The journey across Wonderland was eventful and yet strangely not. Time passed in a peculiar way, with several days seeming to whip by in but a few moments, while a single day might seem to stretch on nearly forever until passing into the next zone. Along the way, the Dark Horse's energy would similarly vary; one time, she'd be rushing on ahead, and another she'd be lagging behind, but somewhere in between she would invariably draw close to Achilles to banter with him, alternately flattering him or teasing him, her mood and interest shifting wildly from one moment to the next.

The weather has been similarly erratic. While it's impossible to tell what is truly "normal" for a journey in a place where the sun sometimes shines at midnight, and the moon's phases might sometimes involve showing up in multiple places in the sky at once, the mood has often been somber. At times, the group has had to seek hasty shelter as the clouds have drenched the land in red rain, or living creatures falling from the sky (and not staying that way for very long). Puns are often involved, but the humor is somewhat lost when one is actually THERE to witness its morbid execution.

At some point, the Looking-Glass Lands have given way to the Monarchy of Hearts. Were the mountains crossed, or was the Guarded Way taken? Many details of the journey are fuzzy and dream-like, defying close examination (and threatening to fall apart if one persists). What ultimately matters is where they were and who they were with, and that it took a while, and that now they are HERE.

And HERE would be the Caucus Race Grounds, at the southernmost portion (if indeed compass directions have much meaning here) of the Monarchy of Hearts.

The Caucus Race Grounds
Upon the site where Alice first entered Wonderland Proper and met with the Animals swimming in her own Pool of Tears, a great race track was built to commemorate the very first Caucus Race used to dry off the Animals from their ordeal. A great race track has been set up for Animals to test their speed, with bleachers to each side, roasted peanut wagons and vendors with booths set up, and pennants waving in the breeze.

The mood here is festive, and for now the skies are bright and clear, without so much as a threat from those few puffy little clouds in the sky. Flags flap in the breeze, vendors hawk their wares, and various creatures maneuver for positions in the stands on either side of the field.

There is considerable excited chatter, and it takes Achilles little time with his investigatorial skills to find out that there's a prize to be offered at the races that our heroes have the fortune to arrive just in time for: The winner and his team shall have the honor of seeing the Queen! But, as it is politely said, EVERYONE shall be a winner here, and the Queen shall see all the contestants: honors all around!

An official loudly announces the rules, while another announcer repeats the same on the other side, for the benefit of spectators in the other stands. Among them, such critical details as, "None shall leave the track during the race, under penalty of forfeiture," and expected basics such as "The winner shall be he who first crosses the finish line. In the case of close calls, our panel of judges shall be the final arbiter." And then there are more Wonderlandish things such as, "Flight shall only be permitted so long as one remains on the track," and "At no time shall shortcuts through the Hall of Doors or through Haberdashery or Burrows or other such Curiosities be permitted; they shall be considered as leaving the track."

Of course, in addition to all the amusements of Wonderland, there are the more morbid angles as well. The peanut vendor is helped by a small troupe of animated peanuts who happily crack themselves open to leap into the roaster wagon. Down at the track, for some reason there is a horse vendor who is hawking his amazing new glue, right next to a marvelous glue-making machine, while Chef Cook-a-Doodle-Doo is operating a cook-pot, and there's some fellow who looks like an executioner, with an axe, exchanging nods with a rooster who's part of the line-up.

Today's contestants appear to be Miss Dark Horse, Monsieur Frog, Mister Pig, Mister Rooster, and a surprisingly confident Mister Snail (the latter pulling a wooden cart, as if he wouldn't have enough problems with speed even WITHOUT it). All of them (even the snail, SOMEHOW) are dressed up in their Sunday best -- which, while it looks rather smart, really doesn't seem entirely appropriate attire for taking part in a race.

Miss Dark Horse managed to get her friends front-row seats (partly thanks to Achilles flashing his credentials as a member of the press -- which, surprisingly, seems to actually have some bearing even here in Wonderland). She smiles and waves and blows a kiss to the crowd (or was that to Achilles specifically), while twirling her parasol. Beside her, Mister Pig is looking flushed from the heat and excitement, squinting through his monocle and adjusting his top hat, and keeping his piggy nose held high.

Mister Rooster struts about, well, like a rooster, waving his wings to the cackling cries of joy from his fellow hens and cocks in the stands. (There are more than a few horses as well, incidentally, despite the scarcity of them on the track.) Monsieur Frog hops from foot to foot, leaning down and doing stretches and looking the most like a serious runner - save for his outlandishly garish outfit that makes him look something like a cross between Napoleon and Harlequin.

Mister Snail has the most trouble looking dignified, especially as strapped as he is to his cart. It seems to be curiously stuffed with junk under a tarp, as if he were so bold as to weigh himself down. A large filigreed "S" is emblazoned on the near side of the cart (and quite possibly has a match on the other). Although he is still shaped more like a snail than an "animal-person," he somehow manages to fit into a three-piece suit, with top hat and monocle, and it's best not to think TOO much about how such a thing is managed and yet he is still readily identifiable as a SNAIL, complete with eye-stalks, shell, and slime trail.

There's a band playing, much cheering, and such a festive atmosphere that Integra appears to have completely recovered from the shock of the mayhem back in the banquet hall, as she squeals and cheers and claps at every opportunity. It's easy to miss a lot in all the confusion, and Achilles discovers that he somehow missed someone tucking a note into his hat band when he wasn't looking. How'd THAT get there?

It appears to be an invitation. "YOU are cordially invited to a Haberdashery Party at the Mad Hatter's Estate, located THAT WAY, to be held YOU KNOW WHEN. Don't forget to bring a head! And don't lose it on the way!"

Achilles blushes at the Dark Horse's kiss-blowing, then redoubles his cheering for her! "You can do it! Leave them all in your dust!" He takes off his bowler hat to wave it... then pauses noticing the invitation. In a quieter tone of voice to his companions, he exclaims, "Hullo, what's this?" as he extracts it and reads it aloud to the March Hare and the Griffin.

