Date: March 28, 1999
Place: Forum Imperator, Aegis Chamber - Basilica Justinia - Civitas Dei
Cast: Amaryllis, Ambriel, Arahael, Arannon, Aununa, Cepheus, Daren, Darius, Drusus, Elidi, Faisal, GreyWolf, Idraeus, Ilex, Ipo, Jasmine, Khalid (I/III), Koralland, Kuronbo, Leonidas, Lirani, Livia, Longinius, Maat, Many Shadows, Medea, Megeara, Oriane, Persephone, Pylades, Rabi, Riva, Sapientia, Selene, ShadowEyes, Shahar, SilverFox, Siranae, Soft-Feather, Tenderheart, Thalia (I)
Emits: Archana, Elena, Elyaena, Kiral, Pantoleon, Shinjukou
Scene: A new Emperor for the Empyreans is crowned.

Forum Imperator - Civitas Dei:
      This broad plaza is surrounded by tall buildings on all sides, each presenting an arcade of delicate Corinthian columns as its contribution to the forum's frame. At the head of the forum is the rostrum, a raised platform framed by stairs leading up, a place for orators to address those nearby or -- on state occasions -- the entire forum. At the far side of the rostrum, behind where an orator would normally stand, is a cone of black and green striated stone, the symbolic heart of the Empyre.
      Another raised platform faces the rostrum at the extreme other end of the forum: it, too, has stairs, but unlike the rostrum it has a block of stone instead of a cone. This block, like a solid table, is of pure white stone and its surface has been long-marred with nicks and dark brown stains. It is the public altar, set aside for public and governmental expressions of piety to the gods. Pads of golden marble are arrayed in a semicircle behind the altar, awaiting the presence of statues or icons.
      On normal days the forum would be filled with merchants, public teachers, patrons and their gaggles of clients. Today, however, the stalls and booths have been cleared away for the multitudes of people come to celebrate the crowning of their new Emperor, crowds which fill the forum and perch upon the surrounding buildings' balconies and ledges, their wings capturing the light in pale glitters. Streamers and banners fly from every conceivable sprit or column-top, filling the air with the fluttering colors of the rainbow and the crowd below, too, is a riot of color and shape. Servants in the livery of the Aegis move through the crowd, dispensing water and the watered-down wine that is the staple drink for most of the Empyre; nobles in the forum send their own servants for the more potent ambrosia to share with friends and clients and -- in some cases with complete strangers in the joy of celebration.

Drusus, in the upper story of the Curia, looks out over the vast crowd of color and motion. Some of them catch the light and cast it back into the sky in glitters that hurt the eyes, others in darker colors drink it in. He feels a wave of dizziness. I have never seen so many people. Stepping back from the window he returns to the tailors and clerks and assistants, a swarm of activity with him at the center. The sound follows him from outside, filling every corner of the room more effectively than even the bright sunshine of this warm May day.

Daren stands with the other two Heralds, speaking with them in low tones and occasionally turning to motions towards one group of luminaries or another. His gaze, in those brief moments spent looking away from his fellow Heralds, seem to be cataloging all those present, from their demeanor to the cut of their clothing.

A small collective of House Tritonis members lingers near the other nobles awaiting the ceremony to begin. It's a small grouping, made up of different members of varying status. Small because some members have refused to take part for the shame they feel from recent events, and small because other members simply cannot be here -- most notably, Dea Kalypso Deukalia Tritonides who has remained in Haven... Some say because she caught the flu going among the refugees she sought to help.

One member of the House stands slightly apart, but distinct in and of herself. Dark wings are held tight behind her back, keeping her as small as possible as wide eyes take in the vast crowd of people and dignitaries. Oriane is overwhelmed, but she is determined to be here.

Elidi, apparently the lone representative of House Augustus, frowns beneath the edge of her silver and gold half-mask. The samite of her cloak and the white of her tunic and wings are only second to the blinding brilliance of her highly polished armor. She slowly, but steadily makes her way through the crowd to where she assumes she will be asked to stand for the procession.

Siranae Acesian enters with all the pomp and circumstance that one would expect of one of the foremost Houses in the Empyre. Attired in the saffron colors of her family, and leading several attendants, she gracefully makes her way over to where the procession will start... taking her place in the secondary position behind that of Jove. Her expression is composed, even regal, if that term could be applied as she idly glances around the room to observe those who have come in attendance of this occasion.

Near the head of the vast crowd, close to the entrance leading into the next building, are literally hundreds of Aegians. Dressed in their finery and heads held high, the members of that governing body speak with one another as they also wait for the ceremony to begin.

Wary of Elidi, Aununa soon follows behind, remaining quite like a wallflower, hoping not to be noticed.

In the milling crowd of those who will remain outside is a slim figure who works her way to the front of the throng. Persephone is determined to get a good look at all the faces that match the names she has heard so often. Getting nudged sharply, she spreads her wings just enough to give her a few inches clear on either side, a not so subtle hint. They are dropped when she is given space and she settles into place on the second row of the crowd, peering over the shoulders of those before her. A bright smile lights her face as the thrill of the festivities is simply infectious.

From the direction of the Palantine hill, a small winged grouping descends, glistening in the sunlight. Fronted by a pair of servants proudly bearing the standards of House Jove, the nobles of that House soar down to a graceful landing. At their head is Megeara Jove, accompanied by those close members of her husband's family.

