All the rage hilltop: All The Rage | Prom and Formal Dresses in Virginia Beach & Roanoke Virginia

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Welcome to All The Rage Virginia Beach

All the Rage in Virginia Beach is the largest formal boutique in the area and has been servicing Hampton Roads and its neighboring cities for 41+ years. Specializing in Designer Prom, Special Occasion, Pageant, Bridal, Mother of the Bride/Groom, Wedding Guest, and Tuxedos.  We carry the industry’s top designers such as SHERRI HILL, FAVIANA, ELLIE WILDE, as well as our very own collection of exclusive looks for any formal event.

Ashley | Owner

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Nikita | Store Manager

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Simone | Assistant Store Manager

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Kim | Lead Prom Stylist

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Abby | Prom Stylist

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Madison | Marketing Manager

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Sherri Hill

Ashley Lauren

Ellie Wilde

Prom Season Shopping – 2023

Ashley McAchran, president of All The Rage

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Virginia Beach

Hilltop North Shopping Center
1556 Laskin Road, Suite 142
Virginia Beach, VA 23451

MONDAY-SATURDAY: 10am to 6pm

SUNDAY: noon to 5pm

(757) 491-1418

All the Rage | Virginia Beach

Welcome to All The Rage Roanoke

All the Rage in Roanoke, Virginia, opened its doors in 2020 to help bring the largest selection of today’s top special occasion brands to Western VA.   Specializing in Designer Prom, Special Occasion, Pageant, Bridal, Mother of the Bride/Groom, Wedding Guest, and Tuxedos. We carry the industry’s top designers such as SHERRI HILL, FAVIANA, ELLIE WILDE, as well as our very own collection of exclusive looks for any formal event.

Sarah | Manager

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Anna Kate | Lead Prom Stylist

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Brooklyn | Prom Stylist

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Sheradyn | Prom Stylist

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Sherri Hill

Faviana

Ellie Wilde

Roanoke

128 Campball Ave SE Suite 102
Roanoke, VA 24011

TUESDAY-SATURDAY: 10am to 6pm
SUNDAY: Closed

(540) 904-5088

Quotes from books by the author Roth Veronica

From the book Selected by the author Roth Veronica

Magic was not a weapon, and not even an immoral source of energy, magic was an infection. Where she appeared, people died, lands were devastated, the order of things was violated, sometimes irreparably. It had to be extracted from the wounds of the Earth.

From the book Eyed, Eared Trouble author Dontsova Darya Arkadyevna

There was a squeak, a strange creature rushed towards me, fluffy, with small round eyes, small protruding ears and a long tail. In an instant, it climbed up my trousers, got to my face, licked it and darted into my bosom.

From the book Eyed, Big-Eared Trouble author Darya Arkadyevna Dontsova

An ominous fire flared up in Nora’s eyes. I involuntarily put my head on my shoulders. In previous years, I did not often see such a reaction from the hostess. But if the flames began to dance, one could only hope that the flamethrower would not go to the secretary, who had committed a rash act, but would spit fire in the other direction.

From the book Big-eyed, Big-Eared Trouble author Dontsova Daria Arkadievna

Why does an unpleasant divorce sometimes happen after a magnificent marriage? Yes, because a man is confident that the one whom he led down the aisle will remain for the rest of his life as slender, beautiful, affectionate and caring as during the performance of Mendelssohn’s march. And a woman, putting on a wedding ring, is eager to remake her husband in her own way. !

From the book Eyed, Eared Trouble author Dontsova Darya Arkadievna

If we equate the weak and strong sex with technical objects, then a man is a toggle switch. They clicked it once, and the unit starts to buzz, hiss, count money. And the woman … she is the control cabin of the spacecraft: buttons, levers, keys are everywhere, the darkness of light bulbs is flashing, the devices make various frightening sounds.

From the book Eyed, Big-Eared Trouble author Dontsova Darya Arkadievna

I flew like a young eagle to my bedroom and, at the speed of a young gibbon, pulled on a shirt, a jacket pair and boots intended for going to the theater.