"Oh no, that doesn't sound like a trap at all, and no one would possibly lose their heads if they go. Not at all. Nope. Never," March remarks rather dryly after the invitation is read. "I don't particularly want to see Hatter get a head if you know what I mean."

"I wonder if we can sway him," Griffin suggests. "We have a queen now too, and one more charming than the current Alice."

The reporter considers. "Well, we might be at risk of losing our heads, depending on which Queen is being advertised as meeting the 'winner and his or her team'."

A couple of nondescript Animal spectators murmur among themselves about the chances of the contestants. "I wager on Mister Pig winning the race," one says excitedly. "He's the Head Cheese, you know!" Another tut-tuts. "I've heard of the Rooster's strategy, and he's sure to win. His planning is im-peck-able!"

Achilles peers about for the animate tome that is sure to be serving as the Bookie. "I have a good feeling about the Dark Horse's chances, she's head and shoulders above the rest."

"There seems to be a spare spot by the starting line," Achilles suggests to the March Hare.

"I'm not so sure, March," Griffin notes, eying the snail. "I've a sneaking suspicion that once things start, we'll really see that S-Cart go.."

Achilles looks a bit abashed. "I'm used to making the news, not avoiding them. Though perhaps if we were to disguise you..."

A couple of officials appear to be leaning over and whispering to each other, looking a bit distraught. Down on the track, the weasel with the starting pistol is looking a bit impatient, tapping his foot. Perhaps something is holding things up? The band appears to be stretching out their day-at-the-races theme for another verse.

"I'm off to find a bookie and place a bet on the Dark Horse," Achilles says to the others. He goes to check behind the stands, where he's most likely to find such clandestine activity.

Griffin's feathers puff up a bit for no apparent reason. He turns to Harrison and asks, "I don't suppose you just had a daydream about being a stuffed animal, did you?"

"Of course not. I would make a far cuter pet," March claims with a straight face. "Just no pink collars..."

As the Ace of Spade makes his way down the stands and back behind the bleachers, weaving his way through the crowds, he at last spies what might well be his "bookie" behind the stands: a grinning Cat who seems to be a Cheshire wannabe in a garishly-colored suit, flanked by a big and burly-looking Tweedle (his bodyguard?), and exchanging notes with a dandy-looking Card.

Achilles waves to them and makes his way over. "I'd like to place a bet," he says in a hushed tone of voice. "How are the odds looking?"

"I'm serious," Griffin whispers to Harrison. "I'm wondering if the prize to see the Queen means becoming a stuffed animal in her palace."

The Cat looks both ways slyly, then gives the report to Achilles. He rhymes and riddles and throws in a bunch of jargon which might be nonsense, but the numbers seem to be clear enough. Betting and winning on Monsieur Frog would produce a payoff of about 4 times one's bet. It'd be five times one's bet for Mister Rooster or Mister Snail. For the fan-favorite, Mister Pig, it'd be three and a third. The Dark Horse is a long-shot, avoided it seems, meaning a potential payoff of 20 times one's bet.

"I'm also disliking the vendors.. they seem prepared to take advantage of any losers," the gryphon points out.

A curious detail the Cat offers in passing to the Card: Not a single one of the contestants has ever lost a Caucus Race. And, of course, not a one of them has ever raced the other.

Griffin turns to a nearby.. clock person? "Excuse me, this is my first time at the races. Can you tell me why there's an executioner over by the vendors?"

The clock-faced person is very intently WATCHING the proceedings. "Huh? Oh. That's Mister Rooster's support team. He's part of Mister Rooster's special strategy, I hear."

"So they're all fresh faces at the tracks, eh? Is this the first race ever?" asks the reporter, ever inquisitive. He taps at his chin, then says confidentially, "I'd like to bet a pile of silver on the Dark Horse, I've got a good feeling about this." He reaches into his flattened valise and produces, as if in clown car fashion, about a pound of silverware.

Griffin ponders this, and gets a ghastly notion. "March.. are you familiar with the phrase 'running like a chicken with its head cut off'?" he asks the hare.

The Cat's eyes widen in surprise, but he still grins all the while. "I'll put you down for one POUND on the Dark Horse. And that would be Mister ... ahhhhh?" He grins to the Card solicitously, stylus in hand.

"Yes, I am. Are you suggesting the rooster might actually have its own head cut off? That is crazy," March says, looking rather horrified.

"Ah! A Mister-A is betting on the Dark Horse," the Cat says, in a tone of voice that hints at no irony or pun whatsoever. He stuffs the pound of silverware in his hat (somehow) and dutifully makes the note, tearing off a strip of paper and making a cryptic mark on it, then handing that back to the Card. "See you after the races!"

The card accepts the slip of paper and throws the Cat bookie a salute. "Indeed!" He strolls back toward the racestand, murmuring to himself, "I pity the fool who doesn't take a chance on the Dark Horse. What handsome odds!"

Both the Hare and the Gryphon notice pairs of eyes turning away from the race briefly to regard them. Perhaps they've been remarking too loudly about their opinion of the craziness? But how could that be possible with all the loud music and shouting and clapping and general carrying-on? At least they don't openly STARE, and the glances are brief, but surely that wasn't just paranoid imagination.

Achilles, clambering back onto the stands and squeezing behind Griffin to take his seat, tells the others, "I've just placed a pound of silver on the Dark Horse to win. Twenty to one! I'll be rich! Do either of you two want to bet as well? There's a rather widely smiling cat behind the stands."

A nearly-breathless runner dashes up to the two officials. They confer, and then one of them shrugs to the other. They wave off the runner (who dashes back off into the crowd), and then they straighten their ties. They have the bearing of "Well! That's settled, then!" as they turn back toward the gathered crowd.

Mister Rooster struts around some more, watching the officials, then turns toward his "support team" and gives such an exaggerated stage WINK that it's somehow noticeable even from the stands (on entirely the wrong side). His executioner buddy nods, stopping from sharpening his blade.

March eyes Griffin. "I think it is time that we leave the race, eh? Something bad is about to happen; probably to us," the Hare remarks low and quiet. He tests the stands with his feet to see if he can slip under the seat and scurry off!