The people of the Orcinus stand alone away from the rest of the Atlanteans... in fact, they appear to be standing alone from most everyone that is present. The dark Atlantean that leads the Orcinus stands very near his coral-white Sister, a study of contrasts. There are others there, one woman that is known and another that is not. They quietly await the beginning of the procession.

The rostrum has been designated as the meeting point for those preparing to join the procession. Young pages, dressed in the livery of the Aegis, dart around bringing refreshment, answering questions, helping the guests.

Part of the cluster of foreign dignitaries, the Varati stand behind their King and Queen. All the colors of the rainbow, from light to dark, the warlords, the Shakirs, and the few women, provide few extra noises to the low roar of the crowd, but follow the lead of their royal pair: stoic, and stone.

Not with the members representing House Tritonis, another well known to be a member of that (now) seemingly questionable house quietly enters the area, a woman walking proudly at his side. A woman at his arm, Cepheus' steps are slow, their pace and composure matched by Arch-Magus Medea Somnaire. The pair seems to be in fair temperament, the Archon leaning over to whisper at the woman, the pair passing a brief smile before continuing on. Neither seems to really gawk at the others in the area, making their way slowly to the center of the room.

Elidi draws a few stares from the milling Aegians, her armor making her quite visible to their curious eyes. A few whispers are exchanged by the watchers, but the Dea of House Augustus simply ignores them, jaw setting. Half-turning to escape that attention, she catches sight of the nearby Aununa and arches her visible eyebrow.

A few more shared words, and the one male Herald, a lanky Sylvan, breaks off from the small group and begins to meander through the crowd, passing close to the various cliques and factions. Daren observes each as he passes and considers just how much of a nuisance he might make of himself.

Rabi trembles faintly as if chilled despite the warm, golden sun. She stands next to another, older woman, the two keeping close to one another. The Nayaka's mahisi looks around her, though, with big and vastly curious eyes.

Livia doesn't break from the members of her house, standing proud behind the House Jove banner. She speaks quietly with a stately Empyrean woman by her side. The figure of Elena Jove nods slightly to her daughter as she glances around at all the varied colors and splendor that has congregated to see her son on this day.

Whispers among the few Tritonides gathered to represent their House speak of the darkling girl with them, saying she should not be here, that there has been enough scandal for that major house. But when Darius Ilarion Tritonides joins the small gathering, standing near his darkling daughter, those whispers quiet. Oriane pulls her eyes away from the crowd to glance at her father. They do not touch, and they do not smile, but they do stand near one another.

The Varati Foreign Minister, proud Kiral Khalida, stands with all his sartorial splendor behind Khalid and Thalia and skates glances about the room. His wife Shahar is nearby, practically at the elbow of the Varati queen, and above her face veil her eyes are active, attentive, watchful. She is a vigilant presence, as one may expect.

Siranae smiles briefly at the sight of Megeara descending, pausing a moment to whisper a few words to those in her party before stepping forward to greet the Dea of House Jove. The words between the two are quietly spoken, and more than a few whisper among themselves how close the young Acesian woman came to claiming the crown for herself. This leads those same people to stare rather pointedly at the Varati monarch and, by consequence, that of his Empyrean bride. Quite a few cool glances take in her attire before turning away even as the whispers start anew.

Ilex, the Herald with the wine-red hair and ivy-hued cloak, is momentarily grateful for her height, as she lifts her head only slightly to look around at the gathering crowd. She notes Daren's departure and follows him with her eyes.

Amaryllis Jove, too, is walking beside an older woman, from the looks of them they could either be sisters or mother and daughter. In fact, the older woman is the sister of the Deus of House Jove, wife of a Tribune of Olympia and Lissie Jove's mother.

Elidi rather looms over Aununa for a moment, whispering to her pointedly with narrowed eyes. She speaks for a moment and then finds herself amused as she straightens and gives a little shrug to her shoulders that echoes in her wings. Light flashes when she moves, reflected from her armor and across the faces of some of the Agni-Haidar in the group of Varati.

Jove. Why that's an interesting idea. Daren allows his ambling stride to take him to the banner of the Empyreal House from which the future Emperor hails, and makes to approach the Dea and Deus Jove.

Taking a moment to adjust her pallas, Megeara gives the rest of her family time to prepare themselves as well. Then, she is moving forward, a determined smile upon her face, even as her chin raises to look toward the grouping of Aegians where her husband is surely located. Siranae's approach turns that smile more genuine, and she leans forward to do the cheek kissing thing while murmuring a response.

The tailor's fussing and preening over the Emperor-to-be is disrupted by the triple rapping of knuckles and then the entrance of the Princeps and those members of the Schola assigned to him for his stay in Civitas Dei. Pale eyebrows lifting, he announces, "They've come, and they're finding their places now, Drusus. Chin up, and the official business will be finished, soon."

"Should be in Haven." A soft muttering, emerging from the lips of one of the very few people here managing to look completely and utterly inconvenienced. The Adept Idraeus is certainly doing a good job of it, too, arms crossed, brows lowered. Oh, it's not a specific glare -- it's not cast in any particular direction, though it lightens faintly as her glance passes over the Jovians.

Medea looks around until her eyes come to rest on Rabi. To the Varati, she offers an incline of her head before looking up to Cepheus beside her. With a smile, she speaks softly with him, then a slight frown as she brushes something from his kaftan. Seeming now pleased with his appearance, she looks around for others, but in the crowded forum, it is near impossible to see one on purpose.

Aununa's little pug nose wrinkles, wings rustling. She finds a kind smile for Elidi, a whisper exchanged once more.

