Chapter Text
Before she even reached the doors, she heard a crash, and a stuttered “Sorry, so sorry! my fault, sorry…”
Going by the sounds, some dimwit had crashed into the reception table, where all name-signs, room-plans and other gadgets always were stacked.
A fine start to a conference likely full of waffling and posturing.
Hecate won’t hold a talk herself, so she had taken her time, trying to out-wait the rushes. She’d almost skipped this year altogether, since the slim selection was scarce in proposals showing any dedication against the rampant decline of the craft – possibly aside from old Professor Windstone.