The sun sat on the edge of the world, casting its last light upon the roof of the domain of Summer within Funderland. High Striker was set up more professionally, for what it was.
Circe's plans for this Coronation were...interesting to say the least. The massive tarp across most of the floor had a quintet of baseball bases holding it relatively flat. But there were neither baseballs nor bats, instead much less solid plastic wiffle balls and bats. Which makes sense considering there was less danger of broken glass.
What glass? Why, the folding tables holding down the tarps corners have the glass on them. Shot glasses and many Tequila bottles. Circe had a horrible, terrible challenge for the Freehold.
She was even dressed for the theme, as opposed to the usual royal regalia meant to impress each Summer. Considering there was a high change of vomit from this plan? She wasn't going to waste effort on Hedgespun or coin on high fashion. Red leggings were a must though, she had no intention of sliding and having to waste Goblin Fruit on a drunken whiffle ball induced road rash.
Despite the theme choice, she wasn't providing hot dogs for the event. That'd be a cookout later or something, she wasn't adding anything more to the tarp cleanup than just the Tequila. Patting herself down, Circe finds the remote and decides to be dramatic. She turns off most of the lights around the tarp covered area. The song was already picked out for whence someone arrives. Chosen for ironic reasons, thus the beast reasons.
There is also a round table with a raised platter upon it. Sitting on that platter is, illuminated by a spotlight even after she hid most of the tarped section, sat the Wyrdstone. Ready for oaths to be sworn upon it.


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