The flash of shiny dress armor graced with purple surrounds the milling Aegians as their guards -- Schola of the Praetorian Guard -- watch over their charges with careful scrutiny. Disaster has fallen in so many ways, and from the expressions on various faces, these men are determined no such tragedy will befall this day.

A shadow unlike any other looms just beyond the shoulder of the Varati God-King. Void of any measure of color or warmth, it stands like menacing pillar of obsidian, roughly carved into the cruel semblance of a man only feigning life. Faisal, the Nayaka of the Agni-Haidar, casts his ruined face upon those assembled. Eyes black and merciless narrow at the splash of light that illuminates the severe lines of his features. The attention of the aged warrior jerks towards the female Praetorian officer, his gaze seizing her like a hand ready to crush the life from her thin figure once the last grain of sand falls from the hourglass of her life.

Drusus chuckles lowly. "The official business will never end, Princeps." He nods to the tailor. "That will do, Julius, thank you." He takes a breath, glancing back towards the window and its morass of sound. It's easy to turn around -- after all, he will be in the middle of it again in a few minutes. He walks over to Leonidas. "The Aciie are ready?"

Riva quietly enters the area, the soft whisper of her garment lost amid this crowd. She glances round a moment and ambles over toward Cepheus and Medea, some likely seeming familiar faces. She seems rather stiff in expression and her eyes a little unfocused at times.

Is Thalia nervous? She should be uncomfortable, at the very least. For over there is her former husband and -- my, my, my -- there are quite a few cool looks being tossed her way by this person and that. However, the Queen exudes only calm confidence, sweeping her gray-blue eyes about with quiet interest. From time to time, she murmurs to Khalid on one side and to Shahar on the other, soft words exchanged as she waits for things to get on their way.

Wings held proudly, the Deus Jove's younger sister, Selene, gives a brief glance around at the others gathered, the pride in her cousin quite obvious in the way she holds herself. A Jove retakes the throne, nothing gives her more pleasure at the moment. A pause. Her eyes graze over those representing the Varati and she cannot help but notice the Empyrean woman who stands among them. Her lips frown ever so slightly and she leans over to whisper to her cousin, Arannon, sapphire gaze still on those behind her.

Daren waits for the air-kissing to finish, then approaches Megeara with a deep bow and a flourish of long limbs. "Dea Megeara Jove. It's an honor to finally make your acquaintance. We of the Heralds have heard a great deal of you and your House."

Black wings that have been held still for far too long rustle and shift, a whisper of feathers lost in the noises of the crowd. Oriane turns to her father and follows his gaze, looking towards the Varati contingent. Among those colorful, but dark skinned people, a flash of white feathers catch her eyes. Mother.

Cepheus, for his part, looks immensely tired. A faint smile finds its way to his lips as Medea fusses with his kaftan, the man nodding at whatever she said. The smile fades with that, his grey eyes finding their way around the room. He nods toward Elidi, a slight curiosity lingering in the large Empyrean's eyes before he moves on to looking around the room.

Maat stands in the shadow of a shadow, allowing the dark wash of Faisal or the majesty of Khalid Atar to claim any attention that may journey in her direction. The shade of her clothing is so similar to that of the Agni-Haidar that she would seem almost to not be present, but an after-image, a mirage.

SilverFox wanders into the plaza, his eyes wide in curiosity. He doesn't seem too nervous, for a Sylvan, but he certainly doesn't feel as if he belongs here.

Arannon, hearing the words whispered to him from Selene's lips, lifts eyes towards the mismatched pair that is Khalid and Thalia. It's hard to tell just what he is thinking at this moment as he considers them. One indication is the lack of a warm smile shined that way, the next, well only Selene knows. Or shall.

A soft laugh is Siranae's response to Megeara's comment as she too turns to look around those gathered for this occasion. She turns to make another comment before being interrupted by Daren's words. The Herald gets a cool look for interrupting, but apparently she decides that now isn't the time for a proper dressing down and so merely smiles at Megeara before turning and rejoining her own group now that the time approaches for the procession to begin.

Elidi turns her gaze away from the other Augustin with a slow nod, eyes roving over the assemblage and pausing for a tiny moment upon her 'former' cousin Thalia. A quirk of her brow takes note of the reflection upon her armor that dances across the black garb of the Varati guardsmen and it is with a faint smile that she turns her head away and adjusts her arm just enough that the metal that protects her forearm glints directly into Faisal's eyes.

Servants and pages make the round, intercepting any newcoming dignitaries and guiding them to the rostrum, helping them find something to drink, answering questions.

Tenderheart looks quite nervous and is whispering softly to ShadowEyes, describing everything that she sees. She casts a shy but friendly smile to anyone who glances at her. Her eyes sparkle with interest. Sooo many people.

A slight smile, and Leonidas nods agreement. "As ready as they can be, I imagine. If we don't get started shortly, I'm afraid we'll lose control of the situation." Manners and bearing return with a twitch of pristine wings, and Leonidas' shoulders settle into a carefully relaxed set. "On your word, we begin."

Many Shadows' slow pace comes to a standstill as she looks around the crowd. Her mouth is a tight, straight line and her eyes narrow. Wisps of windblown hair pulled free of her braid are ignored as they curl around her temples and soften her appearance. Her only concession to the gathering seems to be she is wearing her rare white deerskin dress in place of the drab brown leather one and her javelins are not slung over her shoulder.

Livia gives her wings a shifting and waits for her mother to take the offered arm. The two Jovian women pause slightly as Megeara stops to speak with Siranae, and then they are off again, following the Dea and Deus of their house.

