Barok van Zieks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
discourtesies) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
songerein2023-07-03 11:59 am
discourtesies) wrote in songerein2023-07-03 11:59 am
Entry tags:
open ⚔️ curse
Who: A Barok van Zieks of 27 & you...
Which: Interactive Dream (passive/network responses also fine!)
What: Once, unable to bear the burden of his grim pseudonym, Barok van Zieks retired from the courtroom.
Warnings: alcoholism
[The grandiose room is dark, lit only by a handful of candles and the retreating sunset through the windows. The shelves of books along one wall and the large desk with several scattered papers mark it as a study, though the room's occupant is anything but working at the moment: lavender-grey hair unkempt, a loose robe tied around him, shoulders slumped as he reads a newspaper held in one hand. In the other is a wine glass recently emptied, barely hanging from his bandaged fingertips.
A grey-haired woman in an apron sets a tray next to the open bottle on the desk, a new bottle and glass atop it—but also a small serving of still-steaming scones. Van Zieks turns to acknowledge it with a dull-eyed glance.]
That will do.
[She pauses momentarily, corners of her mouth in a pointed frown. Barok places his glass on the table nearby, unsteady, but manages to leave it upright.]
Lord van Zieks—
You may go.
[His voice is flat, permitting no argument. Letting out a brief sigh, the woman turns to depart from the room—perhaps moving past a dreamwalker as she does. There's no acknowledgement as she closes the door behind her.
Barok doesn't notice any intruder, either, wasting little time as he pours himself a new glass before dipping his head back and draining it. Another patch of gauze is evident on his chest where his sleep shirt isn't quite fastened, and one or two other scars besides.
He coughs briefly once he's swallowed the last dregs, turning towards the large portrait in the room: his family, a proud-looking man in red prominently placed. Their mother sits close by, a faint and distant smile on her face. And last, with his older brother's hand on his shoulder, a Barok untouched by blades or betrayal.]
... I can't do this anymore, Klint.
[His voice wavers, raspy. The newspaper has fallen to the floor, a headline about the Grim Reaper of the Old Bailey's latest victim prominent on the front page. Trampled to death in a horrific carriage accident, the man was suspected of putting together a vast criminal enterprise, despite his recent acquittal in court. It seems as if Lord van Zieks has done it again.]
Which: Interactive Dream (passive/network responses also fine!)
What: Once, unable to bear the burden of his grim pseudonym, Barok van Zieks retired from the courtroom.
Warnings: alcoholism
[The grandiose room is dark, lit only by a handful of candles and the retreating sunset through the windows. The shelves of books along one wall and the large desk with several scattered papers mark it as a study, though the room's occupant is anything but working at the moment: lavender-grey hair unkempt, a loose robe tied around him, shoulders slumped as he reads a newspaper held in one hand. In the other is a wine glass recently emptied, barely hanging from his bandaged fingertips.
A grey-haired woman in an apron sets a tray next to the open bottle on the desk, a new bottle and glass atop it—but also a small serving of still-steaming scones. Van Zieks turns to acknowledge it with a dull-eyed glance.]
That will do.
[She pauses momentarily, corners of her mouth in a pointed frown. Barok places his glass on the table nearby, unsteady, but manages to leave it upright.]
Lord van Zieks—
You may go.
[His voice is flat, permitting no argument. Letting out a brief sigh, the woman turns to depart from the room—perhaps moving past a dreamwalker as she does. There's no acknowledgement as she closes the door behind her.
Barok doesn't notice any intruder, either, wasting little time as he pours himself a new glass before dipping his head back and draining it. Another patch of gauze is evident on his chest where his sleep shirt isn't quite fastened, and one or two other scars besides.
He coughs briefly once he's swallowed the last dregs, turning towards the large portrait in the room: his family, a proud-looking man in red prominently placed. Their mother sits close by, a faint and distant smile on her face. And last, with his older brother's hand on his shoulder, a Barok untouched by blades or betrayal.]
... I can't do this anymore, Klint.
[His voice wavers, raspy. The newspaper has fallen to the floor, a headline about the Grim Reaper of the Old Bailey's latest victim prominent on the front page. Trampled to death in a horrific carriage accident, the man was suspected of putting together a vast criminal enterprise, despite his recent acquittal in court. It seems as if Lord van Zieks has done it again.]