The card scrutinizes the area to see if he can figure out what has March and Griffin on edge.

The stands are really just planks set up on a frame. All sorts of items have fallen and rolled off to fall down to the shadowed grass below. One so small as the Hare would have little trouble at all squeezing through and landing below -- and the same for Integra (and probably Achilles). Only the Griffin, with a mind for his wings, might have to take a little more delicacy about it.

Achilles's quick survey seems to give him the impression that the officials were holding up the race for something, but whatever news they received must have persuaded them to get moving again. The weasel starter is taking position, the racers are finally stopping all their strutting and stretching and hamming it up for the crowd (in the case of Mister Pig, of course), and head toward their marks. Mister Rooster surreptitiously moves a lane over further on the inside of the track, closer to his axeman buddy.

"You can do it, Dark Horse!" cheers Achilles, covering for March's absence by making twice as much noise. "For Queen and country!"

"Run like a greased pig? That's .. wow, bad joke. I wish I had thought of it," March admits.

"I'm not sure Integra should be watching this," Griffin squawks. "Who knows what the frog will try to get a leg up on his opponents.."

Achilles asks of the bets-discussing members of the crowd, "Say, I heard something about how 'everyone's a winner' at the race. How's that work? Isn't the winner going to be the one that crosses the finish line first?"

March leans over to a nearby spectator. "Do rabbits ever enter this race?" he asks.

A Hen clucks to Achilles, "Oh! Well, you see, all the competitors today will get to present a GIFT to the Queen. So every one of them will receive a royal audience! I do so love the sports. It allows us to make something BETTER of ourselves."

Meanwhile, a Horse whinnies to March, "I did so believe there was going to be the Fluffy Bunny, but it seems there has been a difficulty." The Horse gestures a hoof toward the judges. "It seems the Fluffy Bunny was always clumsy. Well, he went and got himself MUFFED." Quite literally, it would seem, as one of the judges is holding a fur muff. Perhaps the argument was over whether or not the Bunny was still in any condition to race.

"Oh, the QUEEN," repeats the Hen. "The Queen, the QUEEN!" she clucks. When that doesn't seem to satisfy Achilles, she clucks it out a few more times until it really just sounds like she's a stupid beast clucking away.

"My word! Ah yes, which Queen would that be?" wonders Achilles with his companion, trying to clarify the hen's clucking. "It would be unfortunate to bring a present in red and discover that one had come face to face with the Queen of Spades."

"The Queen!" the Hen might be saying in response, though at this point it might as well be "cluck-cluck-BAKAW!" In fact ... it seems that Achilles is speaking to an entirely ordinary chicken right now. How in the world did that ever happen?

Both Achilles and Griffin, though they haven't the opportunity to confer, find themselves reconciling recent memories of talking to a Hen who was decked out in a spring bonnet and dress and who, after a couple of pints at the pub, could have passed for a lovely lady. But now she is neither more nor less than a chicken. She didn't change, per se, in front of their eyes, or at least not in any way that they noticed at the time. They can't even remember the point of transition.

"Oh, that Queen," says Achilles trying to look nonchalant as he finds himself addressing an ordinary hen, then turns to Griffin with a perplexed look. "Well, then. Jolly good. Carry on. Ah... Do you think she meant that Queen?"

Meanwhile, down on the field, amid all the ballyhooing and hawking of the vendors and excited cries of the spectators, it would seem that this race is finally getting underway. The weasel holds a pistol up high and dances a jig to the sound of the band. It's a song that our heroes heard not too long ago, in fact -- back at the White Knight's Manor.

"In that case, maybe we had better make ourselves scarce. Pity about my bet, but a fool and his money..." mutters Achilles to Griffin and Harrison.

That's the way the money goes, the song continues. How timely with Achilles's sentiment!

The weasel pulls the trigger on his pistol, and promptly explodes in a burst of fluff and not-fluff. CHOP goes the Axe-Man!

The Rooster's head goes sailing into the air, in defiance of anything resembling sensible physics. Also in defiance would be the fact that it's crying out, "Run, body RUN!" And then its body of course runs like a chicken with its head cut off.

March sits there, eyes wide. "That is ... that is just wrong," the hare says, horrified. "Why does everything in this world involve dying?

There's a lot of screaming going on, but for Integra, it's of the very unpleasant kind. She grabs at her uncle, hiding her face in his coat, bawling something awful.

"We're sitting across from peanuts flinging themselves into the vendor, at this point our worries should be about getting presented as gifts to that Queen," Achilles says. "Let's slip out the back and steal one of those coaches that I saw."

Despite his fear over life and limbs, the reporter cannot help but cheer on the Dark Horse as she takes off. "Such grace! Such elegance! Poetry in motion and an undaunted spirit that will not cower, no matter how long the odds against her!" he rhapsodizes, jotting notes down in his ever-present pad.

The Headless Rooster runs about very, VERY quickly, but largely in circles. For the time being, it's headed the wrong way. The Snail starts off at a creep, but the canvas on the back of the cart pulls away, revealing some sort of mechanical contraption in the back. The pig hops along busily smearing himself with grease, and therefore not at his best. The frog is hopping as well, but seems to be distracted by the chicken head sailing by and bouncing off of its head. The Dark Horse has the best start, breaking clearly ahead of the rest.

"Let's not discuss plans until we're away from the spectators," Griffin suggests quietly as he picks up Integra and heads for the edge of the stands. "Excuse me, pardon me.." "Don't worry Integra, these.. uh.. events.. don't seem to disturb the animals.."

Up ahead, there's a clock-man fumbling about, looking excited. "Oh! I've got it! Iiiiii've got it!" There's a soft noise as the chicken's head hits his face. The clock-man stumbles and pitches forward out of the stands, landing with a crash below. The rooster head lands on the plank right in front of Griffin. "Say, fellow! Won't you pick me up where I can see better? Must cheer on my body while I've still got energy in me!"

Something about this SHOULD have been more disturbing than it is to the Griffin, but something about the overload of macabre touches here seems to have inured him against further shock effects right about now. Integra, however, simply did not need this touch of cruelty.

