"... The hell?" Phye managed, raising an eyebrow as the group of tiny masked folk - or, perhaps, tinier folk considering her Highlandian heritage - that had all frozen at the arrival of the quite varied crowd of concert-goers, as if Shiva herself had caused a limb-seizing cold-snap at the site just moments before. As if to add to the scene, the rain slowly tapered to a stop, leaving little sound beyond the dripping of rainwater from the various jutting pieces of architecture into the swampy water below.
And then it all burst into motion again. The figures were darting everywhere; not to escape from the arrivals but to hurriedly set everything back into place. Chairs were rapidly un-stacked and places into messy little rows, stools and ladders appeared almost from nowhere to get the decorations back from the spots they had been so hurriedly torn down from. The only constant seemed to be the tarps up on the altar itself, the apparent "stage" for the performance. Where everything else was a blur of robes and childishly-smiling masks. they stood silent as a quiet offering of surprises to come.
While the tiny prep team and (most likely) the gathering crowd were grateful for the rain finally abating, there was one who was not so happy. One who stared up angrily at the cloudy sky, as if his glare would be enough to cow the heavens and split them open again with rain and wind. He tried this a few times, interspersed with a couple glances in the direction of the Wanderer's altar, before Stout Pillar made his displeasure about the change in weather known.
"Oy! OY! Thal's balls!" the Roegadyn exclaimed, shaking an irate finger skyward. "Don't stop now! Those malcontents are going to be able to set up for their Twelves-damned little cult gathering!"
If he had been wealthy enough for a pocket-watch, Stout would have spent the rest of his shift glancing irritably about it. Instead, he kept glancing back towards the gates of the camp proper in hopeful expectation of his relief. The moment they arrived and he was off the clock, he would gather as many of the - obviously numerous, in his mind - like-minded citizens and go put a stop to this nonsense. If the Twelve wouldn't intervene, then he would.
And then it all burst into motion again. The figures were darting everywhere; not to escape from the arrivals but to hurriedly set everything back into place. Chairs were rapidly un-stacked and places into messy little rows, stools and ladders appeared almost from nowhere to get the decorations back from the spots they had been so hurriedly torn down from. The only constant seemed to be the tarps up on the altar itself, the apparent "stage" for the performance. Where everything else was a blur of robes and childishly-smiling masks. they stood silent as a quiet offering of surprises to come.
While the tiny prep team and (most likely) the gathering crowd were grateful for the rain finally abating, there was one who was not so happy. One who stared up angrily at the cloudy sky, as if his glare would be enough to cow the heavens and split them open again with rain and wind. He tried this a few times, interspersed with a couple glances in the direction of the Wanderer's altar, before Stout Pillar made his displeasure about the change in weather known.
"Oy! OY! Thal's balls!" the Roegadyn exclaimed, shaking an irate finger skyward. "Don't stop now! Those malcontents are going to be able to set up for their Twelves-damned little cult gathering!"
If he had been wealthy enough for a pocket-watch, Stout would have spent the rest of his shift glancing irritably about it. Instead, he kept glancing back towards the gates of the camp proper in hopeful expectation of his relief. The moment they arrived and he was off the clock, he would gather as many of the - obviously numerous, in his mind - like-minded citizens and go put a stop to this nonsense. If the Twelve wouldn't intervene, then he would.
~