Medea looks around until she sees Riva seeming to appear before her. To the Atlantean, she offers a hand and soft word. Biting her lip, she looks up to Cepheus, asking him something soft before turning again to Riva.

Darius stands beside Oriane, yes, and while he may have hushed the deriding comments about Oriane, he cannot -- perhaps will not -- hush them as regards his ex-wife. In fact, he seems not to hear them at all, and his attention toward the king and queen of the conquering race rests not on Thalia, but on Khalid himself. Oh, if looks could kill...

Megeara laughs softly along with Siranae, then turns a questioning look upon Daren. "Is that so?" She responds to his words. Not rudely, but indeed, coolly. "Should I be pleased?" A faint smile cants her mouth just so.

Amaryllis' eyes flash into the crowd as she passes. She sees her love, Tros standing with his cousin, Urania Basilius, a woman who is rumored to be her cousin Arannon's new assistant. Her eyes then fall to the center of attention -- apart from her dear cousin Drusus of course -- the perhaps mismatched pair of Khalid and Thalia, she has been brought up not to approve of such things but she cannot help but hope their marriage may bring peace once and for all between the two races.

Sapientia turns to Ilex and whispers something to her quietly. The two Heralds bunch together amid a sea of strangers and strange people.

SilverFox whispers something to Many Shadows, accompanied with a light chuckle. He may seem composed, but there is definitely a slight nervousness in his laugh.

Somewhere at the edge of the group are two Atlanteans. The Amarisian prince, Koralland, holds his place with pride and dignity. The woman beside him glances about uneasily, looking ill at ease in this group for more reasons than one. The little mute holds tightly to Koralland's arm for security.

Shahar speaks faintly and discreetly to Thalia, her nearness and respectful demeanor leaving no question as to the depth of loyalty she offers the Varati queen.

The whispers and the attention of the crowd seem to keep falling on the Varati, so Persephone turns her attention that way for a moment. She takes in each of the figures, then watches the two royals for several long minutes. It is impossible to tell her thoughts, though, and only those around her might actually notice the gaze, lost in the mob as she is.

Cepheus makes his own greeting to the Captain of the guard, the man shifting some on his feet, his own words passing beneath the conversation.

ShadowEyes nods at Tenderheart's words and seems quite at ease within the crowds. It must be a blessing to be blind and not have to see any of the glaring, or garish colors. With a sigh, he asks quietly of Tenderheart. "Do the stone-walkers always smell like this?"

Among the scores of white-winged Empyreans, many eyes turn towards the Varati contingent, watching their ancient enemies with a wide range of emotions -- fear, distrust, hatred, respect. One among that contingent receives special attention, though. Thalia Jovia Tritonides Khalida. So many eyes turn to that stare among the night. There is a hungry curiosity in the crowd about her, even as there are the other expected emotions of betrayal and anger.

Ilex raises a dark eyebrow as the Empyrean Herald murmurs something to her, the only indication of what her thoughts might be, as her long pale face is otherwise composed. She rocks forward on one foot and lifts her head a little higher to get a glimpse of Khalid and Thalia.

Ebon wings, grand and majestic, unlike any other on Civitas Dei or Aether itself, spread open as Khalid speaks in lowered tones to his Queen and wife. If he seems bothered by the darter looks or cold stares, he does not show it. If anything, full red lips quirk into faint amusement at some of the childish antics displayed. Yet, the Varati monarch does not stoop to match any of the actions of others, but instead holds himself well and firm, as always. Fiery blue eyes flicker over a few forms here and there, nodding to specific members from the Atlantean delegation.

Daren straightens up, smiling at Megeara's rejoinder. "News is news, Dea Jove," he replies, his tone and dialect shifting, "An' the House of th'Kronian has much news o'late. I'm Daren, an' I jus' wanted t'offer the congratulations o' the Heralds to the House of th' Emperor t'be."

"Begin, then," says Drusus. A breeze ruffles the feathers of his wings, horrifying the tailor, but the Emperor-Elect gently twitches out of the man's hands. He pats Julius on the shoulder and turns away, leading his guards into the atrium of the Curia at Leonidas' side. There, arrayed in neat ranks, are the three Aciie that will accompany the two men, a galaxy of shining armor. Pages dart out to inform the other participants that the procession is imminent.

Many of those gathered and watching the Varati queen have mentally crossed out the name of Tritonis from her title however, not wanting to give this woman the respect of that House. They say you can never go back home, well, the Varati Queen should be getting this lesson in spades tonight. She might be of the Empyrean race still, but for a member of Empyreal society, she will never be that again.

Arahael continues with his quiet conversation with one of his fellow Aegians in hushed tones. Careful, slender hands smooth over the Jovian chiton, even as splendid white wings half open in response to some remark. Grey eyes brighten just a tad as the statesman spies Megeara from afar, but for those who would know the man, he is more somber and perhaps more 'aged' than he was before the war.

Only a blink of golden lashes marks Megeara's internal adjustment to the odd dialect. "Well then, we thank you," she says with lofty graciousness. Chin lifting, she looks toward the Aciie. "It would appear things are to begin." She speaks not only to the Sylvan before her, but also to the Jovians ranged at her back. The Varati contingent receives not a flicker of acknowledgment from the daughter of the former Princeps. Complete indifference to their presence is her brand of insult.

A page, a bit breathless with excitement, flits over to the group of Aegians and executes a neat bow even before he touches feet to the ground. His wings flare out. "Dominae, Domini, if you will please take your places..."