"He's right, the rooster doesn't seem a bit discommoded by his headlessness," Achilles is forced to admit. He jots a note down. "Still, it seems unsporting to try and get a head start on the others in this fashion."

"Sorry old bean," Griffin apologies to the head. "But my hands are full at the moment.." He tries to step around the head.

Achilles says disapprovingly to Griffin, "You're as soothing as sandpaper, old bean. Maybe you should try and talk a bit more like her mum. What would she say?"

"Integra, this IS NOT PROPER BEHAVIOR," Griffin tells his niece, following Ace's advice. "Such tantrums are for children and you are too big for that."

Somehow, with all of Integra's wild kicking, she fails to hit a thing (other than an accidental bump against her uncle's shin a time or two -- but he can take it). The rocking-nightmare wobbles after them, likewise managing somehow not to crush the disembodied head. In short order, the Griffin and his charge are out of the stands. The crowd is enraptured with the race, bleating and bellowing and hooting and making such a ruckus as seems like a barnyard or even a circus.

"Cor, I had no idea Integra's mum was such a battle-axe," exclaims Achilles. He sets the rooster head down on the bench looking away from the racetrack as he passes by. "Sorry, old bird, but my money's on the Dark Horse."

The headless chicken runs the wrong way. It steps onto the finish line ... but technically hasn't crossed it. (A thought occurs to Achilles -- the rules said the first person to cross the finish line wins....) The Cart-Boosted Snail is much faster now, with a sudden burst of speed, while the Dark Horse suddenly flags a bit (but is still rather fast). The Greased Pig and Frog make respectable pacing.

At the moment, it would still be the Dark Horse in the lead ... but she's on the outside track, and it seems that no attempt was made to stagger the starting lines for fairness, so in a sense she's just about tied with the Snail.

Achilles reaches back up to turn the roster head around so he can see forward. "Change of plan. Cheer yourself on all you want, old cluck!"

All of the racers stumble and fall about as much as they run, tripping on coattails and dress hems (well, just the Dark Horse), and such. A monocle cracks and the lens is lost here. The Dark Horse's parasol splinters. It's a rather clumsy race. If it weren't for the undead chicken, it might even be funny.

Griffin heads north, still carrying the hysterical girl, with the intent of putting the bleachers between himself and the chaos - and hopefully find March again.

Meanwhile, March has a much easier time of it by simply slipping down between the planks. It's dark and shadowy down here, and things crunch and tinkle underfoot, but it seems to be nothing more than pocket change and the occasional snack or paper fan or racing pamphlet.

March reisst the urge to pickpocket any of those above him. Instead, he makes his way 'north' to get out from under the seats (and away from the insane race)! "Go to the race, Ace says. One girl flutters her eyelashes at him and he goes all soft," the hare mutters to himself.

"We'd have lost the race if he'd taken another step backward," Achilles confides to the Griffin. He glances over at the clock-faced gent watching the race. Hmm. Something seems a bit off about the fellow. Perhaps it's the fact that his hands aren't moving. "If only March were here, perhaps he could fix this gent."

The snail's cart accelerates, kicking up dust and smoke in its wake. Its hat and monocle go flying. The Dark Horse seems to be faltering, going between spurts of high speed to stumbling and tripping. Her skirts tear, and she abandons the parasol. The greased pig ditches his coat and hat. The frog hops along but now that the chicken is finally heading the right direction, he might well be left behind by everyone else after all. (Still, that chicken DID suffer quite a setback.)

The way is clear for March! If there's any milling about, it's certainly not BEHIND the stands. Even the bookie and his bodyguard have clambered up where they can have a good view of the proceedings.

"I suspect the racers will revert to animals, like the hen," Griffin tells Achilles. "Notice how everyone stared at us when we mentioned You No Who?"

"You can do it!" Achilles calls out, his heart going out to the Dark Horse as he sees the wear and tear the race is putting on her. "The longer the odds grow, the better you go! And they are TWENTY TO ONE! The race is as good as won!" He pauses as he notices his inadvertent rhyming. Maybe this crazy place is getting to him. Turning to Griffin, he shakes his head. "Is there something that's causing it?" he wonders.

March skids to a halt and places his hand over his heart. "What is going on?" he asks himself. He then has to look at himself, hands, feet, everything, just to make sure he isn't becoming more of a hare than he already has.

"I don't know, but.. I'm starting to feel it too," Griffin notes worriedly. "If we don't get away from the source soon, I'm going to be finding March very tasty-looking!"

Achilles points out, "As I understand it, March is considered quite a dish already." He surveys the racetrack, looking for mysterious devices that might be causing the phenomenon. "Where did he get to, anyway?"

March finds himself still intact. For a brief and flickering moment, he has an insight of HORROR at discovering that he's ... a RABBIT! Oh, wait, no, that's not news at all. He can feel his pulse pumping in his ears ... but yet if he just takes a breath and considers things, he can reclaim a measure of calm. It was just a fleeting thing that passes.

After a few more breaths, he takes a few steps back towards the race track, just to seif the feeling returns.

The card works his way carefully toward the carriages, turning his edge toward the people in the middle of the track while sneaking a glance now and then.

March pauses and starts looking around for anyone focused on the race. Not just focused as in watching and cheering, as in someone watching it intently, perhaps being the source of the influence making the Animals act like animals.

Achilles says in an aside to Griffin as he leaves the safety of the shadows at the side of the stands, "You might want to try honey instead of vinegar, I understand sour things make children cry, but sweet things make them happy."

The Dark Horse suddenly has a burst of speed, but her dress is being torn up something awful. It looks as if she could almost be on the verge of dropping to all fours to continue the race. It doesn't look right somehow, despite her being a horse and all. The Greased Pig slips ahead, and the Snail is still performing against type, while the Headless Chicken and Frog increasingly seem to be out of consideration.

March looks about, gauging the levels of excitement. The chickens are positively berserk, rooting for Mister Rooster. Several others wave tickets in the air, evidently having bet on one person or another, despite the questionable nature of whether such a thing is even legal here. The Cat bookie grins constantly, but he doesn't seem particularly excited; but then, as a bookie, he's guaranteed to make a profit no matter who wins, right? His bodyguard seems to be similarly passive.

