Milady de Winter, Baroness of Sheffield (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scorchedlily) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entranceway2013-07-23 11:52 pm
scorchedlily) wrote in entranceway2013-07-23 11:52 pm
[video - unintentional]
[The average court garb of a noblewoman in the 17th century weighs approximately forty pounds - that's around eighteen kilograms, for those who like to think in the metric system.
When that garb is completely submerged in seawater and then dragged over dunes and unfamiliar gardens by a wearer who's not quite sure if she's not really dead, it weighs considerably more. That's why each quiet swear word as a somewhat bedraggled Lady de Winter hauls her ruined gown across the grounds is more like a whispered threat... it sounds much nicer in French, though.
There's a brass and walnut box with a glass inlay hanging from a velvet ribbon on her left wrist. She couldn't really say why she'd picked it up, and after several experimental pokes and prods that apparently yield no results, it dangles, forgotten, any curiosity it held overshadowed by the desire to find out just where on God's green earth she is. Or isn't. Anyone who happens to be interested in this struggle will be treated to a view of waterlogged jacquard silk in what used to be a lovely silvered mint green, and is now just... grey, interspersed with grass and sky that careen past with every staggering step.
The narration hopes no one gets motion sick, but Milady wouldn't give two figs if she knew - she just wants out of this sodding, sodden dress.]
...somebody must live here. Of course they do. Even purgatory has staff. Continuez à marcher, et il y aura une femme de ménage ... ou un jardinier ... ou un marmiton.
[tl;dr? Damsel inapparent distress. Cue rescue party.]
[ooc: All my Franch has hover text, for your convenience.]
When that garb is completely submerged in seawater and then dragged over dunes and unfamiliar gardens by a wearer who's not quite sure if she's not really dead, it weighs considerably more. That's why each quiet swear word as a somewhat bedraggled Lady de Winter hauls her ruined gown across the grounds is more like a whispered threat... it sounds much nicer in French, though.
There's a brass and walnut box with a glass inlay hanging from a velvet ribbon on her left wrist. She couldn't really say why she'd picked it up, and after several experimental pokes and prods that apparently yield no results, it dangles, forgotten, any curiosity it held overshadowed by the desire to find out just where on God's green earth she is. Or isn't. Anyone who happens to be interested in this struggle will be treated to a view of waterlogged jacquard silk in what used to be a lovely silvered mint green, and is now just... grey, interspersed with grass and sky that careen past with every staggering step.
The narration hopes no one gets motion sick, but Milady wouldn't give two figs if she knew - she just wants out of this sodding, sodden dress.]
...somebody must live here. Of course they do. Even purgatory has staff. Continuez à marcher, et il y aura une femme de ménage ... ou un jardinier ... ou un marmiton.
[tl;dr? Damsel in
[ooc: All my Franch has hover text, for your convenience.]