RP:A Run For Your Money

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 Summary: Uriphiel and Cynarith attend a themed event day at the local horse racing track, where they set in motion the plan to win over Sir Dorrel so that he will acquire the item Uriphiel seeks.

Date of Writing: April 7th, 2024. 










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A Run For Your Money


 Elimdor Hippodrome , Elimdor
The ton is prepared for a day at the horse races which is a spectacle of elegance, excitement, and vibrant energy, a celebration of tradition and the majestic beauty of the equines that grace the tracks. The sun is out for the first time this season over the grand racetrack of Elimdor, casting a golden glow over the meticulously groomed grounds. The air is alive with anticipation, tinged with the sweet scent of freshly cut grass and the earthy aroma of the racetrack, awaiting the thunderous beats of hooves. As the elite of Elimdor society begin to arrive, the racetrack transforms into a parade of fashion and finery. Today is Chiboubury Isle day where drinks, food and fashion are all in the style of the Chibouburians. Ladies in flowing garments accentuated with gold and gentlemen in stylish linen wraps, (referred to as togas) mingle, laughter and lively chatter filling the air.



  • Cynarith, ever the epitome of grace and style, makes her entrance, turning heads in a couture ensemble that whispers of wealth and taste. The slender area across her waist tastefully displaying her subtle linea alba, but the only thing offsetting her outfit is a runed bracelet and sapphire adorned feather charms… curious. Her presence is magnetic, drawing admiring glances and nods of respect from the assembled guests. The races themselves are a thrilling display of speed, skill and heart-stopping moments. Majestic horses, bred for their power and agility, line up at the starting line as their coats are shimmering in the sunlight and muscles tensing in anticipation. The signal is given, they burst forth, a rush of color and energy, each stride a testament to their spirit and the bond with their riders during the practice round. Of course Viscount Ievis Reyfaren III is here and stands to help Cynarith up into the bleachers with his offered hand, but for a second his gaze hitches on her new bracelet and his eyes darken. As they thunder down the track, she watches intently, turquoise eyes sparkling with excitement, living each moment of the race. In her world, a day at the races is more than just a competition; it is a celebration of life, a showcase of beauty and strength, and a testament to the enduring bond between the ton and their noble steeds. "Dearest Cynarith," Sir Dorrel's voice is a welcome greeting as she leans in for a cheek kiss exchange, "lovely to see you here." Then the man looks around for something or someone, "did you bring your guest along with you today? Our esteemed avian diplomat," he asks with aplomb. Cynarith knows why he is asking, but doesn't give anything away as she answers honestly, "he should be along any moment now. He is quite popular with the ladies, obviously," that little comment makes Ievis do a jealous side eye to Cyn. Even though Ievis appears to be perfectly content and in love next to Cynarith, he leans in to whisper angrily to her, "must you really bring that Freak with you? Where did that ugly bracelet come from anyway? Don't tell me it came from that ceiling duster?" Cynarith is tired of the jealousy and simply giggles behind her fingertips while making herself blush as if he just whispered sweet nothings to her instead insulting her virtue. She leans into him to whisper behind her hand, "don't be ridiculous and get yourself together, Viscount." He grins in a coy manner, playing the happy couple game with Cynarith, but he is still fuming.


  • Uriphiel's arrival is one marked by an unmistakable reluctance, the product of a morning fraught with indecision. As dawn washed the skies with a soft hazy glow, the avian had found himself torn between a sworn duty and personal misgivings, wrestling with the weight of the mission that lay ahead. On one hand, the call to action beckoned with urgency, the importance echoing through his mind like a thunderous war drum. It was a calling that he could not ignore. Yet, on the other hand, his outfit for the day was, as he had deemed, an absolutely ridiculous display of tradition unfit for even the most humble of beings, and he was all but certain that he would be making a fool of himself for even agreeing to wear it. There he had stood, in an elegant toga that loosely draped over his body, with folds of gold-trimmed, ivory fabric cascading down from one shoulder and crossing over the chest, leaving portions of his torso exposed. The fabric clung lightly to his form, accentuating his muscular physique while still maintaining a sense of modesty and classical grace. The gold laurel wreath that nested above his brow seemed to taunt him with its flamboyant extravagance, a costume crown of imitated grandeur that clashed with his more sensible tastes. It was such an embarrassing display that it actually stained his cheeks with crimson when he looked at himself in the mirror - a humiliation that was not often seen upon the stoically composed knight. Alas, necessity triumphed over embarrassment, and he would soldier on so as to not displease his host by turning up in anything other than the gaudy outfit that she had picked out. Uriphiel, unlike those that he was destined to speak with this day, arrived fashionably late, following the advice he'd been given to make a lasting impression. He descended gracefully from the blessed firmament above, coming to land in the bleachers with a resonant thud that shook those around him in their seats. His practiced smile was laced with hints of unease as he acknowledged the curious eyes now upon him, and he offered polite waves in return. Folding his majestic golden wings promptly, he sought out Cynarith and her arrogant beau, Ievis, navigating his way through the crowd until he stood before them. “Ah, Lady Cynarith. Viscount Levis. I do hope this day finds you both well.” Turning to Sir Dorrel, he added with a genuine smile, “And you, Sir Dorrel. It is quite wonderful to see you here this day as well.”