Achilles's heart lifts as he sees the Dark Horse pulling ahead! But something seems odd about her being about to drop to all fours. He grits his teeth. If it's true that something is causing this, it feels wrong to abandon her to whatever vile machination could be causing this. He glances over to Griffin, where the bird is making his way to the back, and then examines the carriages, listening for the sounds of any devices that might be operating inside them.

March sprints towards the others. "We're all causing it! The more we cheet, the more animal-like they will become!" he calls towards the others. The hare then arcs in his run, back towards the 'stands'. "Maybe I can collapse these and distract the crowd?" he wonders. "Kick a gew support posts?"

The Gryphon almost runs into the Hare as he at last pushes his way through the gaping crowd and around the corner of the bleachers, with Integra in tow, and the wobbling rocking-nightmare in his wake.

"March, how are you feeling?" Griffin asks, and looks at the hare to see if he's still getting odd cravings.

"We have to distract the crowds! they're causing everyone to turn into mere animals!" March shouts at Griffin. "I'm not going to leave these people to that fate. It's bad enough being an Animal ... being an animal would be worse!"

March does have that "prey" look about him, but Griffin doesn't feel the urge to bite his head off or anything like that. Not ESPECIALLY so, anyway. It's just a bothersome IDEA tickling the back of his head, easily enough ignored.

Achilles gasps at Harrison's exclamation, distracted from inspecting the carriages for clockwork. "You don't mean-- that no-good bookie!" He swears as he hurries over to join the others. "So that's how he meant none of the contestants had ever raced against each other before! Every contestant never returns to race!"

Integra almost collapses, leaning heavily against her uncle and crying quietly once the group all comes to a near-stop at the corner of the bleachers.

"Griffin! I need you to put the 'fix' in the race," Achilles exclaims. "There's a Watcher at the front who's broken. If you can fix him and tell him that the Rooster crossed the finish line-- backward, which he did, I saw it-- then the race will be over and people can stop cheering."

Taking a deep breath, Griffin tells Achilles, "Keep an eye on Integra for me then." He then heads backs towards the fallen Watcher at the front of the stands.. and hopes Mister Rooster's head isn't too annoying.

And seeing Integra in hysterics, March draws to a stop. The hare kneels down by the girl and whispers to her gently, "It's evil magic affecting people and making them do horrible things. We can't let that happen, right? You want to help others, right? They need you to be strong right now. You want to be strong for others, right?" the hare tries to persuade her.

Achilles looks at a loss for how to sooth distraught young girls. If he had any good ideas on how to do so, he would have applied them himself. He breathes a silent sigh of relief as March steps up to bat.

Integra stops sobbing quite so loudly, and throws her arms around the bunny. "Uh-huh," she manages. "I want to help!"

March pats the girl's shoulder. "What do you think would distract the crowds?" he asks her, "That you could do? Sing, perhaps? Or, hm, with what happened at the coronation ... could you make the racers disappear? Invisible?"

Achilles thinks. Then snaps his fingers. "Half these blokes have bets in." He steps toward the cat bookie. "I WANT MY MONEY BACK!" he roars. "You've got some kind of hex in to make sure NO ONE finishes the race!"

The Gryphon finds it's much easier to navigate the crowd now that he hasn't a screaming little girl to drag along. He finds the broken Watcher that fell out of the stands easily enough. Fortunately, it's a fairly simple fix (as long as one doesn't think too hard about just how this mechanism/creature works), and not one that would take the whole race to accomplish. The Watcher is still obviously cracked and messed up, but no longer dead to the world. "By Jove! Now what happened? Are we winning?"

The card makes sure he's loud enough to be heard by the cheering crowd in the stands.

Both the bookie and his bodyguard are so rattled by the shouting Card that they lose their grip from where they had clambered up the back of the stands. With a crash, they land in a heap at the back of the stands.

"Come on, let's get our money back, fellows! He's trying to cheat us all!" yells the card.

"That depends on who you are cheering for," Griffin tells the Watch-man, and tries to help him back up.

"Who AM I cheering for?" the Watchman asks, looking dazed. He fumbles about, as if searching for something. (Perhaps his ticket?)

Griffin finds the ticket before the Watchman does. It appears he was rooting for Mister Pig.

Right now, it seems that the Dark Horse is well in the lead ... and looking increasingly less lady-like as she goes. Coming up in second and gaining ground would be Mister Snail (as the cart is still chugging along) who is looking increasingly more and more like just a snail stuck on the front of a machine, rather than anything that could have actually invented the device he's using. Mister Pig is in third place, losing his waistcoat and now scampering along and squealing on all fours.

"Well, you seem to favor the pig, but.. the Rooster technically crossed the finish line already, going backwards," Griffin explains to the Watcher.

"Oh!" the Watcher says. "How much did I place on the Rooster?" He does seem very impressionable while he still has his watch-case open.

Integra takes a while to gather her wits. She looks as if she's on the verge of losing it again, when she thinks of what's still going on. "Maybe if we kick at the stands really hard and make them fall? Or ... uhm ... maybe if we all run around screaming 'Fire'! But then this is Wonderland, so maybe it would really HAPPEN."

March rubs his forehead. "There are two stands, unfortunately. We need some way to make them think the race is over. Think we could lure the racers off the feel with food?" the hare suggests.

As Griffin gets a glance at the race, he can tell that if there's any concern about Miss Dark Horse being more than, well, just a HORSE, there probably isn't much time to lose at all. After all, there's no telling whether any of this is reversible. (Didn't the baby-who-turned-into-a-pig in the Alice stories STAY a pig?)

Griffin pretends to read the ticket, and claims, "Five pounds, at.. a jillion-to-one odds.."

"Food, yes! Spectators should be hungry!" Integra agrees. "But I don't have much to offer."

The card is scrupulous about only taking back his pound of silver in exchange for his betting slip, despite his very vocal insistance (loud enough to be heard by the crowd) that the bookie is cheating them all.

