A Day at the Races

[canadiansixpack]

It is a tradition harking back over two hundred years now; a tradition adhered to and continued despite the ongoing outbreaks of Plague, of smallpox, of political upheaval. Time waits for no man, or for the running of the Monarch's Stakes

Comments

[_steelmagnolia_]

The Marchioness is among those present. She loves the horse race, the people dressing in more flamboyant clothing. There are times it seems that there is a competition as to who can walk the line between style and tackiness most effectively. The woman in question, of course, is in blacks and greys, seemingly perpetually in mourning for her various husbands.

[canadiansixpack]

The weather is surprisingly warm, and the mood of the attending crowds buoyant. Such is the demonstration of largess provided by the upper echelons of society, the spectacle a great attraction for those who would have no other opportunity or wherewithal to witness such an event.

The Marchioness will not find herself alone for too long. A gloved hand-- gloved, even in this warm weather-- finds its way into her line of vision, clasping in it a flute of sparkling wine.

"My lady."

[_steelmagnolia_]

"My lord."

Lifting her veil further, the lady in question turn to look toward the gentleman and the glass of wine in question. Carefully, she reaches out to take the glass, even if just for a brief sip. There are few these days, who would bring her a glass of wine unasked.

"How do you fare this race day?"

[canadiansixpack]

He inclines his head and his own glass toward her briefly in respect, waiting for her to partake before he imbibes before looking out towards the course.

"Well, though not rested as I might like. And yourself?"

[guthrie_gals]

It is a gorgeous day, the sounds of the crowd providing a steady backdrop of distraction to those who desire it.

Not so for one young blond woman currently sitting with her sisters, ensconced under a canopy with other members of royalty.

Joelle sighs, waving her fan with little energy as she surveys the milling throngs of people.

Another sigh, a little louder.

"There is no use in such exclamations, sister." Melody leans closer, smiling innocently. "There are no men nearby who would rush to your side."

[guthrie_gals]

"Hmf," comes the retorting huff of irritation. "I would be surprised if you even knew what a man was supposed to look like in order to recognize one, dear sister."

She makes a dismissive gesture with her fan.

[guthrie_gals]

Melody's smile grows a little more devious.

"My time will be coming soon enough, darling Joelle. I do believe that Lord Simon intends to ask for my hand in marriage."

She sounds quite pleased with herself.

[guthrie_gals]

A gasp erupts from her affronted sibling. "You are such the beastly liar!"

"Perhaps there is good reason for such a speedy proposal," murmurs Paige, as she idly picks horse-shaped pastel-pink paper confetti from her forearms to sprinkle below. "Besides needing to be married before our birthdays. Perhaps he intends to whisk you away to his castle and have his way with you before you are hung, drawn and quartered like a side of prized beef."

[wanda_maximoff]

"Dear guests!" The voice of Wanda Maximoff is warm and inviting. "Welcome, welcome, thrice times welcome! What a glorious day has been given to us. My brother and I hope this day will be illuminated in your memories forever--or at least until next year." Her smile invites a chuckle from the audience, and the invitation is accepted. "May Fortune smile on us, though 'tis certain some shall enjoy Her favor more than others." She raises both hands. "Let the races begin!"

And a great cheer rises from the crowd.

[legendaryextras]

Horses dance impatiently on the track, jostling for position at the line with each other. A ribbon of brightly colored silks marks the starting point.

[sonictransducer]

Urgh. Horseracing. This is one of those unfortunate things that Alison Blaire has never had to deal with back in her sunny California. Still, these are the people that pass for royalty here. She looks down at the gown she's gotten. It's...pretty. Definitely not Dazzler-esque, but she's coming to terms with the fact that she's not going to get couture anywhere here. And yet I've seen design students who could stitch better. Still, there's a sufficiently pleasant expression on her face. Ali was, after all, an actress as well.

[guthrie_gals]

A rather more well-bestowed young blonde woman-- barely sixteen, by the looks-- harrumphs past her to lean upon the railing that overlooks the spectacle, waving off the attending older woman who clucks at her as she peels off sections of her skin along her arms, which looks suspiciously like tiny, semi-precious stones. "Can I not get some measure of air that is not stifled with lovesick ogling? Glenna, I am constrained to deal with my sisters every other moment of every other day. I shall explode if I don't get a few moments to myself!"

[proteus_maximus]

Morph has adopted a more ordinary guise for this event - it would be hard to distinguish him from any of the natives attendees, but for his muttering - lamenting the fact that there is so much potential comedy material here, and yet, the audience is totally uncomprehending.

[legendaryextras]

The rising anticipation of the crowd heralds the beginning of the first race; the starting ribbon lifting up before the surging wall of horseflesh. The cheering is almost deafening.

[sonictransducer]

Alison diverts her attention from the Princess to the horses. The princess is...she's found...quite an interesting character. And someone that Alison's found she can relate to in an odd, roundabout way.

If only I didn't, like, need to lower myself socially, she considered.

[_steelmagnolia_]

The Marchioness holds a fan in front of her lips to attempt to soften the sound of the gasp that escapes her as the horses leap forward. It is always amazing to see the move so decisively.