There had never been a doubt in anyone's mind, she supposed, that once they arrived, once the fighting started - that would be it. There would be nothing else. So perhaps it should not surprise her, that she does not seem him over much once it truly does start.
Not that there was much for her to do - she had never experience ship to ship combat. It was strange, and marvelling, as she stood back to watch the Admiral and his mercenaries work. How seamless they knew each other like she knew her own forces. Even if it felt like swallowing fire to know that this was the war for her home, and she could nothing from here and she must leave it into his hands. Doing her best not to snap for it, like a captured predator prowling at cage doors. She fills in the time with her training. With their exchanges when they have them. A slow process of getting to know each other. It does enough, in the intermediate, soothe her. But it doesn't take it away, that pent-up aggression, that awful sense of fate in her hands that was as strong as silk, fine as a single thread that could take a weight and snap when pulled too hard. Feeling it between her hands as she withdrew quieter as they came closer. Her mind clearly taken up even in their conversations. This would not be like the wars she had fought before, it must not be. She has risked too much. She laughed loudly, hit harder, and fell silent as mountains in preparation.
Not until they began boarding, taking over the ship according to his plan. She didn't hesitate. She would be the first to go, and no one else besides. For he had done his behalf, the surprise attack - getting everything into place. Now it was time for her to do her own part. Do what she had been born for, fated too. She doesn't see him before the battle, dressed by her own guards, protected to the last by them as they flanked her. The star and crescent moon painted onto her brow, that in turn with a red vermillion, she painted a dot to each of her guard's brow. Each of their fingers stained darkly. The sieging of a ship was something none of them had done before either, but at least the steps were familiar. Readied themselves to the ritualistic formula for it.
Even if maybe that once the fighting spills out, from that fight to the next - they aren't the best at anything at range. Neither she nor they, quite seem to grasp the concept of using cover outside of their own shields, archaic things that at least do the simple task of blocking nerve disruptor fire. But they get in close, with weapons the UC's armour considered itself superior too, so there wasn't much to stop her men when they got knives into throats. When they jammed plasma rifle into a stomach and blasted them apart. She wonders briefly, in the carnage of it all, if her people can see it, far below on the surface. Battle's that shone like Gods' light as she felt the shake of the ground - the ship - below her feet in a battle she understood far less of, but knew the importance - it would be as unforgiving as her sword through a man's chest.
She kills, and nearly is killed, and then kills again. Every quiet moment of their journey, every still moment, coming out harsh and all at once. It turns to a blur under her hands as it goes, for however long. Like this, there is no sense of time. It could be minutes or it could be days until it's over to her mind's eye.
Then it was, then there was no one left alive that was still fighting, there was only those that gave in, to the surprise of it all. The UC was fat as a spoiled pig, lumbering at its own weight. The commander of the ship that falls to his knees in front of her in surrender. That she sees his face - and she realises, she knows this man. She knows him. Knows him from when he made widows clear up the bodies of their own husbands. What little of them there was left when they had only dared to fight for food.
She doesn't even realise she's moving until the sword is in her hand again. Until she hears one of his soldier's cry to tell her to stop as she advances on him. It's too late, she wants to tell them, she won't be stopped. The commander had already made his choices. He would pay for them.
His head comes off in one clear-cut. Hitting the ground with a splatter of blood and a wet thump. Rolling with widely spinning eyes as brain caught up with death, until the stare turned glassy, and the mouth was open in an agonising scream. Breathing hard, fast, righteous in the action she turned back to - see him, to look only for him, nodding to him. "The spoils are yours." As promised by their agreement, she had no further business on the ship.
With that - she left. Retreated there firmly, for the next cycle of day and night, even if she's learned that means nothing when there is no sky when there is nothing but black and flickers of light. Takes food and drink - takes a lot of drink, more than she had ever imbibed for most of her life - and sends even her own away, her son kept far from the battle does not need to see his mother like this. Kashi had known her too long to know that it was anything she would like anyone to see.
Drunk, on blood and misery and whatever it was that they had been procured.
Miles' own contact with the enemy is somewhat limited, thanks to the careful persuasion of his lieutenants. But once the tide has turned and its clear he can do no more from the command room, he too hauls on one of the suits and follows the Dendarii out into the field. Cleverness is his goal as always; he's responsible for making sure communications are cut off, that the rest of the fleet have no idea what's going on. Right up until the moment when he's behind Lakshmi and she takes the commander's head off. That's - um. That's unfortunate, actually. He'd much rather have had the man surrender, thus giving them a bargaining chip against the rest. Now he'll have to figure out an alternate plan.
