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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mileshigh
2012-03-05 09:16 pm UTC (link)

Miles gave Trimble the once over, wondering if she had learned anything during her time in Paris. The women of her team were some of the most sophisticated players he'd ever met (and some of the randiest---), so it was no wonder that this one had made her way back to the United Kingdom. Miles was feeling the urge to head back to France as it seemed that no matter what the Pride did, they would find themselves knocked out of the playoffs and right back to where they started. At least on the Bombers, he was a champion. At least on the Bombers, he was respected and not ignored at public events by the woman he was tending to and---

Bloody Arista had been swept away by Wadcock again, so Miles could not keep his anger towards one Mrs. Catriona McCormack. She had shown up to the event with that ridiculous musician husband of hers, and had dared to come up to he and Arista with the fakest of smiles, introducing Mr. Duke. She had not even taken the bastard's last name, and she was taking him to public events like this? In front of him?

He had needed to find a distraction before he lost his mind. Catriona was his and----Miles straightened, blinking a few times at Trimble before letting out a breath. "I am sorry to have startled you."

Miles forced a smile before looking back out at the crowd. Catriona was dancing with that miserable man, and he turned back to Trimble. She was pretty, well, enough so to cause that minx of his to notice him dancing with her. "You must remember the time we played against each other in the Paris Cup, no? Dance with me and I will remind you if you do not."

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obtineo
2012-03-06 12:13 am UTC (link)

Billie wasn’t sure to make of what she was sure was supposed to be a smile, which came after his apology, so she just smiled back before looking down to the champagne flute in her hand, shifting her weight from one foot to the other before sparing a look out to the crowd, only looking back to Miles when he began speaking to her. One of her brows lifted slightly at the mention of the Paris Cup, though it arched more when he asked her to dance in a way where he wasn’t really asking at all. That took a lot of balls, in Billie’s opinion, and she smirked.

She took another sip of her champagne, placing it down on the nearest table before turning back to Miles. She had made the decision to show up, so she wasn’t going to just stand on the side lines and act like a social leper.

She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, trying to relax, seeing how she didn’t know much about the man she was about to dance with aside from his name, and his position on the pitch. Her hand went to his shoulder, the other placed in his as she moved to the music, following his lead.

“So…do you make it a point to only ask the girls you almost knock off their brooms to dance?” She asked with a smirk, making it known that yes, she remembered playing him in the cup, but had decided to dance with him anyway. She didn’t hold any bitterness towards him for it – it was a big game, and he was a beater. It had just been a part of the game, even if it had almost cost her life when she was hit with a bludger, and slipped from her broom, only barely able to keep herself from plummeting to the ground below by keeping hold of the handle.

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