milliways_bar | Entries tagged with dworkin

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

All traces of blood, imaginary or real, he was never sure, are gone from him. His nightshirt is comparatively clean, and his hands scrubbed.

With feverishly bright eyes, Dworkin sits by the observation window and watches the bar.

All traces of blood are gone. Except for the scent of it, thick in the air about him. That lingers.

creator_raven

Raven is seated in a corner booth, feet propped up on the edge of the table.

They are fairly nice feet, also bare.

Perilously nearby is a plate of cookies.

It is fortunate, indeed, that Raven does not possess cooties.

Otherwise the cookies would be contaminated, and that is just not right.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

He's not entirely sure why, but Dworkin is certain tonight that his hands are covered in blood. It's the reason he keeps dropping his quill and wiping his palms on his nightshirt as he writes.

There is, of course, nothing more than sweat and ink on them, but don't tell him that. He'll call you crazy.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

As usual, he's at the window.

It's the End of the Universe.

It's so, so beautiful

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

The End of the Universe is looking especially lovely today.
the world ends
Dworkin is at the observation window, expression avid.
all of them ending and all at once
He's humming something offkey and in Thari.
and this is what we call tragic beauty

burning-evil.livejournal.com

There's a man at a table by the bar. Suit and overcoat, with collar turned up - no shades tonight, and blue eyes are languidly scanning the room. There's a bottle of the good Irish stuff at his elbow and the cigarette in the ashtray is burning, but not getting any shorter.

He wouldn't be here if he didn't want conversation.

rigthegames.livejournal.com

The door to the lake opens.

Their entrance is preceded by the smell, the heavy cloying tang of copper, and then Sands and Mal are in the bar. He is, at this point, half-carrying her, and they are both covered in blood (whose, is hard to say).

Just in case there’s any doubt about what happened, there is a scarlet-stained knife in Sands’ hand and a gaping wound in Mal’s chest.

Sands, bloody-faced, looks around the bar and, slowly, begins to grin.

[ooc: Please to be reading backroom post before tagging.

~~Mun has to disappear for an hour or so. Will pick up any tags on return.~~ Back!]

not-one-drop.livejournal.com

[ooc: Mal attempts to clean up Sands after his fight. It does not go well.]

Mal, bolting from a table, runs out the door to the lake and just keeps running. Eventually she trips, and falls, her head slamming against a tree trunk. She picks herself up, turns her head and retches, then curls into a ball and just cries, cries and cries.

rigthegames.livejournal.com

He’s by the observation window today. Not even smoking, just standing and watching as the universe curls in on itself again and again, a hand pressed against the glass.

“Huh.”

You can say this for Milliways: there are worse places to regain your sight in.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

Dworkin enters the bar.

He happens, of course, to be swearing rapidly under his breath because he can't remember where the hell he left his quilly and ink but then there's a bar.

The question moot, the old man makes a beeline for the observation window, sits close to the barrier.

Dworkin watches the destruction with a frighteningly avid expression.

scion-of-amber.livejournal.com

No time passed while Fiona was at the bar yesterday, so when she opens the door and finds it again, the little princess just smiles.

Such an interesting place - pretty people, and boza. Also a possibilty of brothers - one she likes, the other she likes to torment. Her eyes moving around the room, Fiona steps in, shuts the door behind her, and then moves over to the Observation window...

She wants to know how it works.

rigthegames.livejournal.com

[oom: After this, Sands has a moment of breaky in his room.]

Sands.

He’s… in the bar. Just sitting, hands on the table and hair in his face.

Those who don’t know him would describe him as ‘staring blankly at the table’. Those who do know him, know better.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

What does one do when one is old and mad and bored?

Dworkin, for one, is idly flicking drops of wine (red, of course) at those unfortunate souls who venture too near his table.

redlikeblood
He has surprisingly accurate aim.
endoftheuniverse

So beware.

song_tra_bong

In Vietnam, as it does from time to time, it decided to rain.

And then it decided not to stop.