But for now, the day is won. His mercenaries gladly help themselves to the spoils - and given they've seized quite a bit of the company's pay, it's a hell of a prize - but Miles himself takes little. No, he's after information, the next step, how to break the rest of the blockade and make this last ... The gap they have now is good, and Lakshmi's planet will get some needed supplies. But it won't last forever. At any moment they're sure to end up on the other end of a counter attack.
None has come yet. It's enough to make Miles deeply antsy. And enough to make him head for her quarters, knock on her door. He's brought a bottle of his own wine in turn. Vorkosigan wine, a very good vintage. "Rani?" he calls through the door. "Are you there?"
She's drunk enough to feel the thickness in her lips, in her tongue, when the door opens, assuming for a moment - for once slowed, blinking at him as her brain caught up with his presences. Her voice low, dark, not so proper, like this: "a moment."
Lakshmi steps back once the door opens to let him in, ragged still from the exhaustion of it all but cleaned up. Her clothes simple long and covering, her hair falling to the top of thigh as she rakes it out of her way, pulled back from her face as she looks him over. "What brings you, Admiral?" Which is to say, she did not feel particularly glamorous to behold.
The quarters are as her people have set them up. Everything neatly ordered but lived in comfortably. Weapons set aside, but always within easy reach. Her discarded armour on the table that had been placed in the middle of the room with a silver plate that normally sat in the middle, with a low lamp that burned in the middle, pushed aside for the time being as the long sword that was her preferred working weapon, was laid out in it's place. The cloth beside it, stained with blood. The confession there - the length of time since it had finished, where she didn't know what else to do but clean it over and over again.
If there is trust there, it is in that she has let him in when she is like this at all.
Miles holds up the bottle of wine in response. Though - looking at the state of her and her quarters, maybe he shouldn't have. Ah, well. He needs some himself. "A victory celebration, of course," he says, "if only a temporary one." The UC will be back, he can just feel it. Better to take some joy while he has it; better to do what he can while he has time.
He looks past her into the room, then back up at her. And - before she can potentially object - he slips past her, his small frame easily twisting around hers. "Get me a pair of glasses and I'll get us started."
He's quick, she can give him that. He's in there the second he has a chance and there - wasn't much to say to that. Bemused perhaps for the first time since she had returned, it makes it a little easier to relent. Alright then, glasses it was.
She beckons him to sit on the low couch that had been pushed aside for by her people, going to a cupboard herself and the glasses. What she fetches aren't the right ones for it, she suspects, she'd never had wine like this before. But they're deep cups, which is quite probably to both their tastes regardless of whatever they're losing out in on etiquette. "As you wish."
Lakshmi settles one the other end from him, putting both the glasses down in front of them on the low table.
That's how Miles gets what he wants half the time: just go for it and hope the other person doesn't care too much. He settles down after a moment, carefully uncorking his bottle. "Thank you, your highness," he says. And once the glasses are in place, he pours them each a liberal portion of wine.
She falls silent as he does so, only venturing to move when the glass was poured. She reaches for it, then shifts herself in her seat. Letting her legs curl under her, so she could sit to face him more directly. Her bare feet tucked away under the wrap of her skirts.
"I am surprised, Admiral. I thought you would be celebrating with your own men."
She lifts her wine to her lips, sipping slowly. It wasn't like she hadn't already drunk her fair share this evening. ( Thank Goodness she had hidden the already empty bottle elsewhere. ) Though this tasted far, far better than whatever else she'd been able to get her hands on.
"I'll do that too," he says, tilting his own glass towards her. Then taking a sip himself. He doesn't know how drunk she is, but - well, surely she's had some already. "But I thought it best to enjoy your company as well."
She wets her lips, taking - a bigger sip, this time. She ought to know better, Vishnu forgive her for her weakness, the wanton destruction she had wrought. There - the thought sits ugly and heavy in her mouth as she swallows down. Her fingers held on either side of the glass carefully.
"Before... in the battle... I am glad to know I did not startle you with my... actions. Though, if what I have heard of them, I am sure it is nothing to what you must have seen on Barrayar."