The Watcher's eyes go wide. "Five pounds? At a JILLION-TO-ONE?!? I'm RICH! What do I do? What DO I DO? Quick!" He staggers about, trying to find his bearings, clickety-clacking as he moves.

"Right, well, we could raid the vendors and scatter their food around, right?" March suggests. "Lets go see?"

"Well, declare the race over?" Griffin suggests, and points to the Frog and Rabbit officials.

Meanwhile, behind the stands, the Bookie Cat is stammering and stuttering, having thoroughly lost any bravado he might have, since his bodyguard is still knocked silly. He begs and pleads with the Card to let him keep his hide.

The rest of the crowd, sadly enough, does not appear to be rallying to Achilles's cause to join the cat-fight -- except for one gambler Card behind the stands who looks like the sort who is just looking for an opportunity for any quick spoils that might come out of the altercation.

"That depends on how fast you can run!" says Achilles as he puts the silverware away. "If I were you, I'd get..." He adjusts his bowler hat. "A head start."

"Right away!" the Cat yowls, as he books it. The gambler belatedly realizes that HIS bet is running off as well. "Hey!"

Achilles mutters, "Trust a bookie to be good at booking it." He makes his way back to the others to check on how things are going.

"The race is over! The race is over!" the Watcher cries, as he stumbles and runs over toward the officials, waving his hands (making it quite impossible to tell the time from his face).

This might give the officials pause, but in the meantime nothing seems to have stopped the racers themselves.

"FREE FOOD FOR EVERYONE!" Integra starts crying out, skipping along. "JUST HEAD TO THE VENDORS! FREE FOOD!"

"What a splendid idea!" remarks one of the Hens. "Why didn't I think of that? Free food for everyone! Won't that be splendid! Let us go down to the vendors right now!"

Making his way back up to the front of the stands, the card calls to the red horse spectator, "Hey, didn't I hear you had a bet on Mr. Pig? Or was it the Rooster?"

"Right, food for everyone!" March calls out to the others. "Rewards for being such faithful and wonderful Animals. Free food is much more important than a silly ol' race!," he adds, trying to persuade the people to leave the stands.

"No one is allowed on the field!" the officials shout out, as the chickens cross the road.

Apparently there is no magical barrier in place to stop people from stepping onto the track. And apparently the vendors are on the INSIDE of the track, for the most part. What a terrible plan!

"Cover me, Harrison, I'm going in," the card says tautly. Achilles yells to the spectators as he starts sprinting toward the track and the Dark Horse, "I saw the bookie legging it from here! He just took off with all our bets! HE'S WELCHING!"

Meanwhile, things are looking pretty good for the Dark Horse to win ... but not so good for her to still be anyone able to hold a meaningful conversation once she gets there. Mister Snail is still in second, looking less likely to overtake her, followed by Mister Pig. Monsieur Frog is plodding along, and at last even he is looking more froggy, less fancy. The headless chicken seems to be running out of ... juice.

"Watch your back how?" March calls out! He has a kid to watch, and now the cyclops? Er, Card.

As the axeman comes into view, the card has a second to rethink his plan... And then deploys his umbrella just in case he takes a swing.

There's a collective gasp from the crowd. The north stands appear to be breaking up now. It feels like some of the "madness" in the air is letting up just a bit. Miss Dark Horse looks just ABOUT to stumble onto all fours, but ... no, she still has her gloves. Wouldn't do to smudge those. She seems to be holding on for a very little bit longer.

As for the Axeman, he has his hands full dealing with happy volunteers who have come up to offer themselves as free food for everyone. Chop, chop. Integra, fortunately, does not see this. However, chicken heads go flying, and there's no telling where they'll come down.

Several spectators pitch off the back of the bleachers, knocking over pennants, sending boxes of roasted peanuts flying, breaking off boards, and contributing to considerable mayhem. One of the horse spectators goes into a full gallop, leaping off the stands and landing solidly on the ground without breaking a beat. The horse's monocle and top hat might be left in the dust, and it might look like nothing more or less than just a HORSE at this point, but his anger toward the Cat Bookie still remains. There are yowls as the Bookie is trampled in the stampede.

As the distant caterwauling reaches Achilles's ears, he says grimly to himself (having just crossed the starting line) "I'd feel for him but he should have made a clean race of it. Cheetahs never prosper."

The stands creak with the weight of now full-sized horses stampeding off the back. It doesn't seem as if they're terribly safe to be on or near any longer.

March tries to lead Integra away from the chaos since she has been foisted off on him, so to speak. He also positions himself between the girl and the chaotic scene to spare her from some of the gory details. "Hey, Ace! Totally crazy idea! Can you steal the finish line?" he calls out, grinning like a mad hare.

"Awwrk, you better be able to catch it!" Griffin calls back, buy instead of throwing it he takes to the air to get closer first.

As the griffin moves up, the card adds, "Or you can drop it off yourself. Lay an egg, as it were," he jokes.

Griffin overhears the officials arguing -- something about, "...nothing in the rules against late additions to the race...."

"Bomb the finish line!" yells Achilles. "No finish line, no finishing the race!"

The card pulls up short as the nut goes flying over his head! He doesn't want to get covered by what must be at least a ton of stone.

The Wall-Nut explodes into a wall that clearly covers the entirety of the finish line, abuts against the bleachers (creaking as it shoves the wood), and spreads to the reverse side, narrowly missing the glue-making machine that is now on the other side of the tall wall.

The officials look stunned by this development, and begin arguing ferociously among themselves.

"Do I smell... Glue?" The horror of what would be the Dark Horse's fate if she were to be transformed stuns Achilles briefly. He yells up at the bird, "Griffin! You have to save the Dark Horse! You must have something that will reverse this transformation! I'll roust the other stand."

"Whh--" The Dark Horse starts to whinny, but then it comes out, "Achilles?" She stumbles, losing much of her momentum, looks at herself, and then blushes. (Well, maybe she blushes. Honestly, it's hard to tell. She just looks a bit embarrassed. And yet she hasn't come to a complete STOP.)