The dark Atlantean raises his hand to his bald pate and runs it over his scalp once, watching those that are here in a coldly interested sort of manner. In particular, he watches the reaction towards the new Varati Queen with narrowed eyes... attempting to divine something hidden amongst the emotions displayed. After a time, he once again raises his hand and rubs his left eye... it appears to be blood-red in stark contrast to his onyx black right eye. When he lowers his hand, he turns his head once towards the Orman Heir, regarding her with an appraising glance before leaning his head over to confer with his sister.

Riva smiles to her companions as it seems the groups are shaping up and heads over toward the Atlanteans from her Decemvirate.

Medea takes one last look over Cepheus's attire, and when settled with it, takes a deep breath. Moving with him to their appropriate place behind his House's members, the pair wait patiently for the ceremony to begin.

Thalia nods slightly to things being said to her, a whisper of a smile stroked over her lips. She does not crumble beneath all the hateful glances, all the looks of betrayal, instead simply standing alongside her spouse and King with refined dignity. Others may stoop to childish antics and petty whispering, but she will not. Ah, now things are starting and she looks to the page calling for attention.

Silence is the rule among the Orcinus. Useful, this telepathy in crowd situations. The pale figure of Orcinus Shinjukou stands calmly in the center of the Orcinus delegation, impassive as ever. Occasionally, foam-pale eyes might flick away from the Varati and towards her brother, or the unknown woman beside her, but nothing of what is being discussed between them can be divined from the woman's complete lack of expression.

Livia glances around, taking in all the looks, glances and whispers, even though she can't hear what's being said. She leans over to whisper to her mother, a proud smile is the response from Elena Jove. As Megeara speaks, Livia and her mother prepare to follow the rest of the house.

Daren looks up and over from Dea Jove, and spies the preparations she speaks of. "Oh, seems y'r right. Y'll pardon me, Domina. Been a pleasure." Daren makes a quick bow and, without waiting for a response (as Megeara seems to have turned already) begins to dash as well as he can through the crowd, attempting to weave through the throng before the other Heralds enter without him.

Kiral narrows his eyes at the sight of his wife exchanging whispers with the Varati queen and draws Shahar away from Thalia's side for the processional... and for some information, no doubt, on what was spoken.

Siranae assembles those of her House with a few murmured words, and they too take up positions behind the Domina Acesian as she awaits her turn. She does take a moment to study the Varati King and Queen, a cool glance, not necessarily unfriendly but not overwhelming with welcome either. Her gaze moves over to the Atlantean delegation with a bit more warmth before letting it move to touch briefly all the others who have assembled.

Sapientia hides a smile behind her hand as she sees Daren scamper in the direction of his fellow Heralds.

The unknown woman beside Shinjukou seems content with her anonymity. She makes no effort to make the acquaintance of those around her. And if any should stare, she's oblivious. But she's busily watching the comings and goings, the flutterings and the greetings, cataloging it and remembering. Calculating.

Trumpets blare, a chorus of sounds sunny and bright. The cry goes up. "The procession! The procession!" and the crowd parts before a prow of gold and scarlet: the Praetorians of the City's guard who ensure that the way is clear for the long line of finery that follows.

Grandly clad, heads held high, it is the Aegis which heads the procession.

Urania stands with her cousin, Tros an ex-Praetorian Archer, herself a Praetorian guardswoman and proud of it, proud of her race and her heritage, especially on a day like today. Her eyes cannot help but flicker over at the Varati party though, something draws her dark aquamarine eyes to them out of all the other races. First the Foreign Minister and then his wife as she speaks with the new Queen, and finally the God-King himself. He is totally different that what she has envisioned him to look like. He looks almost mortal.

Somber and solemn as Arahael has wont to be in these recent days, the somewhat young, yet dignified Jovian representative was in a quiet conversation with one of his fellow distinguished companions. Yet, as the cue is given, he moves towards the head of the gathered delegation of silver-haired and elderly men and clears his throat. In synch with the movements of the Jovian Deus, the white-and-purple attired Schola of the Aegis form a protective ring around the body of politicians and statesmen. The powerful form of Longinius can be seen within this highly prized group, as well as the much older and slender Horatius. Other key Empyrean leaders mill among the group as they lead the procession.

And following shortly behind the Aegis come the proud members of House Jove, banners snapping smartly in the gentle wind of their passage. At their head strides Megeara, her sister Selene at her side. Other key members of the family follow along as is their wont, a beautiful spectacle in their own right, to be sure.

Observant a Herald may be, but it's so very difficult when you're trying to weave through a crowd and not truly offend any dignitaries. But the trumpets catch Daren off guard, and the poor Herald nearly gets trampled by the members of House Jove. Darting out of the way, he finally reaches his group. There. Nothing out of the usual. Really.

House Acesius is next, with Siranae Acesian in the lead on the arm of her father, Pantoleon, followed by their attendants. The colors of saffron seems to be the dominant theme, and within those gathered can be seen the other prominent members who walk behind as they make their way slowly forward before disappearing into the Basilica Justinia.

Their House has not suffered the same monetary deprivations as the other Houses as a result of the war, but still, House Tritonis has lost status. The last of the Great Houses, the small contingent of Tritonia's descendants begin to move up the steps. At the side of her father, Oriane moves up the steps with a quiet dignity. Today, she will not let the dark stares of others weigh her down. She will be a strong and proud member of her House. Darius, as well, keeps his head high. With the few other members, they enter the hall.

