![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
First Cream Cake: [Action/Voice]
May. 7th, 2012 06:09 pm( Cut for length )
[The village isn’t hard to navigate. He has no credit chit with which to buy clothes, which causes problems until he learns everything is free for the taking. Definitely prisoners. Much here is of a fashion he’s not used to, but he picks out a black button-up shirt, a pair of blue cotton twill trousers someone calls “jeans,” and a pair of sandals that snap at his heels as he walks. It seems to be the sort of fare most people wear around here, far more relaxed than the military-inspired tunics of Barrayaran fashion. Still, since none of it was inspected by ImpSec, he feels oddly liberated even as he feels wary. There are holes in the shirt to thread his wings through, and he does so very carefully. On the other hand, maybe he should flaunt the colors. No one outside Barrayar is likely to know the Vorbarra house colors, but they might alert an ImpSec agent--if Simon Illyan indeed has any plants here, which Gregor wouldn’t put beyond him. Illyan and Aral, like two parentheses surrounding him.
Illyan is going to have a stroke.
Eventually he sits at the bakery with a cream horn on a plate in front of him, as well as a cup of tea with three sugars and half-and-half. He slumps in the chair like he’s trying to become invisible, feet and knees wide apart, a neurasthenic expression on his narrow face, long hands flipping through his journal with the cover flat on the table, hiding the name on it. It would be best if no one knew his identity just yet.
The worst part is how little he really cares, now that his options have been made a little clearer. Yes, he cares very deeply, but not enough. Giving him a pair of wings, whether or not they count as a mutation, and sending him back to his own people? Would free him of the Imperium, whatever else it would do. He’s not sure if that’s what he wants. He’s not sure what he wants at all. But what he wants doesn’t matter, as long as he has the wings. They’re a handy excuse for now, but what about when Illyan catches up with him in a frantic but well-executed rescue? What about when civil war breaks out back home as various power-greedy Vor lords attempt to lay claim to the Imperium? What about when Aral Vorkosigan is assassinated? What about when the Counts too clever to try to take the Imperium for themselves rally behind Ivan Vorpatril and make him their puppet?
…Okay, that last one just made him stop taking the entire disaster scenario seriously. Emperor Ivan. A smile tugs briefly at his lips.
He stops suddenly as he comes to a particular entry. After a moment, he finds his voice and the button to start transmission.]
Someone asked some time ago about surgically removing the wings. I’m curious. What did he find out?
[There’s a certain cool authority to it, but it’s still polite and respectful, not patronizing or clipped at all. A formal request for information, not a demand. Then, hesitation.]
My name is Greg Bleakman. I’ve just arrived.
[There. That alias should alert any ImpSec agents in the enclosure. It also reveals his emergency alias to any kidnappers listening in, but Illyan can provide him with another.
He spends the rest of the day scouting out places to stay. Eventually he chooses Community Building 7, because it’s close to the stables. He’ll have to go riding tomorrow, once he has settled in a bit better. The third floor satisfies his inner Simon Illyan, and a room at the end of the hall satisfies his desire to keep to himself for now.
Catch up with him at any point during the day.]
[The village isn’t hard to navigate. He has no credit chit with which to buy clothes, which causes problems until he learns everything is free for the taking. Definitely prisoners. Much here is of a fashion he’s not used to, but he picks out a black button-up shirt, a pair of blue cotton twill trousers someone calls “jeans,” and a pair of sandals that snap at his heels as he walks. It seems to be the sort of fare most people wear around here, far more relaxed than the military-inspired tunics of Barrayaran fashion. Still, since none of it was inspected by ImpSec, he feels oddly liberated even as he feels wary. There are holes in the shirt to thread his wings through, and he does so very carefully. On the other hand, maybe he should flaunt the colors. No one outside Barrayar is likely to know the Vorbarra house colors, but they might alert an ImpSec agent--if Simon Illyan indeed has any plants here, which Gregor wouldn’t put beyond him. Illyan and Aral, like two parentheses surrounding him.
Illyan is going to have a stroke.
Eventually he sits at the bakery with a cream horn on a plate in front of him, as well as a cup of tea with three sugars and half-and-half. He slumps in the chair like he’s trying to become invisible, feet and knees wide apart, a neurasthenic expression on his narrow face, long hands flipping through his journal with the cover flat on the table, hiding the name on it. It would be best if no one knew his identity just yet.
The worst part is how little he really cares, now that his options have been made a little clearer. Yes, he cares very deeply, but not enough. Giving him a pair of wings, whether or not they count as a mutation, and sending him back to his own people? Would free him of the Imperium, whatever else it would do. He’s not sure if that’s what he wants. He’s not sure what he wants at all. But what he wants doesn’t matter, as long as he has the wings. They’re a handy excuse for now, but what about when Illyan catches up with him in a frantic but well-executed rescue? What about when civil war breaks out back home as various power-greedy Vor lords attempt to lay claim to the Imperium? What about when Aral Vorkosigan is assassinated? What about when the Counts too clever to try to take the Imperium for themselves rally behind Ivan Vorpatril and make him their puppet?
…Okay, that last one just made him stop taking the entire disaster scenario seriously. Emperor Ivan. A smile tugs briefly at his lips.
He stops suddenly as he comes to a particular entry. After a moment, he finds his voice and the button to start transmission.]
Someone asked some time ago about surgically removing the wings. I’m curious. What did he find out?
[There’s a certain cool authority to it, but it’s still polite and respectful, not patronizing or clipped at all. A formal request for information, not a demand. Then, hesitation.]
My name is Greg Bleakman. I’ve just arrived.
[There. That alias should alert any ImpSec agents in the enclosure. It also reveals his emergency alias to any kidnappers listening in, but Illyan can provide him with another.
He spends the rest of the day scouting out places to stay. Eventually he chooses Community Building 7, because it’s close to the stables. He’ll have to go riding tomorrow, once he has settled in a bit better. The third floor satisfies his inner Simon Illyan, and a room at the end of the hall satisfies his desire to keep to himself for now.
Catch up with him at any point during the day.]