  • Cynarith, along with most of the ton is marveled by his entrance and the Viscount clears his throat to correct, "It is Viscount Ievis- not Levis, you ceiling scrap-oof," he grunts because he just got an elbow to the ribs from Cynarith. So he backtracks, "my good man." Then he leans into Cyn, quite close to her ear with a grin and she simply aims a bright smile towards the Viscount as she challenges, "if it is that much of an issue, buy me something to replace it." Though she is starting to doubt he even can, so she isn't worried. "Sir Carnelian. It is quite the scorcher of a day, would you please escort me towards the concessions so I may buy some refreshment?" With that she extends her hand towards Uriphiel so he may help her off the bleachers, but this is a calculated move so they may speak more privately as they walk along the track. As soon as the shar takes her hand to help her down, he will find she smells delightfully of jasmine mixed with a hint of citrus, but as her thumb subconsciously caresses along his knuckles she hesitates for only a moment. Another look of bewilderment is aimed up at her guest and she swallows hard as she realizes she doesn't smell peppermint mixed with balsam… no. Her favorite smell has changed somehow into that of strawberry wine and the pages of old books. The realization makes her stomach do flips as she quickly pulls her hand back from Uriphiel and they can finally walk along the fence that separates them from the track. "I just love the aroma of freshly cut grass mixing with the earthy notes of the track on racing days, isn't it something?" In attempts to get his own favorite scent out of him, she takes her time meandering slowly closer towards the concessions and is also ensuring no one can listen in on their conversation, "I have been observing the contenders ever since I arrived. Would you be interested in learning how I pick the winners?" Cynarith's eyes twinkle with excitement and passion for the sport is evident in her expression.


  • Uriphiel expresses a feigned apology toward the Viscount, his cold rhadamanthine gaze fixated upon the other man with great disdain, “My apologies, Viscount Ievis,” he begins, his voice dripping with false sincerity, “I suppose that despite the ample size of my ears, my hearing isn’t quite what it used to be. It won’t happen again, I assure you.” The avian gracefully bows toward Ievis in a performative gesture of goodwill, before he reaches out to take the hand of the faux forsaken elf with rose-golden locks. “Yes, of course, Lady Cynarith. I would be delighted,” he says with an earnest smile. It was now that the last of the Aether Knights took notice of the attire that Cynarith had chosen for herself, his stare lingering upon her figure in a manner that was, perhaps, a little discomforting. Strangely, he had seen her in a more dressed down state in previous days, but there was something intriguing about her current ensemble that caught him completely off guard, especially when the scent of citrus-tinted jasmine perfume wafted towards him. The feeling of her thumb brushing against his knuckle snaps his focus back to reality and he smiles, nodding to the woman’s comment regarding the freshly hewn grass. “Ah yes, it truly is a divine smell that I, admittedly, do not get to experience quite so often. It is crisp, with notes of sweetness. Far removed from the squalid streets of Cenril, or the heavenly aroma of imported flowers of Schez - er, Ardengale.” Lowering his tone to match Lady Cynarith’s, Uriphiel’s eyes drift over toward the racetrack, where equine creatures dashed by in a display of majestic beauty. “Indeed, I most certainly would be interested in learning your secret,” he admits, his gaze returning to lady Cynarith, “Partially for my own selfish reasons, although I cannot deny that it sounds like a fascinating talent to acquire.”


