Post 1611. Sunday October 1
Blue sky and a golden sun greet a new day’s dawn. The vulgar extravagance of last night’s opulent Hunt Ball was but a precursor to today’s savage pursuit of an unsuspecting fox. Yesterday spilled wine, today spilled blood.
Dressed in pristine crimson and black they sit astride their magnificent mounts and toast the day with a measure of port wine. An impatient pack of hounds mills and roams twixt the steed's clattering hooves. A bunch of angry protesters, each holding a scribbled placard high, earns nothing but flagrant disregard from the eager huntsmen and women.
Then, with the wail of a gleaming brass horn, and a yelled tally-ho, the posse led by the Master moves forward then surges, leaping a fence and galloping 'cross the open field with nonchalant dispassion for the hapless objectors who dejectedly slump away.
A vulpine creature crouches in the gently swaying grass, eyes unblinking ears twitching. Awaiting the wail of bugles, the thunderous throbbing of hooves; watching for the vauntlay of hounds the bloody scarlet of huntsmen’s gowns. Should he stay? Should he dash? Should he try to run to ground?
Another day, another hunt, another fox. Another victim.
Word count 194
Today's photo prompt. Taxidermy fox at Natural History Museum, London