milliways_bar | Entries tagged with dworkin

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

Dworkin is sitting in a booth, staring blankly at nothing in particular. He gives the distinct impression of someone who is waiting for something.

Perhaps 'someone.'

Perhaps you?

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

There's a handsome-enough but faintly odd looking young man, lounging in an armchair. He's playing idly with the laces of his doublet, and whistling 'still crazy, after all these years.'

Time bends for Dworkin Barriman.

serene-visions.livejournal.com

There are few coincidences in Vialle's world view. Things tend to happen for a reason, and it is the victim's (though she doesn't necessarily think of herself along those lines) responsibility to try and figure out why he or she was singled out for cosmic attention.

She looks almost child-like when she steps through the doorway, barely an inch over five feet. She has just come from a feast of some sort, to judge by the elegant red gown that flatters her petite figure and the gold circlet keeping dark hair out of equally dark eyes.

The woman takes a few steps forward and freezes, unfamiliar sounds assaulting her ears. Her head tilts marginally to one side, as if she is trying to decipher a puzzle.

From the wary expression on her face, this stranger is very much not where she expected to be.

[ooc: slowtime! Tags still welcome.]

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

There's an elegant looking man in the bar, whistling to himself as he sips his wine.

There's something deeply, fundamentally wrong about him, which anyone with even the remotest paranormal or psychic sense should be able to pick up on in a second.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

You know those people who only appear when you least want them? They're gone for ages and then wham-bam back again?

Dworkin is sipping wine, sitting at the Observation Window, watching the destruction outside.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

"Mulled wine," says Dworkin, damned near politely, and tucks closer to the bar with a small frown, "and some hot soup," and he pulls his coat closer because it's very cold in Siberia. He's not in Siberia, he's never been to Siberia, but right now he knows how cold it is there. Knows it with every piece of him.

scion-of-amber.livejournal.com

And on this day the door opens and a princess walks through. Fairly normal even, for Milliways, but this princess is short, delicate and although red hair might be common, normally it's not quite so...

Crackling.

Fi's hair is the same colour of fire anyway, but today she hasn't tied it back and in any case is...annoyed. Yes, that's a good word for it.

So when she walks in, she takes a moment to pause and scan the bar for any relations that might be here.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

An old man (and isn't that the truth) shuffles into the bar, head lowered.

He makes his way to a table, sets his lantern on it, and slips awkwardly into a seat. Then pulls out a deck of tarot cards.

Things back home, they're changing.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

There's an elderly looking hunchback, limping towards the bar for tea, muttering all the way about the shenanigans the young magic people these days get into, and oceans in the lake, honestly.

blue_raz

Raziel was outback of the bar watching the lake. Of course this was nothing compaired to what was going on inside his head.

He was thinking about Bill, and a few of the other mortals he had met here. He was even thinking about the child soul he had seen a while back. Why didn't he hate them. That was his purpose.

If he could come here, couldn't the bar bring, Vorador, or Kain, or all the gods forbid The Elder God. How would the Elder God fit in the Bar. I guess he would have to hang out in the lake. That would suck. Big, ugly, squid thing bugging him here. That was just too much.

He was watching the ripples on the lake and just thinking. The sun was warm on his skinless body and he would have felt drowsy, if it were possible. Raziel closed his eyes and drifted for a bit the closest to sleep he could ever get.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

The old man is hunched out by the trees, stalking (hobbling) through the shadows and muttering things to himself as he goes.

It's either madness.

Or it's incantations.

Guess?

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

There's an elderly man seated near the observation window. For all that he's in what's really a tatty nightrobe, he looks as stately as any king. He's wearing even his sorrow with dignity.

There is sorrow, though. For one reason or another, tonight is a night for remembering.

http://users.livejournal.com/_to_the_bone/

Jack of the Frost is back in the bar, with a box. He's trying to tie ribbon around it, like a present, and it's failing utterly.

Ribbon is too damned fiddly.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

Good God, he got a Christmas present.

Dworkin is sitting in a booth, savouring tea from his brand new tea-set, eyes closed in pleasure.

He got a Christmas present.

songofbullets.livejournal.com

El. In the bar. Coffee.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

Dworkin is settled in a booth, eating fish and chips.

Well, theoretically they're fish.

He's not telling.

There's a seat open for company.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

So, he hasn't been on the best behaviour recently.

So sue him.

He's in the bar anyways, looking around shiftily.

rigthegames.livejournal.com

[OoM: Sands and Santino go on a Grand (and involuntary) Adventure.

Warning for violence and crazy old men.]

silver_flecks

"WhO mE?"

Yes, you!

"CoUlDn'T bE!"

Then who?

"DuByA."

That's the trick of Endless; there's nowhere to start and there's nowhere to finish, so sometimes you get one thing, and sometimes you get another.

Sometimes you get the one you know, and sometimes you get sometimes more worn in.

And sometimes, no matter what the reasons may be, you get Del, talking to a chair.

The disturbing part is the distinct feeling you get, upon watching, that the chair's talking back.

[ooc: The mun's wrist is problematic, so expect a slight lag between tags and possible slowtime.]

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

It has been said that men are mad things.

Dworkin is in a booth, watching the world end, and putting that principle into practise, while dabbling his fingers in a glass of wine and occasionally flicking drops at passer-bys.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

Dworkin is at the base of a tree, listening to the sound of the wind whistling over his head. Feeling the texture of the grass beneath his fingers, and tasting the last few breaths of summer air.

"When I consider everything that grows," he mumbles to himself, and lets his eyes close. The hunch in his back is more pronounced, these days, and sitting is a relief for his twisted leg.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

A young man, in the back of the bar.

Is he young?

Why yes, I think he is today.

Anyways.

In the back of the bar, with a smile.

wellthrownstone.livejournal.com

Were one not familiar with the situation, one might wonder at the presence of both a toddler and a wolf cub accompanying Garion behind the counter. His son is perched on one of the king's legs, little arms wrapped about his chest as far as they will go; Garion's a rather large man, after all. Geran is awake, though still somewhat nervous of the place and so he's sticking by his father for the moment. Wolf, the cub, has taken it as his duty to explore this strange place a little, but his most important duty seems to be to accompany Geran as his spot just beneath the bartender's stool attests to. The specials are already up on the board, though how he managed it with a child in his arms and a wolf underfoot is his own affair, and one might notice a theme.Drinks
Light and Dark
Blue Light Special
Lighthouse
Killing Light
Do forgive the boy. He's never really been subtle and, after everything, really, he's due just a little gloating.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

His face is as white as
the snow that blows through the open window of his cell
his knuckles where they
sink deep, baring bone, pulling flesh away, tearing
clutch the edge his robes.
The screaming echoes.

Dworkin is out by the lake, sitting on the bank in his nightshirt, lost in a memory. It might be dangerous kindest to stir him.

pointed-spoon.livejournal.com

For counting stars, concentration is required. Especially as they explode before your eyes.

A fruitless pursuit, perhaps, but that's never stopped Dworkin.