From the book Big-Eared, Big-Eared Trouble author Darya Arkadyevna Dontsova

It is not the one who lost his nerve that is to blame for the collapse of a marriage, but the one who diligently pressed the detonator button. The meanest things are usually done with a sweet smile on their lips.

From the book Pestilence, Disciple of Death by Pratchett Terry

Pestilence was more dangerous than a sack full of rattlesnakes. He was determined to get to the bottom of the logical basis of the universe

From Mor, Disciple of Death by Pratchett Terry

— What time does the sun set here? “Usually we manage to stick it in between day and night.

From More, Disciple of Death by Pratchett Terry

“To love is to suffer,” Isabelle replied with the grim confidence of a knowledgeable professional. There must be a lot of dark passion in love. – It is necessary? — Absolutely. And more pain.

From the book Mor, Disciple of Death by Pratchett Terry

He was wrong, there was light at the end of the tunnel. And its source was a flamethrower.

From the book More, Disciple of Death by Pratchett Terry

Scientists have calculated that the chances of such a frankly absurd world actually existing are one in a million. However, wizards have calculated that the chance of “one in a million” falls nine times out of ten.

From the book More, Disciple of Death by Pratchett Terry

Pestilence already knew that love makes a person either hot or cold, that love makes a person cruel and weak. But that she also makes you stupid was new to him.

From the book Red fogs of Polissya author Tamonnikov Alexander Alexandrovich

Kalach went along the formed formation, firing a pistol at the back of the head of the unfortunate victims. He fired as if he were doing a job, fired off the magazine, reloaded the TT, which was preferred to German weapons.

From the book Red fogs of Polissya author Tamonnikov Alexander Alexandrovich

More Germans were afraid of the chief of police in the area. On his conscience were hundreds of Red Army soldiers tortured in the basements of the local prison, captured when leaving the encirclement, communists and Komsomol members who did not have time to leave the city, members of their families, ordinary inhabitants who violated the order introduced with the arrival of the Germans.

From the book Red fogs of Polesie the author Tamonnikov Alexander Alexandrovich

They were supposed to be placed in a ghetto, but the city administration did not have time to find a suitable living area, and therefore they were all taken to a wild forest and shot in a ravine.

From the book Red fogs of Polissya author Tamonnikov Alexander Alexandrovich

Now we had to reach the Kaiserstrasse and Podansky Lane. This took half an hour. If nothing happens, they will arrive just in time for the first toast.

From the book Red fogs of Polesie the author Tamonnikov Alexander Alexandrovich

Having found a cleaner place, making sure that there was no one in the building, Captain Avdeev and Sergeant Sobolev took out Soviet PPSh submachine guns from the box, seventy-one rounds in the drum magazine, then alerted the TT.

From the book Red fogs of Polesie author Tamonnikov Alexander Alexandrovich

Two TT bullets fired from Kogan’s pistol pierced his chest. The German fell on the asphalt.

From the book Month of Hope author Bushkov Alexander Alexandrovich

– Alyoshka!.. – Olya whispered, downright spellbound. – This is a real fairy tale. “Yes, well,” he said, when Olya’s hands closed around his neck. “It’s just life on sinful earth, and that’s all. He was happy. Because Olya was happy.

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Marksman Sharpe’s Fury read online Bernard Cornwell (Page 26)

“Please,” he said. that the French are coming to forest and that I intend to meet them here. Also tell me that I would be extremely grateful if he…” The general hesitated, choosing his words. “If he deploys against the right flank of the enemy.

The Spaniard rode away and Sir Thomas turned east again. The French marched in two columns. He planned to put Whitley’s brigade against the northern column, and General Dilks with his guards against the southern one, which is closer to Cerro del Puerco. And what about the Spaniards on the hill? The French would no doubt try to occupy the hill, but it must not be surrendered, for then they would be able to attack the right flank of his hastily organized defence. Sir Thomas turned south and hurried with his remaining adjutants to Cerro del Puerco.

The hill was his only advantage, a fortress protecting the vulnerable right flank, and if the French could be kept on the plain, then the enemy’s flank could be attacked from there. Thank God, the general thought, that the Spanish guns and Brown’s battalion were there.

