Sworded Affair

Emma summoned Epitaph, driving the blade into the ground and holding on for dear life as the world swayed around her. It wasn't painful, nor did her instincts warn of any danger, but it was immensely uncomfortable, like a sudden and extreme bout of motion sickness, or being caught on a plane during turbulence: zero out of ten, would not recommend. The only saving grace was that the transition was brief, and after a few seconds of being shaken, not stirred, the world stopped spinning and Emma could see again. After dismissing Epitaph, Emma took a look around and found that she was still at Stonehenge, the familiar stones not having moved an inch, nor had the sea of tents surrounding it. The floor had risen, forming a raised circular platform that took her above the stones, just as Crystal had promised, along with an intricate array of mirrors floating around her, capturing her helmet at every angle.

[A bit of clever projection, so that everyone can see the front of the speaker. The simplest of light magic, the sort that even a child could manage, assuming they were raised in a magical family.]

There were a few other additions as well, off in the distance. Large towers, two to three floors tall, with what looked to be viewing booths at the top. Far from the basic tent experience, these came with first class seats, individual tables, and a built-in bar. A few went even further, such that Emma could spot a disco ball, a snooker table, and even a hot tub and swimming pool on one of the towers. The only thing really missing was any sign of who they belonged to, a necessary concession to the rules prohibiting insignia, Emma noted, but one that was proving quite annoying at the moment.

"So those are the VIP seats," Crystal confirmed. "A bit of something to pass the time in luxury between speeches. The itinerary changes year on year, some years there's barely a minute to breathe, and other years you can have fifteen, twenty, or even thirty minute gaps between speakers. It all depends who shows up to participate, and the order of precedence that takes effect."

"How does that work exactly?" Emma questioned, sounding rather sceptical. "I'd have thought the schedule would have been agreed ahead of time."

"The organisers do their best," Crystal demurred. "But you never know who'll actually show up until the day, and who's locked inside their lab overseeing a delicate experiment, or off exploring the South American wilderness, or died in the meantime. The best they can do is decide the order of the attendees, assuming all of them turn up. It always starts with a speech by a founder, if one is available: this year, Overmind will be the opening act. After that, any Masters wanting to address the masses take turns, followed by an awards ceremony for honours earned. This one is new, actually, there's usually a separate party for all of that, but it was deemed inappropriate this year given the sheer number of casualties sustained. Not much of a party mood, when dozens of medals are going to be awarded posthumously, so the organisers preferred a short, solemn ceremony instead."

"Can't imagine there have been many parties this year," Emma nodded, having already expected this from Edith's earlier explanation, before a thought struck her. "Wait, I got an Order of the Empire, First Class. Am I going to have to do an acceptance speech?"

"You'll be called up from the crowd to be recognised, but there's no requirement for a speech," Crystal reassured her. "Just a few words of thanks will be more than enough. Trust me, the bar is pretty low, I've literally seen recipients just stand at the podium the entire time, with a thousand yard stare aimed toward the crowd. The magical community is very tolerant of weirdness, it comes with the territory."

"Words of thanks, right," Emma deadpanned, having never been too fond of public speaking.

[You'll be fine. The important folks know where you stand already, and the opinion of the rabble simply doesn't matter.]

"Moving on," Crystal changed the topic, seeing Emma's obvious irritation. "After the awards ceremony, the Magi will begin to speak. Unlike the Masters, they don't have an automatic right to time on the main stage; there's too many of them, if everybody wanted to have a go we'd be stuck here for weeks. As such, they have to make a request beforehand, with only those approved by the organiser getting a turn. After that, there's a closing speech by the host, and that's it for the main stage. At that point, people will break up into smaller groups, whether to listen to the remaining Magi with words to share, to go play politics, or simply enjoy the festival with friends and family. My advice, avoid politics. They're all dreadfully boring, that lot."

"I'll keep that in mind. Politics might not want to avoid me though, all things considered."

"Well, you can cross that bridge when you come to it," Crystal giggled. "Now, that's all for the main event, but there's always a few more bits and pieces that aren't heavily advertised. For instance…"

Hiss

Whatever Crystal was about to say cut off, interrupted by the heavy breath of a respirator. The world heaved again, though this time Emma was more prepared, and didn't require her sword to steady herself. It didn't last nearly as long, this time, nor did her surroundings change; the only difference after the fact was the arrival of another visitor, one that Emma knew very well despite never having met him in person.
"Magus Austere," Crystal raised an eyebrow. "I'd heard you were attending, but I still find myself surprised. You're not usually one for celebrations."

Magus Austere was dressed quite differently to how Emma remembered; understandably so, as their virtual meeting had occurred on the battlefield. His black robes had given way to a grey suit and bowler hat, the only point of similarity being the oxygen mask on his face.

"I'm not," he agreed genially. "But I have some business to attend to. Would you mind if we had a word, young miss?"