Which is why Mary Anne wanders through the front door, soaking wet and cursing a blue streak under her breath. Thankfully, there's a bathrobe and a mug of Martin's godlike coffee waiting for her at the bar.

She shrugs the bathrobe on over her clothes and takes the drink over to a couch near the fire. Her gear gets dumped unceremoniously to the floor. She'll have to sort through it soon--clean the guns, throw out any ruined ammo--but for now she's just enjoying being relatively dry.

latino_menace

Ramon wanders in at some point to have a few drinks. When he approaches the bar, he has to take a moment to remember the name that Nita told him. It clicks eventually, and so Dairine Callahan will find her tab cut in half.

That taken care of, he gets a newspaper with his bottle of scotch and heads over to a booth. Interruptions are more than welcome.

rigthegames.livejournal.com

Sands is sat in a booth, with a cigarette in hand and a bottle of tequila on the table in front of him. It seems the joy of being released from the cell is beginning to wear off, as his fingers are drumming on the tabletop and when he reaches for the tequila, it’s to drink it straight from the bottle.

After all, when you’re Bound it’s a bit like swapping one- albeit smaller and less well-stocked- prison for another.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

A sharp clink echoes, just a little ominously, when the gold coin is launched at the bar. It bounces, rolls, is absorbed and a goblet of wine appears.

Still, somehow, feeling defeated, despite a small random act of violence, the hunchback picks up his drink and begins a shuffling walk towards his booth, mumbling petulantly.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

"mutter mutterconspiraciesmutter muttersteal the clothes off an old mans backmutter muttercapitalists"

And then there's the clink of gold deposited on a smooth surface.

And then there's just Dworkin.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

Dworkin. The Terrifying. The Creepy. The Mind-Bending. The Bizarre. The Hunchback. The Grandfather. The Mad-man.
Fear ye
all those who would trust
this man or this life or your sense.

For you are fools.

He's in a booth. It's more comfortable than a stool.
...
You know you waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaant to.

gondolin-noble.livejournal.com

If he was in Imladris, he would be conducting daily drills and runs for the guard that remains. There is only so long he can sit by the fire, idle. Thus, today finds Glorfindel of Imladris out by the lake, in simple leather armor and leggings, his hair braided back, going through some of the older, more elegant forms with one of the pair of wooden practice swords he acquired from the Bar after his request for a pair of real blades was refused.

the-eternal-man.livejournal.com

Belgarath has not heard about the current threat in the bar. He's been locked away, studying, since a rather mind-blowing conversation with one called Dworkin.

Eventually though, he remembered that he does work here now - as well as realising that he hasn't eaten for about a week - so there he is, in a booth. He's still piled under a mound of paper but his security badge is also plainly visible.

prefers-edward.livejournal.com

It's not a loud entrance.

It's not a quiet entrance.

In fact, it's barely even an entrance.

The door just sort of opens.

A very very white, scarred face peers in from the side, and if you looked out of the door, you'd see the attic room. It's cold (although its occupant doesn't really feel the cold); open in the roof to the wind and the snow and the rain, and it's mostly bare.

Edward is not very brave. Curious, yes. But not purposely brave.

So he simply stays there, looking into this bar behind the door in the attic he'd never noticed before today.

((OOC: With sincerest apologies, I must flee for the night! Slowtime, all? And thanks for such a lovely entrance post :) ))

Current Mood: curious

latino_menace

Ramon is bored. This probably explains why he's lounging on a sofa, flicking scotch-soaked paper pellets at the fire.

On one hand he's glad that things are quiet, on the other, he's itching to do something. Needless to say, conversation is welcome.

slayer_fray

Sunday afternoons are dull. Boring and dull.

And Mel is bored. And a bored Mel means trouble.

Or sometimes, as in this case, a bored mel means the rafters are an interesting place to watch, as she's up there doing a handstand.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

Nice day, isn't it?

nice day for a white wedding

Dworkin most certainly thinks so. He's out and about and in the bar and he has his pencils on the table, sketching like mad and fleshing out a picture of an old man (not Dworkin- else. A first commission, as it were) sitting in a booth and holding wine.