But all hopes collapsed as soon as he left the forest. There was no one on the summit, and the first French battalions were already climbing the eastern slope. Cerro del Puerco was surrendered to the enemy without a fight, there was no trace of the Spanish brigade, and Brown’s battalion, instead of defending the height, was built in a marching column at the foot of the hill.

– Brown! Brown! shouted Sir Thomas, setting his horse into a gallop. “Why are you here?” Why did they leave?

— Because half of their army is coming here! Because I can’t hold this damn skyscraper alone!

— Where are the Spaniards?

– Escaped.

Sir Thomas looked at the major for a long second.

Bad business, Brown. Bad… But now you have to turn around and immediately attack the enemy.

Major’s eyes popped up.

– Do you want me to attack half of their army? he asked incredulously. “I myself saw six battalions and an artillery battery!” And I have only five hundred and thirty-six muskets.” Abandoned by the Spaniards, in the face of the overwhelming advantage of the enemy, he decided that retreat was still better than suicide. There were no other British troops nearby, no promises of reinforcements, and he led his companies north of the hill. And now he was ordered to return! The major took a deep breath, preparing for the upcoming test. “If we have to,” he said, “then we will attack.”

— I’ll have to, said Sir Thomas. — I need this hill. It’s a pity, Brown, but otherwise we will not succeed. General Dilks is coming here now. I will bring him to you myself.

Brown turned to the adjutant.

Major Blakeney! Change into a shooting chain! And up! To the hill! Let’s chase the damn frogs!

Sir Thomas? The adjutant held out his hand, pointing at the French battalions that had appeared on the top.

The general looked up and looked at the major.

– Light infantry is not enough here, you have to hit in one gulp.

Close formation! shouted Brown.

“They have an artillery battery there,” the adjutant said in a low voice.

Sir Thomas ignored the message. Whether there is artillery on top or not, the enemy needs to be attacked, and this will be done by those who happen to be on the spot. Take the summit by assault and hold out until the approach of Dilks’s guards.

“God be with you, Brown,” said Sir Thomas, in a low voice so that only the major could hear him, realizing that he was sending the battalion to its death. He turned to the adjutant. “Ride to Dilks.” The last order is to get here as quickly as possible. As fast as possible!

The adjutant sped away.

Sir Thomas did his best. On a two-mile stretch, between Barrosa and Bermeja, the French developed two offensives simultaneously. One went through the forest, the other had already ended with the capture of a strategically important height. The enemy was on the verge of victory, and Sir Thomas could only rely on the fighting qualities of his people. The numerical advantage is on the side of the enemy, and if at least one of the brigades does not fulfill its duty, the entire army will perish.

Behind the general, in the open wasteland beyond the pine forest, the first shots were fired.

And Brown led the battalion up the slope.

Chapter Eleven

Sharpe and five of his riflemen, still accompanied by Captain Galiana, walked along the coast, along which the Spanish army was stretched. At the village of Bermeha, Galiana dismounted. General Lapena and his adjutants were resting, sheltered from the sun under fishing nets stretched out to dry. The Spanish officers gathered on the watchtower turned their telescopes and looked south, where the muffled sounds of gunfire could be heard. However, the Spaniards did not seem to care. At the exit from the village, Galiana got back into the saddle.

— Under the net, was that General Lapena? Sharpe asked.

“Yes,” replied the Spaniard sullenly, hiding behind the horse from the general.

— And why did he dislike you so much?

– Because of my father.

— And what did your father do?

– He served in the army. And challenged Lapena to a duel.

— And?..

— Lapena refused to fight. He is a coward.

— Why didn’t they get along?

“Because of my mother,” Galyana answered curtly.

The beach behind the village was empty except for a few fishing boats lying on the sand, painted in a variety of colors – blue, red, yellow – but with the obligatory pair of large black eyes on their bows. The gunshots were still muffled, but now Sharpe could see the smoke rising from the pine forest beyond the dunes. They walked in silence until Perkins suddenly announced that he had spotted a whale.