As some Houses have fallen, so too some Houses have risen a notch or two in stature. Thanatos, being the House of the current Princeps, steps forward after Tritonides. Those who might otherwise seem retiring today proceed with chins up and pride in their posture.

The Dea of House Augustus glances to where Aununa was once again only to find the girl gone. So it is that she takes her place in the throng alone, shoulders stiffly held and mouth set into a firm line. Her expression is difficult to read as half of her face is masked, but the glitter within her eyes seems to indicate her displeasure with being relegated to walking *after* House Thanatos. Nothing else in her manner gives away the insult that she feels, for she moves with the regal grace of one descended from Tritonia. The peace-bonded sword upon her left hip gently moves with each step she takes, stirring her cloak.

Cepheus straightens up, the noble Empyrean's blood knowing full well it is time to move forward. Something that might be mistaken for a brief glance goes to the small group of Avatarati, the group making its way toward the hall. Cepheus smiles briefly at the Arch-Magus, the pair following immediately behind the Avatarati.

Behind the Delphic representatives, Khalid Atar leads the Varati delegation in the procession. Despite her co-equal status and her position beside her spouse, Thalia's quiet and patient beauty is easily engulfed by the dark, magnetic presence of the God-King. As if darkness begets dark, behind the royal pair, walks the scarred Nayaka, Faisal. Though he may be unarmed, his mien is enough to force the weak of heart into submission. Various Varati personages of note, forming the body of the delegation, stride with dignity and unconscious carriage that proclaims their innate belief in their superiority. In their brilliant regalia, Kiral and Shahar are only two steps adrift of Thalia, while silent Rabi and Maat can be seen among the collection of hard-faced warlords. Yet, no Varati contingent could be complete without the ever-present Agni-Haidar and Akhund Atarvani. These are not lacking, but surround the Varati, especially Thalia, like a protective cloak. Though they may be unarmed, the sublayer of steel that passes for flesh on the Agni-Haidar dares the onlooker to believe that they are helpless.

The People of the Water follow the People of the Fire... and the contrast could not be more different. The Atlantean Assemblage is a study in colors and in contrasts. Reds, blues, greens, blacks, whites, and just about any other color that can possibly be found beneath the waters can be spotted upon the skin, hair, or clothing of the various Atlanteans. They proceed forward at a stately pace, a fair bit of awkwardness can be detected as they walk out of their element.

Despite the various colors, there are some definite divisions amongst the group. Orman Riva walks alone at the front of the delegation, apparently the place of seniority amongst the group. She is followed by Amaris Koralland and Jasmine... apparently second amongst the group. The rear of the delegation is brought up by Orcinus Kuronbo and Orcinus Shinjukou, and their accompanying personages. They move forward in silence as the grouping moves forward, lagging slightly further behind the rest of the Atlanteans as the delegation disappears through the Basilica Justinia.

Stately and proud come a very small group representing the entirety of Sylvan people. A blind male of the Apisachi tribe is led by a caretaker and an Ettowealonan male. Next comes the Ettowealonan Sachem, a middle-aged, nondescript woman using a staff as a walking stick, the tip making soft taps as she moves along. Her head is held high and eyes fixed straight forward, primary focus being the trio before her. She is followed by a healer and a tribal elder. Such a tiny group seems to proclaim its courage in braving the strangeness of the flight here and entering this floating stone-walker city, suffering the press of the crowds which make forest-honed senses reel with the cloying perfumes and clean body scents, the multitude of soaps and leathers. The colors reel in a dizzying pattern to eyes used to delicate green and brown and gray hues of the forest. With sublime dignity the group progresses, never faltering in their journey toward the seating allocated them.

The Heralds enter now, each bearing a badge, with the image of a compass rose, on his or her right breast. The three of them walk in step, one slightly ahead of the other two. In the lead is a tall, young Sylvan woman, with fiery tresses and a stern face, wearing a long green cloak. Daren, a lanky black-haired Sylvan wearing a rich woolen cloak, is behind her to the right. Behind the Sylvan woman to her left is a gray-eyed Empyrean woman with snow-colored hair, covered by a long tunic and robe. As a group, the Heralds, couriers of Haven, carry themselves with perhaps less innate dignity than the racial representatives they follow, yet their upright bearing speaks of the great pride they have in their chosen roles.

The Hounds, next, in order of rank, file into the Basilica, with little ceremony or pomp, but a good measure of self-assurance.

The trumpets blare again suddenly and a rumble sounds, the thunder of marching feet. Unlike the purple-clad warriors of the Aegis, these guards are a blinding constellation of gold and scarlet. Three Aciie of warriors, pennants flying from their spears, accompany the Princeps Thanatos and the Emperor-Elect. Their crests, long scarlet plumes in the Greek fashion, bob as they walk, the red feather tails extending down between their white wings. A renewed cry goes up as the crowd spots them and the sun is suddenly shaded by the multitude of wings as the sky is suddenly filled by cheering onlookers.

Drusus' head, unhelmed, is a white spot in a sea of bronze and gold and red. He remains at Leonidas' side even as two of the Aciie peel off to guard the entrances to the building.