  • Cynarith turns her turquoise hues up towards the taller man, a gentle smile playing on her lips regardless of how the way he is looking at her is making her feel, but that subtle blush dances across her cheeks and even rushes to the tips of her tapered ears. “You see,” she begins, her voice honeyed and inviting, yet carrying an undercurrent of the profound knowledge and passion she holds for the sport, “analyzing the potential of a horse in these races goes far beyond just their physical prowess.” She gestures towards the parade of horses being led onto the track, their coats gleaming under the sun, muscles rippling with barely contained power and her eyes glisten with joy in a way Uriphiel has yet to be a witness to. “First, I consider their lineage. The pedigree of a horse can tell you much about its potential for speed, stamina, and agility. But, it’s not just about the ancestors,” she continues, her eyes following the graceful stride of one particularly striking stallion, “it’s about the spirit of the horse. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they carry themselves. There’s a fire, a desire to run, to compete.” Motioning Uriphiel to bend a little down to her level and lean closer so she may speak quietly while Cynarith’s expression turns thoughtful, “then… there’s the condition and training of the horse. A well-trained, well-cared-for horse moves differently. Their gait is more assured, their posture more commanding. Most of all, the rapport between the horse and its rider is crucial. A mutual understanding and a shared ambition to win can make all the difference. It is also about the small errors you can ascertain. Do you notice that dappled Arabian, Usain Colt? It is subtle, but they are favoriting their left hind leg. It isn’t a sprain, but I suspect the barn they stable at just got a rather green ferrier and they trimmed the hoof too far down. That’s like clipping your nail till it bleeds- uncomfortable as perdere, but not the end of the world as long as it’s dressed right so it doesn’t get infected. Oh, and that brindle Thoroughbred, Pony Montana, their coat seems a little dull today. This could mean a couple things, but I bet it’s because there isn’t enough zinc in their diet since the owner is switching the feed. Ah, lastly, the jockey of that pinto Ventrilian Fox Trotter, Fifty-Bales-of-Hay, has put on weight and the mare isn’t used to it yet, so it will really throw them off down the stretch.” She pauses, allowing her words to sink in, before she points towards a young stallion, its coat a deeply rich roan, as it prances eagerly and its eyes bright with anticipation. “Take that roan Nokota stallion, Gerard Buckler, for instance. His build is exceptional, yes, but observe the way he interacts with his handler, the alertness in his stance, the eagerness in his step. He’s not just physically prepared; he’s mentally ready to embrace the challenge ahead... That, Durelan,” she decided to informally use the first name of his fake persona after their talk that night out of admiration and respect while her bright eyes catch the sun just so when they lift to meet his gaze one last time. Then she blushes anew, knowing she just geeked out about her passion and looks away from him as she remembers what this is all for and softly concludes, “is what I look for when I analyze these magnificent noble creatures. That is our winner.” Surely Uriphiel will excuse himself to exchange this information as the race is due to start shortly and once he does, she extends her hand fan to flutter it with a quickness before actually going to find some refreshment.


  • Uriphiel looked upon Cynarith with amazement in his eyes, awestruck by her ability to showcase such intimate knowledge about the various horses that were set to race today. She used very little effort to discern their moods and potential ailments, keen insights that could determine their success or failure on the racetrack. While he knew that she had an affinity for the equine given the interaction he’d seen her make with her own horses at the stables, he never realized the depth of knowledge until now. Despite his own keen observation skills, he wouldn’t have noticed most of the details that she was so effortlessly picked up on. Perhaps he could have spotted the horse favouring its left leg with enough scrutiny, but none of the other observations she made would have even registered. She possessed a rare and remarkable gift, a talent that set her apart from most others that he had met in his lifetime. As the embarrassment glowed upon her cheeks from passionately embellishing her most profound knowledge regarding her hobby, Uriphiel smiled warmly, his head bowing as she finally revealed her pick for the winner of the race. “Lady Cynarith, that was most impressive. Truly. Words can not express my gratitude for your help in this endeavor. I suppose I should relay this insight to our waiting quest. I am certain that he will be most pleased, and thus, shall bring me - us, one step closer to fulfilling this mission. Thank you.” Uriphiel allowed their gazes to linger for a moment, a deeper respect for the woman evident upon his features, before he made his way back to the bleachers to find Sir Dorrel and give him the good news. When he finally located the man of unmistakable affluence, Uriphiel took a seat next to him on the bleacher. He discreetly adjusted his toga a little to conceal his bare flesh, feeling a bit uncomfortable as he’d been drawing the eyes of several eligible Elimdorian bachelorettes. He leaned in to Sir Dorrel and said quietly, “That one there.” Uriphiel pointed to the roan stallion, eloquently referred to as Gerard Buckler, “That’s the one in which you want to place your bet. Upon winning, I do hope that you shall move to uphold your end of the bargain?” While typically polite, there was a sense of serious insistence in his tone. This was a business affair after all.


