Sworded Affair

Given how much the Solstice had dominated her thoughts as of late, Emma's first reaction was bemusement, as she watched finely dressed servants flit to and from between tents, carrying everything from wooden support teams to trays laden with tea and crumpets. The morning was bright, with not a cloud in the sky, by all means a picturesque day for an outdoor gathering, and yet the scene before her felt strangely out of place.

"It's not that I dislike camping," Emma remarked, putting words to her thoughts.. "But this isn't quite what I envisioned for the big gala of the year."

[Funnily enough, whilst this has always been the traditional format, this is the first year it's been held in this manner in centuries. The increasing population and technological sophistication of the mortal world made it harder by the year, to justify the time and expense needed to do this on-site. Eventually, the decision was made to only symbolically appear at Stonehenge, by having an imperial official deliver a donation to the site each year, in our name. The actual festivities would have been held in a nearby estate, heavily warded against detection and far from any of the tourist routes.]

"I guess that's not a problem this year," Emma replied sardonically. "Every cloud has a silver lining, indeed."

Elizabeth started moving again after that, bringing the time for gawking to a close, as Emma followed after the only one in their group to know where she was going. As the family of three neared Stonehenge itself, Emma's initial impression of total anarchy gave way, confronted by some evidence of organisation within the chaos. Whilst tents were spread haphazardly around the monument, care had been taken to leave clear footpaths, and there were a few men pushing trolleys of all things, filled to bursting with tinned food and ready meals. All of this seemed thoroughly mundane, indeed, there was no magic at all that she could see.

[Typically, arrivals occur in order of seniority. The various servants will have been here for days already, putting up tents, clearing the local wildlife and so on. Today is the first day where the paths open for practitioners, for three days, and most won't arrive quite so early, the first morning. After that, magi have two days to arrive, and masters one day after that. The seventh day, of course, is the solstice, and the beginning of the event calendar.]

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Over the course of that truncated explanation, Elizabeth had led the party to a halt outside a small white tent, one wholly indistinguishable from any of its neighbours at first glance, or the second, or the third. Elizabeth pulled the flap open, and Emma was wholly unsurprised to find the inside was made of brick, and concrete, opening up into an retro but still fully functional kitchen, complete with an oven, hob and even a microwave.

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"That explains the ready meals," Emma could only laugh at the incongruity of it all, as she checked the doors, opening one into a modern bathroom, and another to a room that might as well have been a carbon copy of her bedroom back in Oxford. "Why even bother with the tents, if we're all staying in an Airbnb in the end?"

[Tradition and law, the twinned binding forces behind any old society. The first gatherings here were conducted in ordinary tents, with guests sleeping on the floor, protected from the cold overnight by thick sheepskin rugs. Those same gatherings were also marred by disputes over banners and heraldry, often leading to bloodshed, until a decree was passed, mandating that all tents erected within sight of Stonehenge were to be left in plain white, without any symbols of allegiance on display.

This tradition was already decades old, by the time spatial magic advanced far enough to enable extensive interior remodelling, and so the exterior appearance was never changed, even as the pursuit of luxury improved the actual living conditions with every iteration. Fast forward a few centuries after that, and you've got a modern, three bedroom house inside a man-portable tent. I doubt it would take much convincing, to persuade the council of masters to go for something more modern in future, but it's such a trivial matter that nobody has bothered to bring it up, preferring to spend limited legislative time on more important matters. I don't expect that to change this year, either, for the record.]

"The apocalypse is more important," Emma agreed wholeheartedly, claiming the bedroom she'd found with a slight infusion of anima into the doorknob, before adding cheekily. "Maybe next year?"

[Don't hold your breath.]

Laughing to herself, Emma was about to head back to the common area, when another notification popped up.

[Weave connection detected.

Retrieve new messages? Y/N.]

That was the first time Emma had seen this prompt since Blenheim Palace, as the communications network was still being repaired, after the extensive damage wrought by enemy action. Emma wasted no time selecting Yes, as she had no idea how long the connection would stay up, a true difference from before the apocalypse, when anything below 99% reliability was a mark of failure for the internet companies.

[You have 1121 messages.]

"Oh god," Emma groaned. "I know it's been a while, but really?"

[Hmph. It looks like word of our return has spread, and whilst the people have grown bold, in my prolonged absence. It used to be that only the most important matters would be sent to me, even by such an informal means of communication. Certainly, I never used to receive spam advertising feminine hygiene products. Of course, the lack of spam before is also why I never bothered setting up any rules or filters for my inbox. You, uh, might want to get on that, once you sort out the current tranche of mail.]

"That would have been nice to know a few weeks ago," Emma sighed, but resigned herself to a few hours of inbox management. It wasn't as if she had anything better to do, at present.