Ah, he means the viciousness. He has to pause for a moment, to order his thoughts. Honestly - he'd been goddamn turned on by it. Barrayaran roots and all, plus a huge weakness for tall, dark-haired women kicking all of the ass. But he needs to be a bit more subtle.
"You would fit in very well there, I think," he says, slowly. "I am not certain that is a compliment, though."
Rather than be put off, there's a smile, her eyes turning down, looking at her glass to hide it away. Whether it was that apparently, he hadn't been too bothered by it, or that Barrayar would like her.
"I am glad to hear it. My advisors told me if I had no luck with you, I ought to go to them, next. Propose a marriage to honour both our people and secure the alliance." Another mouthful, laughter filling her words. "A dry serious Barrayaran. I've heard they barely even dance except when they drink." The filter through of stories by propaganda from the UIC. Tall tales and exaggerations.
He's clearly not that upset about it. Trying to pretend he is, maybe, but secretly thrilled. And wishing he could find a way to convince her to come home with him.
Just as he has that precise thought, this woman says that. Oh god. He chokes on his wine, nearly spilling the whole damn glass all over him. Would that even have worked? Well - yes, obviously. He might even have retired from the Dendarii for that. Alas, alas ... "They're not as boring as you would assume," he says, a bit affronted despite himself. "Traditional, yes. But tradition includes drinking. And very good wine."
That was - she gives him, then the glass a look. "This is theirs - ? Alright, wine then." She can agree to that. ( Alright, another sip - the flush that is steady in her cheeks as she raises a toast to his point with it. )
"But what then, if I were to marry a Barrayan, will I have nothing but drink and my husband to occupy my time? No singing, weapons or prayer? Everything I've heard says I may as well lay about in bed all day." It's faintly challenging, go on then, prove her wrong.
He really, really shouldn't. It cuts too close to his true identity; he'd be much safer just saying he knows nothing of it and moving on. But. Goodness. These are some first rate lies he has to clear up here. "Nothing of the sort," he says. "You'd marry a Vor, first of all, and their women are famously violent. Have you not heard of a Vorfemme knife?"
"No?" He has her at an interest there, and she straightens more. For the first time in hours, not punishing herself in her own severeness, eager. She liked, as it turned out, nothing half so much as blades.
"They're quite beautiful. I've been after one for years, but never managed to add it to my collection." True, but - not quite so difficult for him as he makes it out to be. "It's true Barrayar has issues with wanting to keep her women in traditional roles, but those traditional roles are still quite violent. I could tell you many tales about Vor women being the ones to hold her ground during a siege, for example."
"Tell me." It's ordered, where she doesn't quite have the right but it's breathless. Eager. She wants to hear victory, she wants determination to try and dress herself in it when otherwise she might fall. "Tell me the most famous."
Miles sits back a bit, his bright eyes gray with interest. He'll never turn down an opportunity to discuss this, for sure. "I heard of one whose adult sons were kidnapped by the siegers. Her response was to get up on the battlements, hike up her skirts, and inform them that she could just as easily make more where they came from."
She listens, avidly, all brightness that the drink doesn't dull, all open in her face as quickly as he begins. Then still, quiet, watching him -
- Before she falls back, her face breaking into a wide blinding smile and peels off laughter. The wine spilling in the glass over her fingers as she settles. Her other falling over her eyes, covering her as she laughs and laughs and laughs. Still breathless, still earnest. Her laughter turning to giggles, letting her bemusement fill her utterly. "They should have sent their wives. I am sure they looked utterly stunned."
Good, that had the intended effect. He quite likes the look of her smile. "I imagine so," he says with a grin. "She made them pay for kidnapping her sons, of course. With her knife."
She quiets, letting her hand move enough that she can peer through her fingers at him. "Of course she did. They dared threatened her family, her honour. They should pay with their lives."
She settles back, swapping the glass between her hands so she can lift the one with the wine spilt onto it to her lips, pressing her mouth softly to the side of her finger to kiss away the spilt wine. Little movements still, measured, but comfortable enough in his presence to not be bothered that he saw her doing it. "How did you come to know so much of the place? I heard that they were like us -" Paused, a correction. "That they were hidden away, rather." Not kept impoverished.
He finds himself watching her, utterly charmed by all those little gestures. God, he really shouldn't be getting attached here. Soon enough this fight will be over, and she'll return to her newly freed home...
