The Aerial Society had drawn a genuine crowd for its closing presentation, which was more than most of the afternoon's clubs could claim.
Having drifted away from the Martial students an hour ago, Lucavion had passed three societies that each believed their particular blend of ritual, dues, and attendance sheets amounted to a calling. He stopped here mostly because nothing about the northern grounds asked anything of him. No pledge form. No enthusiasm required. Just a demonstration and a crowd content to watch it.
That, he could manage.
The society had built its stage out of the slope itself: stepped timber platforms climbing toward the ridge, signal flags snapping hard enough in the wind to crack like knuckles, and a course of suspended hoops strung between poles that leaned with each gust.