“You noticed the bottle of rum, not the whale,” Slattery said. “Found it and drank it.”

— I saw, sir! Is it true! Perkins, offended by distrust, called to Sharpe, but Sharpe said nothing – he was not up to Perkins now with his visions.

“I saw a whale once,” Hagman put in. “A dead one. Well, he stank!

Perkins turned back to the sea, hoping to see a whale, or at least what he thought was one.

— You see that cloud over there… it has a back like a swallow, — suggested Harris. — Or like a whale?* (* Shakespeare. W. Hamlet. Act 3, scene 2. Translated by M. Lozinsky.) stared at him.

“Pay no attention,” said Harper. “The guy is playing smart.”

– This is Shakespeare, Sgt.

— I don’t give a damn, even if it’s Archangel Gabriel himself. You’re just wondering.

“There was a Sergeant Shakespeare in ’48,” said Slattery. Choked on a nut. To death.

– You don’t die from a nut! Perkins objected.

– And here he is. The face turned blue, and … gave up. It’s for the best. The beast was.

— God save Ireland! Harper muttered. True, these words had nothing to do with the death of Sergeant Shakespeare, but were caused by the appearance on the shore and the cavalcade moving towards them. Pack mules rushed at full speed, not making out the road.

Stop! Sharpe ordered. They huddled together in a tight group, and the mules, divided, rushed past. Captain Galiana tried to find out from the drovers what happened, but they did not answer him.

“I didn’t know you were in the 48th, Fergus,” Hagman said.

Three years, Dan. Then they were sent to Gibraltar, and I got sick and stayed. Nearly died.

Harris tried to grab a running mule, but it slipped through.

— And how did you get into shooters?

– Served Captain Murray, and when he went into the shooters, he took me with him.

— And what is an Irishman to do in Forty-eight? said Harris. “They’re from Northamptonshire.”

“They were recruited at Wicklow,” said Slattery.

In the end, Captain Galiana managed to stop one drover, who confusingly spoke about the French advance.

“Says the enemy has captured that hill.” Galiana pointed to Cerro del Puerco.

Sharpe unrolled the spyglass and used Perkins as a stand again. At the top, the captain saw an artillery battery and at least four bluecoat battalions.

“Exactly, they are there,” he confirmed, and turning the pipe towards the village, located between the hill and the sea, found the Spanish cavalry. There was also the Spanish infantry, two or three battalions, but they were resting on the shore between the dunes. Neither the French capture of the high ground, nor the sound of the fighting raging in the woods to Sharpe’s left, seemed to bother either one or the other.

Sharp handed the spyglass to Galiana.

— I have my own, — answered the Spaniard. — And what are they doing there?

– Who? French people?

— Why don’t they attack down the slope?

— And what are those Spaniards doing? Sharpe asked.

Nothing.

— So they are not needed there. Looks like the frogs are already waiting downstairs. They’re finishing up there.” Sharpe pointed towards the woods. Sharpe picked one up too and broke it in half.

— So, sir, are we looking for the Eighth? Harper asked as they started towards the woods.

– Yes. I doubt that I will find them there.

It is one thing to declare a desire to find Colonel Vandal, and quite another to find him in this mess. It remains to be seen if the Eighth Regiment is even here—they could be anywhere. It is clear that some of the French were behind the channel, others occupied the hill, and some more behind the pine forest, where the cannons were firing. Sharpe climbed the sandy slope, descended, and found himself in the shade of the trees. Galyana, whose whole plan seemed to be to keep close to the Briton, dismounted again – low branches did not allow him to ride.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Sharpe told Harper.

– I know, sir.

– I mean, it’s none of our business.

– Colonel Vandal is there, sir.

“He’s yet to be found,” Sharpe said dubiously. “To tell you the truth, Pat, I’m only here because I like Sir Thomas.”

Everyone speaks well of him, sir.

“And that’s our job, Pat,” Sharpe added sternly. “They’re fighting and we’re soldiers.”

— So it’s our business after all?

– Of course, damn it.

Harper walked in silence for a while, then asked:

— So you, sir, weren’t going to let us go?

