the inscrutable drystan b. fawcett (brythonichero) wrote in valesco,
@ 2012-02-28 21:31:00

Entry tags:

adrian mattias, anton chang, arista sykes, billie trimble, carys llewellyn, delilah spinnet, derek dobbs, drake parkin, drystan fawcett, galvin gudgeon, geoffrey brand, glenda prewett, griffith kirkham, group, hamilton nott, holly troy, iwan quigley, joey jenkins, magnolia mattias, marissa macfusty, michal conway lynch, miles lufkin, mirabelle jasper, odette boot, rose knightley, rupert brookstanton, savannah davies, seth wadcock, veronica zeller, victoria cadwallader, zoey moran

End of Season party! For the 3rd

Drystan did not usually consider himself a sore loser. He had experienced enough defeats in his career to understand that winning was sometimes as much luck as it was skill—the latter of which he had plenty, the former he was starting to doubt he had any. He would even go so far as to say this was one of the top seasons he'd ever played. Losing the Cup might not be such a hardship, in that light. But to lose to the team he considered the most unsportsmanlike in the League was just an insult to injury. To have lost to them for the third time in the season was, in his perfectly reasonable and justified opinion, grounds for murder.

But a lifetime sentence in Azkaban would leave behind a wife and three children who would likely be just fine without him, but he'd miss them. So mass murder was off the table for tonight, at the very least.

Press snapped pictures outside the admittedly-abandoned looking building of 23 High Street, and Drystan knew there were more inside. Entering the rundown lobby, by-passing the elevator with the out-of-order sign, they made their way up the long flight of stairs to the grand doors of the first floor landing and into the—holy Mer—

Of course, the invitation specified formal wear, but Drystan hadn't honestly been expecting a high-brow formal occasion from the Kestrels. It was a ballroom. There was emerald green positively everywhere. There was something that looked suspiciously like a string ensemble. A bar, where he fancied he would spend as much time as possible, was in the corner. Platters with hors d'oeuvres and glass flutes zoomed by. Having stopped moving, wearing a stupefied expression, Bess had to tug his arm to get him to continue his stride.

"Hell," he muttered, pulling a grim face at the ostentatious yet somehow tasteful décor. Lifting their linked hands, he kissed the back of hers while surveying the spectacle before him.

"Five minutes? Five minutes isn't too soon."

ooc: Quidditch players/personnel + their guests! BLACK TIE! Party is on the first floor in this cool but creepy rundown building. Have fun! :D

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mckinnons
2012-03-05 02:25 pm UTC (link)

He had been not so subtly shadowing Ludo all night. Iwan had never been forced to come to one of these publicity events, so he had made sure that he did not arrive before or after his captain; it was nearly scary at how he managed to time things as perfectly as he had. But then there was this----this red carpet of just photographers and a wall you could not hide behind it was---dreadful, and he really did not know what to do other than stand there and stare at the cameras. They were shouting his name and---he needed to go back to Ballycastle. They never forced him into things like this.

It was perhaps the reason why his agent had been so eager to accept this trade. Ballycastle was a small market, it didn't have the ferocity of Wimbourne or Puddlemere, so to bring his best player to a bigger city could only be better for him. Iwan was not at all appreciative of this thinking, but he did want to win a Cup, and he was not going to do that on the Bats.

Unfortunately he had lost Ludo in the crowd, and it seemed that he would just have to hover around until he spotted other people leaving. He would not be the first to go because that would annoy his management, but second to leave wasn't so bad, was it? Iwan rooted by a nearly empty table save for a blonde woman playing with her food. He may as well look like one of the waiters with his posture and hands tucked behind his back.

This was not his kind of thing.

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beavertails
2012-03-06 12:08 am UTC (link)

Waiters had been milling by all night, but they hadn't been as tense looking as Iwan was. That was the first thing that tipped her off -- the second thing, of course, was that he wasn't carrying any plates of food or drink. That was a shame, because she was nearly finished with her pile of shrimp and the little graveyard of tails was looking a bit silly on her plate. She squinted over at the man for a moment, debating -- he wasn't familiar upon first glance, but as she leaned over her plate a little (more or less oblivious to how ridiculous she looked doing so) she recognized him. He was from -- Wimbourne, she was pretty sure.

"Hey," she said quietly, beckoning him toward the table, "you know, they bother you a lot less if you look like you're sitting down to eat. Maybe it's just harder to interrupt someone who's stuffing their face." She smiled a little and nodded toward one of the other chairs at her table. It never hurt to be friendly with other teams, did it?

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