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At the moment, Dworkin is a small man, with a hunch, a long beard, and quite possibly wearing a flannel nightshirt and a rather off center grin. It's what he's become, or what he chooses to be.

You probably wouldn't guess that this is the man who drew the Trumps that the Amberites use to travel with impunity. You probably wouldn't guess that he still knows every one he drew, still draws them in the small space where Oberon has imprisoned him.

You definitely wouldn't guess that the race of immortal young people, with beautiful faces, strong limbs, the glow of youth perpetually about them and the darkness of age hidden in their eyes, well... you wouldn't guess that their father had a father, and that man was Dworkin. At the same time, you believe him when he tells you, because it's one of those simple, universal truths that is, that was, and that always shall be.

And, of course, you couldn't possibly know that the jovial, strange, repetitive little man knows how to destroy The Pattern, could you? How it flows through him, and he is it, and his weakness is hidden in its very strength?

It's simple. You don't. To you, he's a senile old man in a bar, clutching his papers and candle and sometimes forgetting what your name is, or his name is, or what you look like, or what he looks like. Don't mind if his features begin to blur in the confusion, it's just a trick of the light. Don't mind if things seem a bit crooked around him, it really is alright.

It's just Dworkin.

Dworkin is from The Chronicles of Amber, and is the property of Roger Zelazney. He appears here solely for the purpose of role-playing in milliways_bar, from which no profit whatsoever is being made.

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