Aegis Chamber - Basilica Justinia - Civitas Dei:
      The chamber of the Aegis is a grand theatre, no more, no less: banks of well-cushioned chairs sweep around in a semicircle, with elegantly carved tables set up for use as desks by the Aegians and their aides. Instead of a stage, however, there is a dais and podium. Those who enter come in from the north side of the floor, although there are entrances higher up for those gifted with the power of flight. Nooks in the wall house either statues of noble ancestors or Praetorians in red and gold-gilded glittering armor, the red Greek plumes of their heads lightly bestirred by the breezes that finger in from the open clerestory windows. A platform interrupts the clean sweep of the rows of chairs off to one side, situated perhaps halfway up, and upon this has been set chairs, cushions, and divans for the pleasure of honored guests.
      Though the walls be decorated with angels and saints, the very top ledge of the chamber is reserved for the gods: Tritonis, armored, with her owl on her shoulder peering down over those who debate below; Apollo, master of magic and light, a model of the Celestial City cradled in his hands; Aidoneus, stern and forbidding, a reminder to those below of eternity; Quirinus, spear upraised in one hand and shield held ready in the other; Tyche, invoked as a blessing, her hair tossed as if captured by capricious winds; Kronian, behind the second platform that breaks not the semicircle but looks out over it and the room below as a whole. An altar has been placed here at the feet of the statue of the Kronian, a marble-topped table upon which has been placed a lantern, a bowl of olives, a cup of wine, and the small purple velvet cushion that holds a simple circle of gold.
      Banners and streamers hang from the ceiling, flags of the noble houses, of the provinces, of the major merchant houses too. A banner for every legion of the Praetorian guard flutters in the breeze there too, so many colors and insignia that one could spend hours simply trying to catalog them all.
      Stairs, hidden cleverly between bas-relief depictions of history, provide access to all areas.

Quite familiar with this place, having spent much of her childhood pattering amongst its halls, in fact, Megeara leads the members of House Jove quite smoothly to seats which will allow them the best possible view of the ceremony. Lowering gracefully upon a divan, she stretches out her wings a bit, and turns an appraising eye toward the Aegians, and her husband, a short distance below.

Livia settles into a seat, wings ruffling as she gets comfortable. Elena settles herself with grace next to her daughter, eyes skimming the growing crowd as she waits to see her son on his day.

Aegians settling into their places, and the other great Houses already having arrived, Tritonis makes due with a small collection of seats amongst the others. Dark eyes watchful, Oriane moves with her father and the pair sit together on a bench, white wings contrasting with black.

Siranae lets herself be seated by her father, with him following soon after while the other Acesians arrange themselves in the seats left. Pantoleon leans over to whisper something to Siranae, she nods quietly and responds in turn before turning down to look toward where the ceremony will take place.

Amaryllis settles upon a chair in between Arannon and her mother. Her wings are tight across her slender back as she wonders about Tros standing outside without her as they wait for the ceremony to begin. Her dark, thundery eyes skim over the nobles that have already congregated in the room.

Selene follows suit of the other arriving nobles and seats herself among the rest of her family, her wings spreading behind her as she makes herself comfortable and then they pull back against her. Each noble house is given a brief, respectful glance, pausing a breath longer on the Acesian household. The constant flow of spectators draws her attention back towards the door where for the most part, it remains.

The Avatarati of Delphi step into the Aegis Chamber. They each wear a kaftan to show their rank and magic. Behind them, the mingling of robe and gown as the pair of the Arch-Magus and Archon enter. His kaftan of black and deep purple mingles with her gown of pure gold. The result is a display of brilliance with shadows that fall across the eye. As the pair walk in their place as representatives of Delphi, their heads are held high, her arm on his.

Darius, seated beside his daughter, turns his face to watch the other entourages enter the area. Eyes narrowing, he watches the Varati contingent with peaked interest. Beside him, Oriane reaches out a hand and tentatively touches his arm before withdrawing back to herself. Black wings rustle slightly as she settles her shoulders and looks back out over the crowd. He will be here soon.

The Aegis may have gotten an ill reputation in recent days for mismanagement and ineptitude, but on this day, they are as regal and dignified as the Emperor they are about to crown. Civitas Dei is their seat of power and this chamber is their throne room. They have led the Empyre to the greatest victories and have guided hundreds of Emperors over the centuries on the course of the kingdom. Arahael takes the lead as he sits in the chair set aside for House Jove, the imperial House. Taking his lead, the other Aegians take their places as one, a body unified. The Jovian Deus smoothes over his chiton again and casts a surreptitious glance at his strawberry-blonde wife.

Lirani and her daughter Elyaena truly have taken their places before now, amongst the others of their house. Lirani frets with the edge of her palla, having been nervous the entire time she's been here. Elyaena, for once, is the calm one. The girl simply watches, azure eyes flickering to all the newly arrived.

Chin lifted, pride not unlike a lioness's dignity evidenced in her eyes, Shahar walks into the chambers alongside Kiral, shoulders brushing in nearness, gaze skimming this way and that. Darius finds her especial regard for a moment, then Elidi -- both receiving studiously plain, pale expressions -- then she espies Oriane and offers a nod in greeting. Respectful, for the daughter of the Varati Queen.

Catching the gaze of the masked, red-headed Praetorian Praefect, Darius rises from his seat and gestures, "Dea Augustin. Please... Join me."

Elidi takes a few steps further into the chamber, casting a disdainful glance to the members of House Thanatos. She will not be sitting next to them today, no. It was bad enough to be relegated to walking behind them. Coppery eyes rove the chamber and the seating and she lifts her brow slightly as her gaze falls upon Oriane and her father. A faint smile touches her lips.

As a group, the Heralds move towards their appointed seats, a place within the chamber that affords them view without the appearance of favoritism to what may seem to be a lesser faction. Each of them observe carefully, sometimes making a whispered comment to one of their number as to subtlety of seating or pairings within the representatives already present.

