Post by Philippe Maurice de Chagny on Nov 12, 2012 17:31:43 GMT -5
Thus far in Philippe's stay at the manor he'd been relatively bored. There were no social events to attend, as he'd been informed by Raoul that his class's standards had dissolved from the peak they'd reached in the late nineteenth century. He wrote of his experiences in a journal, as he'd always done, but there was only so much one could write about when one's days were spent mindlessly roaming the halls of this strange birdcage.
So far he'd found the kitchen and dining hall, the girl's dormitory, a strange elevator and set of stairs that led God knows how far down, the ballroom, a dilapidated opera house that oddly resembled the Populaire, some miscellaneous rooms, and the foyer. He'd yet to find anything that truly interested him, save for the food (though with the startling lack of servants he was forced to prepare meals himself, like in his younger, more self-sustaining days in the navy and the gypsy camp; his personal menu consisted of sandwiches made of meats and cheeses from the abnormally large icebox and eggs that he could fry, also occasionally heaped onto a piece of bread).
With nothing to do, and his brother always out during the day to work or learn the law, he wished more than ever he had a good horse to ride, preferably his own. How he did so miss the wind on his face, the smell of grass flying from the mare's pounding hooves, the rush of excitement, and the temporary relief of problems and the pain in his bad leg. Without his horse, the influence of his title, and his connections to those in power, he felt utterly useless, but the loss of his equestrian pastime was the hardest blow to his self-conscious.
However, it occurred to him one afternoon that a house as large in size as this must have some stables on the grounds. So, dressing himself in a nice fall riding outfit, he set off out from the foyer and across the lawn.
His eyes, when he was far enough out, scanned the various wings and buildings of the exterior, but it was his ears that heard the sound of neighing. Excited, he raced toward the stables, as quickly as he could on limp and cane. Philippe examined a few of the horses heads poking out from their stalls. He smiled at them as he walked through the center. Some huffed at his presence, but others reached forth their snouts as if he was expected to show them affection... or perhaps they hadn't received any in a long time...
He stroked one grey stallion's mane lovingly, patting his neck gently in greeting. "Now, what's your name then?" he asked absently, knowing full well the horse couldn't reply. The gleam in his dark eye reminded Philippe of his own mare.
After giving the stallion the attention he deserved, he moved down the rows, feeling for the first time since he came to this place that he was home. If only... If only...
He sighed, fearful to ride any one of these creatures, for he knew how some horses could be temperamental with a stranger riding them. There was that, and he didn't exactly know who the horses belonged to. He didn't want to be considered a thief for bonding with another man's horse! But... just being around the horses was not enough for him. He needed to ride.
It was then, of course, that life had it's way of answering prayers, for just as he was about to turn around and give his leave, a familiar sight graced his eyes. It was the flick of a silver tail, brushing against the door of a stall. He strode forward and peered inside. Who was it but Aleta, his wing-hooved horse of old!
He cried out her name and entered her foreign cubicle, meanwhile setting his cane against the wall. The horse recognized him instantly, and nudged his face with her nose. Sweet, dear Aleta was eager to have her master's gentle touch restored.
"How I have missed you, girl..." he whispered as he wrapped his arms around her neck contently, pressing his cheek against hers. The man was oblivious to all else around him, so it was the horse that's ears perked up at the sound of a stranger behind them...
So far he'd found the kitchen and dining hall, the girl's dormitory, a strange elevator and set of stairs that led God knows how far down, the ballroom, a dilapidated opera house that oddly resembled the Populaire, some miscellaneous rooms, and the foyer. He'd yet to find anything that truly interested him, save for the food (though with the startling lack of servants he was forced to prepare meals himself, like in his younger, more self-sustaining days in the navy and the gypsy camp; his personal menu consisted of sandwiches made of meats and cheeses from the abnormally large icebox and eggs that he could fry, also occasionally heaped onto a piece of bread).
With nothing to do, and his brother always out during the day to work or learn the law, he wished more than ever he had a good horse to ride, preferably his own. How he did so miss the wind on his face, the smell of grass flying from the mare's pounding hooves, the rush of excitement, and the temporary relief of problems and the pain in his bad leg. Without his horse, the influence of his title, and his connections to those in power, he felt utterly useless, but the loss of his equestrian pastime was the hardest blow to his self-conscious.
However, it occurred to him one afternoon that a house as large in size as this must have some stables on the grounds. So, dressing himself in a nice fall riding outfit, he set off out from the foyer and across the lawn.
His eyes, when he was far enough out, scanned the various wings and buildings of the exterior, but it was his ears that heard the sound of neighing. Excited, he raced toward the stables, as quickly as he could on limp and cane. Philippe examined a few of the horses heads poking out from their stalls. He smiled at them as he walked through the center. Some huffed at his presence, but others reached forth their snouts as if he was expected to show them affection... or perhaps they hadn't received any in a long time...
He stroked one grey stallion's mane lovingly, patting his neck gently in greeting. "Now, what's your name then?" he asked absently, knowing full well the horse couldn't reply. The gleam in his dark eye reminded Philippe of his own mare.
After giving the stallion the attention he deserved, he moved down the rows, feeling for the first time since he came to this place that he was home. If only... If only...
He sighed, fearful to ride any one of these creatures, for he knew how some horses could be temperamental with a stranger riding them. There was that, and he didn't exactly know who the horses belonged to. He didn't want to be considered a thief for bonding with another man's horse! But... just being around the horses was not enough for him. He needed to ride.
It was then, of course, that life had it's way of answering prayers, for just as he was about to turn around and give his leave, a familiar sight graced his eyes. It was the flick of a silver tail, brushing against the door of a stall. He strode forward and peered inside. Who was it but Aleta, his wing-hooved horse of old!
He cried out her name and entered her foreign cubicle, meanwhile setting his cane against the wall. The horse recognized him instantly, and nudged his face with her nose. Sweet, dear Aleta was eager to have her master's gentle touch restored.
"How I have missed you, girl..." he whispered as he wrapped his arms around her neck contently, pressing his cheek against hers. The man was oblivious to all else around him, so it was the horse that's ears perked up at the sound of a stranger behind them...