— Would you leave?

“I’m right here, sir,” Harper said, avoiding a direct answer.

Musket fire intensified ahead. Separate shots, reminiscent of the crackling of dry branches under foot, ceased, and now the forest shuddered from sharp, resonant volleys, behind which were heard the piercingly alarming cries of the trumpet and the rhythm of the drums. The tune sounded unfamiliar, and Sharpe assumed it was a French orchestra. Then the guns roared. Between the trees, shaking off needles, bullets whistled. The French fired grapeshot, and the air smelled of tar and gunpowder smoke.

A few minutes later they came to a track made by the wheels of gun carriages. About a dozen mules tied to trees were guarded by three redcoats.

Are you from Hampshire? Sharpe asked when he saw the yellow piping.

— Exactly, sir.

— What’s going on here?

We don’t know, sir. We were told to guard the mules.

Let’s move on. The cannons were firing steadily now, alternating with musket volleys, but the sides had not yet closed, because Sharpe heard occasional shots that indicated that the firing lines were still deployed. Buckshot and bullets swept through the forest like gusts of wind.

“Frogs take high,” Harper observed.

– As always, thank God.

The noise of the battle grew as they approached the edge of the forest. Under a pine tree lay a dead Portuguese shooter. The brown uniform was dark with blood. Mortally wounded, he must have crawled here, leaving a trail of blood on dry needles. In his left hand, the soldier clutched a crucifix, the fingers of his right froze on the rifle stock. A little further, about five paces from the Portuguese, the red coat with a black hole in the uniform with yellow edging twitched and wheezed.

And then the trees parted.

And Sharpe saw the carnage.

Major Brown walked up the hill with everyone, leaving his horse below, tied to a pine tree. And he sang. Brown had a beautiful, strong and clear voice, which brought him considerable fame in the Gibraltar garrison.

Cheer up guys! We are heading for glory,

We call you to honor, but not under compulsion, like slaves,

But because we are free sons of the waves.

The song was a sailor’s song, it was often performed by ship crews that went ashore, and it was not quite suitable for the assault on Cerro del Puerco, but the major liked it.

– C’mon, got it! he shouted. “I can’t hear you guys well!”

And all six companies of the combined battalion unanimously supported in chorus:

Our ships are strong as oak,

Our people are strong as oak.

In the moments of silence that followed the chorus, the major distinctly heard the click of the “dogs” of muskets on the top of the hill. He saw four French battalions and suspected that others were behind them, but these four were already ready to kill and were only waiting for a signal. A cannon was pulled forward, and the gunners tilted the muzzle to fire downwards. An orchestra played behind the battalions. The music was brisk, easy to kill, and Brown found himself tapping a strange rhythm on the hilt of his saber with his fingers.

– Frog howl, guys! he shouted. “Don’t listen to him!”

Not long now, he thought, wishing they had their own orchestra to play a real British tune. There was no orchestra, and Brown sang the last verse of Oak Hearts.

The French opened fire.

The top of the hill disappeared behind a swirling avalanche of acrid, dirty-gray gunpowder smoke, especially dense in the center, where the battery stood and where a hail of canister burst out of the sudden explosion of seething, flame-pierced darkness. Bullets lashed down the slope, and it seemed to Brown that this whirlwind had knocked down half of his men. He saw the bloody mist, heard the first groans and cries.

– Close formation! shouted the guards, sergeants and corporals. “To the center!” Close formation!

– Go guys! Forward! Brown called out. – He went on the attack with five hundred and thirty-six muskets, now there were a little more than three hundred, the French had at least a thousand more, and the major, stepping over the body beating in agony, saw the ramrods flashing in the thinning smoke. It seemed a miracle that he himself survived. A sergeant was swaying to the left – a bullet had blown off his lower jaw, and blood was dripping from his hanging tongue. – Up, guys! Forward! To victory! – The cannon boomed again, and three of them were pulled out of the line and carried away somewhere back; a puddle of blood remained on the grass. “We are heading for glory!” Muskets fired behind the cannon. The boy next to the major clutched his stomach, looking with horror at the blood oozing between his fingers. Forward!