"The race is over! They called the rooster the winner already," yells Achilles as he hurries forward. He conveniently neglects his own part in that event. "And the finish line is gone too. The officials just called for everyone to get off the field!"

Griffin heads in a bee-line (or gryphon-line) through the air to try and intercept the Dark Horse.

Mister Snail, despite Achilles's declaration, kicks in some kind of extra boost on the cart. Either that, or it was just an accidental jostling of the machinery. The snail is gaining on the Dark Horse and looks like it might very well pass. The question is: can the snail still steer? The pig, meanwhile, is still oinking and squealing and dashing along, looking like nothing more than a very red-in-the-hide pig. The frog is hopping along at a regular but insufficient pace, while the headless chicken has finally just fallen over. (There is perhaps a phrase about running about like a headless chicken, but it never really established that it was particularly FAST, per se, or that it kept on about it for very LONG.)

"Cluck," says Mister Rooster's head. Maybe that translates into "Yay, I'm the winner!" But then the eyes glaze over and the Rooster's head says no more.

March moves closer to the edge of the track, making sure to keep himself in-between the chaos before him and Integra.

Achilles tries to yell at the far stands, "THE RACE IS OVER!" but he can tell that at this range, they'd have to be listening particularly acutely to hear him... And their attention is most likely on the racers at this point. If only he had a megaphone!

The Dark Horse looks for a moment as if she might experience a burst of speed, but then she looks to Achilles, and stumbles again. The snail zooms past her.

Alas, the snail appears to be little more than just a snail at this point. It careens right off the track. This seems to be Mister Pig's big chance! (That is, aside from all that "The race has ended!" business.)

The officials, meanwhile, are pulling and punching at each other as they argue loudly. The bleachers are in danger of collapsing as livestock mill out of it.

Running closer, the card tries again. He takes a deep breath. "EXTRA! EXTRA! THIS NEWS SCOOP JUST OFF THE WIRE! RACE OFFICIALS PLOTTING TO TURN US ALL INTO FOOD AND GLUE! THE FIX IS IN! NO ONE WINS!" he roars.

The milling crowd is dispersing quickly. Many creatures are just dumb beasts, lumbering off in a herd mentality. What few there are who seem to have maintained their wits and identities seem to recognize enough of the chaos about them to scamper off. The suicidal trend hasn't entirely wrested itself away, however. The Gluemaker, in a show of defiance ... proudly hops into his own machine! What point he was trying to make is anyone's guess, but the machine works flawlessly, and it makes what appears to be the very best glue.

"It's happening now, BEFORE YOUR VERY EYES," Achilles continues. "Wake up and look with your own eyes! Call out for the officials to end the race! Boo their corruption, and protest that the bookie must return all bets, because he knew the fix was in! Yes, I heard it with my own ears, people, the bookie knew the race was fixed!"

Griffin continues to fly towards the Dark Horse, nearly catching up! "Miss! Miss!" he calls. "I've got a cake for you! From Achilles!"

Miss Dark Horse looks up to the Gryphon, stumbling and struggling to keep her stance. "This isn't me," she says. "It isn't."

"But it will be again! Just a few bites of cake should do it," Griffin promises.

"This is Mister A, bringing the news to you IN PERSON from where IT IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING," Achilles concludes. "Thank you for reading-- er, listening, and come back for tomorrow's EXCLUSIVE coverage..." He stops himself from going on-- there's a good chance we don't actually want the world to follow us to the Mad Hatter's party.

"And the winner is ... the Wall-Nut!" an announcer declares, but then this is immediately followed by more shouting and punching and kicking and protesting. The decision is not, it would seem, unanimous.

The Dark Horse, ever one to have quite the appetite, hungrily devours the magical cake. It's not that she physically transforms, per se, but somehow she just seems more certainly herself (or, at least, as anyone has come to know her). Meanwhile, the snail cart careens off and explodes in a shower of gears and smoke upon running into a tree. The pig just snuffles around and oinks, trotting over to the food vendors. One of the cooks has brought back Mister Rooster, cleaned him up, and ... well, Mister Rooster DOES smell pretty good right now, if one didn't know better (and one did not mind eating formerly-sapient entities). The vendors, for their part, don't seem to have been particularly caught up in all the excitement -- perhaps because they'd have their work to do, no matter who won.

"They have a point, it's technically crossing the finish line," the reporter admits in a much quieter tone of voice. He hurries over to the Dark Horse and the Griffin, and explains, "The bookie knew that no one ever finishes the race in a condition to be able to talk about it... and they had a glue-maker right on the field. They planned this from the start! Whether you won or lost, they were going to make you into glue!"

"I ... I would have been happy for it," the Dark Horse says. "I'm ... I'm not supposed to be happy about that, am I? I can tell from the way you say that. I ... This ... This isn't me." She covers her face (or as much as she can manage, being at least something LIKE a horse).

"All runners-up may now report to the vendors for the honor of becoming special gifts for her Majesty!" the announcer excitedly declares. "In fact, all volunteers are welcome!"

Beyond words, Achilles hugs the Dark Horse. "It's over now. You can leave the nightmare behind. They're the ones who ruined the race. Of all the racers, you alone ran it fair and cleanly." His eyes glint. "But we'd better make a discreet exit, and we can all leave it behind."

"Oh!" the Dark Horse says, her eyes lighting up momentarily. "I can be a gift for Her Majest-- no, wait. No, that's not right, is it? I'm sorry. I feel very dizzy." She leans against Achilles for support.

Griffin ponders what to do about the horse... but can only suggest, "Don't worry too much, I'm sure you'll be back to your old self as soon you can get a new dress. It just wouldn't do for you change back only to be dressed in rags, now."

"I think it is time we leave. We do not want to be gifts to anyone. Well, aside from Ace wanting to be a gift to you," March quips to the Dark Horse as he approaches with Integra in tow.

"I'm sure Integra can find something for you to wear," Achilles says, giving the Dark Horse his shoulder and helping her toward the field, away from the vendors and officials.

"Still, let's try backtracking?" the gryphon whispers to Achilles. "Maybe crossing back over the starting line will fix things?"

