2012-06-13 01:57 (UTC)