(no subject)
[ It's the kind of scene that would call for a wingback chair with velvet upholstery, set in front of a fire, where Damian could comfortably lounge in an expensive turtleneck and read the works of Yeats while drinking a glass of expensive wine. That is what you do when you're expecting some sort of dramatic scene with uninvited guests.
Unfortunately, that isn't so feasible.
The room is sparsely furnished, so he sits at a regular desk chair with his feet up on the corner of the bare mattress. The castle's getting into summer, so even if he had a fire place at his disposal, it wouldn't really be comforting to have a fire roaring, and a t-shirt is better than a turtleneck in those situations, anyway. Wine would interact with his drugs badly, and he isn't interested in killing himself, nor putting himself into a coma, so instead he has empty pill bottles lined up on the edge of the desk.
So, there he sits, left with Yeats and a crummy desk chair, slowly letting his mind slip into that vicodin-induced fog of tranquility. His Batman gear is strewn about the room, draped over bits of furniture. His cat is curled up on his lap, and he scratches it behind the ears, mindlessly.]
"A man that had six mortal wounds, a man
Violent and famous, strode among the dead;
Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone."
Do you remember that one, Alfred?
[He scratches the cat under the chin.]
I never liked this one. It's too obvious.
Unfortunately, that isn't so feasible.
The room is sparsely furnished, so he sits at a regular desk chair with his feet up on the corner of the bare mattress. The castle's getting into summer, so even if he had a fire place at his disposal, it wouldn't really be comforting to have a fire roaring, and a t-shirt is better than a turtleneck in those situations, anyway. Wine would interact with his drugs badly, and he isn't interested in killing himself, nor putting himself into a coma, so instead he has empty pill bottles lined up on the edge of the desk.
So, there he sits, left with Yeats and a crummy desk chair, slowly letting his mind slip into that vicodin-induced fog of tranquility. His Batman gear is strewn about the room, draped over bits of furniture. His cat is curled up on his lap, and he scratches it behind the ears, mindlessly.]
"A man that had six mortal wounds, a man
Violent and famous, strode among the dead;
Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone."
Do you remember that one, Alfred?
[He scratches the cat under the chin.]
I never liked this one. It's too obvious.