It was always the same assemblage of personages 'round the arced frontenac that made up the ebullious yearnings of Kipforth Hall. Elspeth, the mage, sat with her short bob as the crowd mingled. Some would sit atop the fuzzy black seatlings, they shaped like candy bars, while a number of fox-hommies would come down, pocketwatches dangling from fobs, teeth wide — and friendly.

The dome overhead would never be completed. Now, that was one of the best features of Kipforth, because they'd run out of L$undry, but then through the stewardship of Ei Ay O'Carnivale, many speechmakers of renown (and well-repute) had been on this very stage.

It was early autumn and the leaves hadn't begun to fall yet. The wind sounded the same everywhere, a sickly omen that felt as a flustering child playing the same old games, eager for change. But in the sinoid tones, there remained some comfort in knowing this is how it's going to be.

Sometime later on a jaïe day, the custodian would come by, sweeping up stray pamplets and programmes pertaining to the latest presentation. He was amused.