Integra rushes up. "Miss Dark Horse! I'm so glad you didn't go crazy like everyone else." She digs around in her apron pockets. "I've got some thread and a needle and a thimble, and some pins," she offers. "Maybe we can fix it up ... a little."

The card looks at Griffin, then at the rather ominous hatchetman and vendors. "I'm not sure I want to get closer to them," he points out. He looks over at Harrison, who did after all figure out what was going on.

Chef Cook-a-Doodle-Doo appears to be using himself as ingredients for his latest stew. This doesn't look like the sort of arrangement that could really be the regular course of the Caucus Races, or else it just wouldn't have much longevity, to say the very least.

"Yes, now I'm positive I don't want to get closer to those things," Achilles says.

"Well, shall we head for the Hare's house, or take up that invitation to the Hatter's party?" Griffin asks around.

"It's something in the air," Miss Dark Horse says, as she lets Achilles help her along. "Something ... something's different. Everything's different. I didn't realize it, but somehow when I'm near you -- all of you -- I just know it wasn't always this way."

"Good thought, March," Griffin says. "A more stable environment is certainly welcome at this point."

Achilles asks gently, "Do you live somewhere nearby?" as he escorts the Dark Horse to the south where the stages will conceal their journey from the officials, in case they get tagged as part of the winning Wall-Nut's team.

GM Note: Map of Monarchy of Hearts: http://www.tripleacegames.com/Downloads/WonderlandNoMore/map-monarchy-of-hearts.gif

"To the east," Miss Dark Horse offers, "through the forest. I live in the Village of Animals, in Miss Trotterly's Boarding Stable for Young Mares."

"Thank goodness you figured out what was causing it, if we'd left them behind, it would have been dreadful," Achilles says to Harrison. "Do your rabbity senses tell you if it's something tied to this area, or is it all over this land?"

"It is focused on the track, best I can tell. The further from it, the less the feeling of being a simpler animal," March offers as he shrugs a little. "So I think the Town should be safe."

While Miss Dark Horse's dress is still a-tatter, and her parasol is beyond salvage, she's looking largely back to herself again -- which is, in that vague storybook realm where, should she be encountered in the Real World, and she were forced into a category as either human or animal, there's a good bet she'd pass for human (but probably still with a horse's appetite).

Achilles nods thoughtfully as he looks back toward the increasingly distant tracks. "Griffin, did you have something in your bag of tricks that might be able to tell us what's causing it? Whatever it is... If we know to look out for it, we might be able to get everyone to prevent its spread."

"I have some carrot cake," Griffin offers, producing one from his pocket. "Do you want to give it a try, Ace?"

"Probably better for someone with unimpeded vision to do it... Someone who can fly to give himself a better vantage," suggests Achilles pointedly.

The card says with a straight face and a wink to Integra, "I have no idea where we'd find someone like that, though."

"Awwrk," Griffin notes, and flexes his wings. "Be back in a toot," he notes before launching skyward, and trying not to leave too many crumbs as he eats cake with a beak.

It's one long toot before the Gryphon returns. He can be glimpsed now and again through the overhanging canopy of leaves, as the travelers make their way eastward to the Village of Animals, leaving the Caucus Race Grounds far behind, so at least he's still there. Nonetheless, his scouting seems to keep him occupied for quite some time.

At last, the first of the curious buildings shows up ahead. There's a definite theme here. Cottage are mounted up on great columns, with front doors that consist of big round holes, and pegs sticking out front right beneath them -- or over there is a giant gilded (and furnished) cage suspended from a stand. And over there is what looks like a fully-furnished sty or stable, complete with lantern lights and a roof and curtains. And then there are houses that are shaped not to suggest where animals might live, but what they might look like: a very tall house looks suspiciously like a giraffe in profile, and has a very tall front door, with very tall windows, and -- surprise! -- out comes a Giraffe, with bowler and smoking jacket and cane, newspaper tucked under hoof/arm. Some of the animals seem more human-like, some seem very much like ordinary beasts save for the occasional waistcoat or pocketwatch or hearty "howdy-do!" in spoken greeting as one walks by.

Achilles looks toward the stables, which seems like a likely culprit for Miss Trotterly's. "Anything of note?" he asks Griffin.

"Okay, everyone ... no laughing. Not even if you want to," March whispers in haste to the others.

The card looks surprised at the rabbit. "Eh? Is there some sort of law against it?"

Miss Trotterly's Boarding Home for Wayward Mares (the "Young" part seems to just have been a convenient failure of memory on Miss Dark Horse's part) is unmistakeable. A prim and humorless old mare keeps watch, looking distinctly disapproving as she sees Miss Dark Horse approaching. She looks more curiously at the rocking-nightmare, and perhaps even a little surprised.

"It wouldn't be polite," March points out. "Do you walk into towns and laugh at the residents?"

"Nothing.. simple," Griffin reports. "It's sort of a bad mood.. a stain. It's faded but.. there's still signs of it. If I had to name it would be.. a thought or desire of death and madness."

Miss Dark Horse has at least had time to stitch up a few of the tears with Integra's help, but it wasn't as if there was anywhere to go shopping between there and here. She is downcast, not meeting Miss Trotterly's disapproving gaze.

Achilles frowns. "That's... Rather hard to stop." He pats Miss Dark Horse's shoulder. "Chin up, we've got your back. We'll get you settled in and you'll be right as rain."

"Quite right. And bah, bad moods are easy to dispel. We just need to throw a tea party," March suggests cheerfully. "That always puts folks in a better mood."

The card squeezes the Dark Horse's hand. "Nothing can daunt your spirit. Darn the odds and full speed ahead!"

Miss Dark Horse manages or at least fakes a smile at that. "The odds, indeed! And thank you for betting on me." She winks to Achilles. "The next time there's a race -- a REAL race -- I'll make sure you win your wager."

"Miss Trotterly, I presume?" Griffin asks, approaching the matron. "There's been a commotion at the Caucus Race Grounds. Miss Horse here is the only racer to survive, I'm afraid. She's been a bit traumatized. I hope you have something to help soothe her? And if you could warn the village against going to the races anytime soon, it would be of great service."