And if he's not careful, he'll give himself away. Goodness. Focus, Miles. "It is a long and sordid story," he says. "But - to put it simply, I am the clone of a Barrayaran Vor lord. Escaped from my captors, then raised on Beta Colony. But I know a significant amount about my progenitor's homeworld." Sorry, Mark. He's stealing your backstory here.
Somewhere, Mark wakes up with a need to punch Miles.
As for Lakshmi - she looks downright alarmed. Her eyes going wide, pushing herself up. She'd heard - a lot of things. Of course she had, some of them she even knew to be UIC propaganda. Others, they had simply been notions she had been raised with, wary, unsure as she watches him. "But you're... so," mouth opening, closing. Trying to be polite. "Slight." She winces even as she says it.
But that wasn't polite either. She struggles, again, the drink didn't make it easier. "Aren't clones meant to be ... impossibly made? Big men and women who have tiger claws and fangs and have purple skin." Alright, that sounded more ridiculous when she heard it out loud, but that was the stories at least. "That was what the... UIC told us, about other places." Definitely, definitely embarrassing.
Miles just winces a bit as Lakshmi seeks politeness and lands on ... probably the best description he could hope for. But it still drives all of this home: he's a lowly mercenary who's just helping her win back her homeworld. After all this is done, they will be strangers again. As it must be. As is best, really; he will not force his ugly body upon her any more than he must. But he will take a large gulp of wine to wash down his pain with.
"Quite slight," he says, giving her a weak smile. "I am quite the failure. In attempting to build my progenitor a better body he could take over, they just duplicated his issues. Which is part of why I was able to escape, I believe." Another small smile. "Clones tend either to be younger body doubles - for transferring - or as outlandish as you say." Sometimes also for transfer, but.
There is a horror on her face - rather than revulsion for him. That had been his fate, that he had only escaped it by chance of what he had been made to be. How could they do that to him? How could anyone? Many, Lakshmi, you have learned that lesson, many would.
And she'd been just as bad.
"I have hurt you. I am very new to... this." Means forgive me, but such things are hard for any royal, after all. Instead, she sits up, putting the wine aside. Though there is no pretending the drunkness she's inevitably falling prey makes her bolder than she would be when she moves closer to him. "Curse them that made you with so little imagination to see all that you might be, curse the Vor Lords then, and me too. Damn them all. If they cannot know you for what you are - my people and this planet, and I as their Queen will always know you for the hope you give us. Even if that comes to nothing. That will always be yours."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Not that there was much for her to do - she had never experience ship to ship combat. It was strange, and marvelling, as she stood back to watch the Admiral and his mercenaries work. How seamless they knew each other like she knew her own forces. Even if it felt like swallowing fire to know that this was the war for her home, and she could nothing from here and she must leave it into his hands. Doing her best not to snap for it, like a captured predator prowling at cage doors. She fills in the time with her training. With their exchanges when they have them. A slow process of getting to know each other. It does enough, in the intermediate, soothe her. But it doesn't take it away, that pent-up aggression, that awful sense of fate in her hands that was as strong as silk, fine as a single thread that could take a weight and snap when pulled too hard. Feeling it between her hands as she withdrew quieter as they came closer. Her mind clearly taken up even in their conversations. This would not be like the wars she had fought before, it must not be. She has risked too much. She laughed loudly, hit harder, and fell silent as mountains in preparation.
Not until they began boarding, taking over the ship according to his plan. She didn't hesitate. She would be the first to go, and no one else besides. For he had done his behalf, the surprise attack - getting everything into place. Now it was time for her to do her own part. Do what she had been born for, fated too. She doesn't see him before the battle, dressed by her own guards, protected to the last by them as they flanked her. The star and crescent moon painted onto her brow, that in turn with a red vermillion, she painted a dot to each of her guard's brow. Each of their fingers stained darkly. The sieging of a ship was something none of them had done before either, but at least the steps were familiar. Readied themselves to the ritualistic formula for it.
Even if maybe that once the fighting spills out, from that fight to the next - they aren't the best at anything at range. Neither she nor they, quite seem to grasp the concept of using cover outside of their own shields, archaic things that at least do the simple task of blocking nerve disruptor fire. But they get in close, with weapons the UC's armour considered itself superior too, so there wasn't much to stop her men when they got knives into throats. When they jammed plasma rifle into a stomach and blasted them apart. She wonders briefly, in the carnage of it all, if her people can see it, far below on the surface. Battle's that shone like Gods' light as she felt the shake of the ground - the ship - below her feet in a battle she understood far less of, but knew the importance - it would be as unforgiving as her sword through a man's chest.