The bullet unrolled the cocked hat on the major’s head. The French fired without command, smoke swirled all over the slope, bullets tore flesh and split the butts of muskets. Brown knew he had done his duty and could do no more. The Redcoats took cover in the pits, behind tussocks and bushes, but they fired back, trying to keep the formation. Half of his guys were lying on the slope, sliding down, dying or crying in pain, and the bullets all whistled and mowed down the broken ranks.

Major followed the line. In fact, little is left of the building itself. Buckshot and bullets scattered, tore apart, cut through the ranks and chains, but the survivors did not retreat. And they hit back. They fired, fell to their knees, reloaded and fired again, hiding from the enemy in clouds of smoke. They tore thick paper with their teeth, licked parched lips, swallowed saliva sour from saltpeter, wiped their cheeks, burned by sparks escaping from the lock, and again charged and beat, beat, beat. The wounded hobbled along behind the formation and also loaded and fired.

— Well done guys! Well done! shouted Brown. He knew he was going to die and was not afraid of death. It was sad, but duty demanded that he stay on his feet, follow these guys, encourage them, and wait for a musket or buckshot to end his life. Head up! sang the major. On the right, a corporal collapsed with brains spread across his forehead. He was dead, but his lips continued to move until Brown knelt beside him and closed his gaping mouth.

His adjutant, Blakeney, was also alive and not even wounded.

“Our valiant allies,” he said, touching the major’s elbow and pointing down. Brown turned and saw that the Spanish brigade, which had made such a hasty retreat down the hill, was resting on the dunes a quarter of a mile away. He turned away. Nothing depended on him – either they will come or not. Most likely not. — Bring? Blakeney asked over the rumble of muskets.

– Do you think you can do it?

– No, sir.

– I can’t order them, not the right rank. These scoundrels see that we need help, but they won’t even lift a finger, To hell with them.” The major looked around. “Hold on, guys! Hold on!

They held on. And they kept the enemy. The French broke the back of the redcoat attack, ripped apart the British lines, scattered the flanking companies, but did not launch a counterattack down the hill, where the remnants of the battalion would have been easy prey for their bayonets. Instead, they fired and fired at the battered battalion, while the Redcoats, Lancashires, Norfolk Saints, and Gloucester Silvertails fired back.

They fired back and died in front of Major Brown. The boy from the Silver Tails staggered and froze for a moment – a splinter sharp as a knife cut off his left shoulder, and the poor man’s arm hung on the tendons, and shattered white bones escaped from the bloody mess that the chest had turned into. In the next second, he fell with his mother’s name on his lips. Brown leaned over and took the boy by the hand. The major wanted to plug the wound, but it was too big, and he, not knowing how else to alleviate the last moments of the dying man, began to sing.

At the foot of the hill, at the very edge of the pine forest, General Dilks’s brigade was reorganizing into two lines. The second battalion of the First Regiment of Infantry Guards, three companies of the Second Battalion of the Third Regiment of Infantry Guards, two rifle companies of the Sixty-seventh Infantry mixed with Dilks’ boys. The general, drawing his saber, wrapped the brush hanging from it around his wrist. He was ordered to take the hill. The slope in front of him was teeming with the wounded of Brown’s battalion. He knew that the enemy was outnumbered and did not believe that the French could be thrown off the top, but he had orders. Sir Thomas Graham, the man who had given the order, was standing nearby under the banner of the 3rd Foot Guards, looking at him anxiously, as if seeing Dilks’ hesitation.

– Go! the general said gloomily.

– Brigade … forward! roared the brigade major. The drummer boy gave a short roll, took a breath and began to beat out the rhythm. – Alignment to the middle! March!

And they went.

While General Ruffin was attacking the hill, General Laval was advancing towards the pine forest. Six battalions, totaling about four thousand infantry, marched in a broad front. Unlike the British, the French battalion consists of only six companies, and each column is a formation two companies wide and three deep. The rhythm of the march was set by the drummers.

Colonel Whitley could only oppose four thousand Laval with two, and he had to start in complete disarray.