  • Cynarith decides to not return to the gentleman in the stands right away as she sips on a cool lemonade along the track and the announcer informs the attendees that bets are closing as soon as the horses get locked into place. That won't be very long at all as they begin lining up into the starting gate. Luckily, Uriphiel gets to Sir Dorrel in time who was just talking to the Hippodrome's bookie and he places quite the large wager on the winning horse. "I have already located what it is your queen seeks, Durelan, my good man. It shall be here within the week and if this venture proves fruitful then darling Cyna and you shall join me at my private box at The Emerald Opera house in two days time, part of my gratitude," the men are interrupted by someone clearing their throat and Sir Dorrel turns to notice it was Viscount Ievis with a cross look. "Don't you think it prudent to extend that offer to the one actually courting Lady Cynarith… not her foreigner." At this, Sir Dorrel chuckles in that rich pompous way and shakes his head, "of course you're invited as well, Viscount." Although, when he turns, he gives Uriphiel a wince as he seemed to have forgotten all about Ievis. The Viscount had seen Uriphiel point out a horse and decided to take his chances in case that was the winning horse. Ievis always sort of zones out whenever Cynarith drones on and on about horses. So, he excuses himself once the bookie is out of ear shot, or at least he thinks he is and attempts to place a bet on Gerard Buckler. "My apologies Viscount, but we cannot accept any further wagers from you or on your behalf due the unpaid balance-" the gentleman is cut off as the Viscount instructs the bookie to lower his tone. They seem to have a hushed argument until the bookie has had enough and announces, "wagers closed!" Ievis looks livid and simply storms off. At this time, Cynarith returns and notices Ievis missing, but doesn't think anything of it as she simply moves to occupy the seat next to Uriphiel. Well, she was about to when a beautiful fellow socialite sneaks in before she has a chance and Cynarith redirects to sit with Sir Dorrel instead. This happens to be along the row of seats just before Uriphiels and she chooses to sit directly in front of him, but the seats matter not because as soon as the horses speed down the track, almost everyone is on their feet to cheer. Cynarith is elated and in rare form as she cheers loudly, even sticking two of her fingers in her mouth to let out a loud whistle. Sir Dorrel is cheering along with her, although a little nervous their chosen horse is a few behind. "C'mon Gerard Buckler!" Cynarith's belief in the stallion seemingly bolsters it and the other three she had pointed out to Uriphiel seem to grow tired down the last stretch which makes Gerard Buckler the winner indeed! Out of pure elation, Sir Dorrel and Cynarith share a hug in victory. Surely, the pretty socialite sitting next to Uriphiel is attempting the same as those around them and her arms open up for an embrace from the handsome avian.


  • Uriphiel's patience with Viscount Ievis was wearing thin, his irritation evident in the tension that gripped his body. As he listened to the Viscount's demeaning remarks and witnessed his self-centered behavior, Uriphiel couldn't help but clench his fists, his knuckles turning white as he struggled to contain his rising anger. Had this been a different era, perhaps millennia ago when the avian proudly walked the lands in his elected position as a respected protector of Lithrydel, such behaviours would not have been tolerated. Boorish fools like the Viscount would have been made to kiss the dirt at Uriphiel’s feet for their insolence, lest they find themselves tossed into a dungeon, or worse, facing physical punishment for their ignorant transgressions. This is not millennia ago, however, and Uriphiel knew that he needed to maintain his composure, especially since he was playing the role of a dignitary from a distant land. It would be quite unbecoming for a dignitary to lash out and strike one of the more influential locals. So, he pushed down his anger and focused on the task at hand, doing his best to ignore Ievis for the time being. “I would be delighted to be your guest, Sirr Dorrel,” the avian said with a sincere smile. “Of course, should this win be true.” As the race continued, Uriphiel fell into a pensive silence, his thoughts swirling with self-doubt and hopes for the future. It wasn’t until Lady Cynarith sat in front of him that the avian looked up, his golden gaze fixated upon her, even as he stood to mimic those cheering on the horses as they raced toward the finish line. Her enthusiasm caused him to smile, a soft haze in his eyes as he watched Cynarith cheer on Gerard Buckler, but those feelings would soon come undone when the race came to its inevitable conclusion, and the horse she picked out was the first over the line. As the crowd erupted into celebratory hugs, Uriphiel found himself caught off guard when a young socialite next to him embraced him tightly. Stiffening at the unexpected contact, he reluctantly reciprocated, his discomfort evident as he awkwardly patted her on the head. "One more week," he murmured to himself, eager for the ordeal to be over.

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