She kills, and nearly is killed, and then kills again. Every quiet moment of their journey, every still moment, coming out harsh and all at once. It turns to a blur under her hands as it goes, for however long. Like this, there is no sense of time. It could be minutes or it could be days until it's over to her mind's eye.
Then it was, then there was no one left alive that was still fighting, there was only those that gave in, to the surprise of it all. The UC was fat as a spoiled pig, lumbering at its own weight. The commander of the ship that falls to his knees in front of her in surrender. That she sees his face - and she realises, she knows this man. She knows him. Knows him from when he made widows clear up the bodies of their own husbands. What little of them there was left when they had only dared to fight for food.
She doesn't even realise she's moving until the sword is in her hand again. Until she hears one of his soldier's cry to tell her to stop as she advances on him. It's too late, she wants to tell them, she won't be stopped. The commander had already made his choices. He would pay for them.
His head comes off in one clear-cut. Hitting the ground with a splatter of blood and a wet thump. Rolling with widely spinning eyes as brain caught up with death, until the stare turned glassy, and the mouth was open in an agonising scream. Breathing hard, fast, righteous in the action she turned back to - see him, to look only for him, nodding to him. "The spoils are yours." As promised by their agreement, she had no further business on the ship.
With that - she left. Retreated there firmly, for the next cycle of day and night, even if she's learned that means nothing when there is no sky when there is nothing but black and flickers of light. Takes food and drink - takes a lot of drink, more than she had ever imbibed for most of her life - and sends even her own away, her son kept far from the battle does not need to see his mother like this. Kashi had known her too long to know that it was anything she would like anyone to see.
Drunk, on blood and misery and whatever it was that they had been procured.
no subject
But for now, the day is won. His mercenaries gladly help themselves to the spoils - and given they've seized quite a bit of the company's pay, it's a hell of a prize - but Miles himself takes little. No, he's after information, the next step, how to break the rest of the blockade and make this last ... The gap they have now is good, and Lakshmi's planet will get some needed supplies. But it won't last forever. At any moment they're sure to end up on the other end of a counter attack.
None has come yet. It's enough to make Miles deeply antsy. And enough to make him head for her quarters, knock on her door. He's brought a bottle of his own wine in turn. Vorkosigan wine, a very good vintage. "Rani?" he calls through the door. "Are you there?"
no subject
Lakshmi steps back once the door opens to let him in, ragged still from the exhaustion of it all but cleaned up. Her clothes simple long and covering, her hair falling to the top of thigh as she rakes it out of her way, pulled back from her face as she looks him over. "What brings you, Admiral?" Which is to say, she did not feel particularly glamorous to behold.
The quarters are as her people have set them up. Everything neatly ordered but lived in comfortably. Weapons set aside, but always within easy reach. Her discarded armour on the table that had been placed in the middle of the room with a silver plate that normally sat in the middle, with a low lamp that burned in the middle, pushed aside for the time being as the long sword that was her preferred working weapon, was laid out in it's place. The cloth beside it, stained with blood. The confession there - the length of time since it had finished, where she didn't know what else to do but clean it over and over again.
If there is trust there, it is in that she has let him in when she is like this at all.
no subject
He looks past her into the room, then back up at her. And - before she can potentially object - he slips past her, his small frame easily twisting around hers. "Get me a pair of glasses and I'll get us started."
no subject
She beckons him to sit on the low couch that had been pushed aside for by her people, going to a cupboard herself and the glasses. What she fetches aren't the right ones for it, she suspects, she'd never had wine like this before. But they're deep cups, which is quite probably to both their tastes regardless of whatever they're losing out in on etiquette. "As you wish."
Lakshmi settles one the other end from him, putting both the glasses down in front of them on the low table.
no subject
no subject
"I am surprised, Admiral. I thought you would be celebrating with your own men."
She lifts her wine to her lips, sipping slowly. It wasn't like she hadn't already drunk her fair share this evening. ( Thank Goodness she had hidden the already empty bottle elsewhere. ) Though this tasted far, far better than whatever else she'd been able to get her hands on.
no subject
no subject
She wets her lips, taking - a bigger sip, this time. She ought to know better, Vishnu forgive her for her weakness, the wanton destruction she had wrought. There - the thought sits ugly and heavy in her mouth as she swallows down. Her fingers held on either side of the glass carefully.
"Before... in the battle... I am glad to know I did not startle you with my... actions. Though, if what I have heard of them, I am sure it is nothing to what you must have seen on Barrayar."
no subject
"You would fit in very well there, I think," he says, slowly. "I am not certain that is a compliment, though."
no subject
"I am glad to hear it. My advisors told me if I had no luck with you, I ought to go to them, next. Propose a marriage to honour both our people and secure the alliance." Another mouthful, laughter filling her words. "A dry serious Barrayaran. I've heard they barely even dance except when they drink." The filter through of stories by propaganda from the UIC. Tall tales and exaggerations.
no subject
Just as he has that precise thought, this woman says that. Oh god. He chokes on his wine, nearly spilling the whole damn glass all over him. Would that even have worked? Well - yes, obviously. He might even have retired from the Dendarii for that. Alas, alas ... "They're not as boring as you would assume," he says, a bit affronted despite himself. "Traditional, yes. But tradition includes drinking. And very good wine."
He indicates the bottle for emphasis.
no subject
"But what then, if I were to marry a Barrayan, will I have nothing but drink and my husband to occupy my time? No singing, weapons or prayer? Everything I've heard says I may as well lay about in bed all day." It's faintly challenging, go on then, prove her wrong.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
- Before she falls back, her face breaking into a wide blinding smile and peels off laughter. The wine spilling in the glass over her fingers as she settles. Her other falling over her eyes, covering her as she laughs and laughs and laughs. Still breathless, still earnest. Her laughter turning to giggles, letting her bemusement fill her utterly. "They should have sent their wives. I am sure they looked utterly stunned."
no subject
no subject
She settles back, swapping the glass between her hands so she can lift the one with the wine spilt onto it to her lips, pressing her mouth softly to the side of her finger to kiss away the spilt wine. Little movements still, measured, but comfortable enough in his presence to not be bothered that he saw her doing it. "How did you come to know so much of the place? I heard that they were like us -" Paused, a correction. "That they were hidden away, rather." Not kept impoverished.
no subject
And if he's not careful, he'll give himself away. Goodness. Focus, Miles. "It is a long and sordid story," he says. "But - to put it simply, I am the clone of a Barrayaran Vor lord. Escaped from my captors, then raised on Beta Colony. But I know a significant amount about my progenitor's homeworld." Sorry, Mark. He's stealing your backstory here.
no subject
As for Lakshmi - she looks downright alarmed. Her eyes going wide, pushing herself up. She'd heard - a lot of things. Of course she had, some of them she even knew to be UIC propaganda. Others, they had simply been notions she had been raised with, wary, unsure as she watches him. "But you're... so," mouth opening, closing. Trying to be polite. "Slight." She winces even as she says it.
But that wasn't polite either. She struggles, again, the drink didn't make it easier. "Aren't clones meant to be ... impossibly made? Big men and women who have tiger claws and fangs and have purple skin." Alright, that sounded more ridiculous when she heard it out loud, but that was the stories at least. "That was what the... UIC told us, about other places." Definitely, definitely embarrassing.
no subject
Miles just winces a bit as Lakshmi seeks politeness and lands on ... probably the best description he could hope for. But it still drives all of this home: he's a lowly mercenary who's just helping her win back her homeworld. After all this is done, they will be strangers again. As it must be. As is best, really; he will not force his ugly body upon her any more than he must. But he will take a large gulp of wine to wash down his pain with.
"Quite slight," he says, giving her a weak smile. "I am quite the failure. In attempting to build my progenitor a better body he could take over, they just duplicated his issues. Which is part of why I was able to escape, I believe." Another small smile. "Clones tend either to be younger body doubles - for transferring - or as outlandish as you say." Sometimes also for transfer, but.
no subject
And she'd been just as bad.
"I have hurt you. I am very new to... this." Means forgive me, but such things are hard for any royal, after all. Instead, she sits up, putting the wine aside. Though there is no pretending the drunkness she's inevitably falling prey makes her bolder than she would be when she moves closer to him. "Curse them that made you with so little imagination to see all that you might be, curse the Vor Lords then, and me too. Damn them all. If they cannot know you for what you are - my people and this planet, and I as their Queen will always know you for the hope you give us. Even if that comes to nothing. That will always be yours."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
Re: when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
(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)
(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)
(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)