"Thank you, Dominus," is Elidi's husky reply as she makes her way toward Darius and lifts her hand toward him in greeting. "I would be honored." Her smile for the man is warm, though faint, and she eases herself into the chair next to his with a languid motion.

With a glance about the room, Megeara allows a faint frown to mar her brow. She leans, just so, to speak to Selene, then settles back on her seat with the faintest of sighs. Her expression moves toward that vaguely bored one so prized by nobility for its ability to get one through long, tedious ceremonies.

Giving her father a curious glance and a faintly furrowed brow, Oriane looks past him as he attentively invites Elidi to sit with them. Blinking once, she very briefly bites her lower lip before remembering herself. Giving a nod to the Praefect, she turns her eyes back towards the rows of seats steadily filling up.

Livia fidgets slightly in her spot and receives a baleful glare from the older woman at her side. The younger Empyrean sighs quietly and turns to looking about the room, while trying to maintain a semblance of interest and dignity.

Riva accepts without expression the grouping of her people that places her in such proximity to others of her rank of fellow Decemvirs.

Fine silks shimmer as Rabi and Archana settle into their places behind Faisal. The two women watch very carefully with demure curiosity. A deep shiver goes through Archana; Rabi remains quite still, her hands folded in her lap.

Despite the halt at the entrance, the Varati move as if their stride were unbroken and move toward the platform with its chairs, cushions and divans. At a pace that would allow to gaze upon them and their splendor, the Varati eschew the chairs and take seat upon the platform. The prime positions belongs to Khalid Atar and Thalia Khalida. Fanning forth from their universal center, the Varati take seats around the royal pair, some, like Shahar, close at hand for a whispered word while others, like Maat, sit on a cushion farther away, close but not infringing on royal space. The Agni-Haidar and Akhund Atarvani eschew the soft seats, but continue to stand, though with an exquisite choice of space, such that none behind them are blocked. And, those wicked eyes of Faisal's, dare anyone to try and enter the sacred space of the God-King and the Maharani-Queen.

Selene leans forward to join her sister in brief conversation, pulling her eyes from the entry to the Dea. The Jovian nods emphatically to Megeara as she too retains her original position. Rather than look bored, as her sister does, she looks slightly disturbed, the only hint to what was passed between the two noblewomen.

Elidi's wings shift as she tilts in her chair toward Darius and speaks quietly with him. Her mood seems to have lightened somewhat and could that possibly be a teasing glint in her eyes?

The waiting seems to be maddening for Lirani. She crosses and uncrosses her slender legs, settling the ankle-length material of her stola in a way that pleases her, then starting the idle motions all over again. She sighs, the none too faint signs of a grumble borne in the sound. Silvery feathers ruffle and she shifts positions once more, looking to the Varati with mild disinterest.

Through the noise of people searching for seats and quiet conversations, there comes another sound. Like a soft roar in the distance, growing louder and louder, there comes a cheer from beyond the doors. Though many will not be allowed inside to witness the new Emperor's coronation, -they- are the first to see him arrive, and the roar of their cheering alerts the privileged few inside that he is close.

The dark Atlantean, Orcinus Kuronbo, enters without comment or utterance. He turns the corner, not deigning to notice the Praetorians that check him for weapons, and he ascends the steps with his sister a few steps behind him. He looks to his right at the Ormani as he passes her, and then moves past and turns about... impassively watching the proceedings.

Cold night shaped into the frightening semblance of a man follows the Varati God-King and Queen to their seats. Faisal's coarse lips threaten a disdainful sneer at the plush comforts of the room, but the sentiment is abandoned as the aged warrior forces himself to occupy a seat reserved for him. The ebon garment, once a ferocious tempest, melts into the chair.

A touch of confusion ensues within the Delphic Avatarati, the error only settled by a few hushed words from Medea and Cepheus. That resolved, the group rearranges and slowly lower themselves into their proper chairs, some of the non-Empyrean Avatarati looking slightly uncomfortable.

Serene and capable, Arahael sits comfortably in the chair assigned to him. His broad, snowy white wings gracefully dip against his back. Grey eyes, aged just a bit over these last few months, still hold some of his humor from more youthful days and they study the room and those within with interest. A glance spared for the Varati, another for the Atlanteans and yet another for the Sylvans. His expression is a study in diplomacy, no ill will can be read on those proud features.

The Heralds sit close together, murmuring to each other, and occasionally letting subtle looks at the rest of the 'audience' escape.

Once she is safely ensconced in a chair at Thalia's elbow, Shahar folds her hands across her lap as gracefully as she has her lithe figure upon the chair. Kiral is at her side -- or rather, she is at his, as he would consider it -- and still indulging himself in crowd-watching.

Arranged not to block any views, they might be, but the presence of the Varati contingent upon the platform clearly displeased the Dea Jove. In a languid motion that serves to hide the frown upon her face, she rises, and moves most matter-of-factly through the crowd down into the Aegian section. There is a stir of momentary surprise amongst the scribes and other sycophants arrayed there, but an imperious look brings them to quick order, and frees a well-padded seat beside Arahael. Only a few words are murmured to her husband, and then Megeara is back to looking serenely bored once more. She does not engage in crowd watching, rather, inspects her nails.

The honor guard surrounding Drusus and Leonidas has been diminished by two of the three Aciie, the guardsmen and -women peeling off to guard the entrances to the Basilica. The remaining guards dissolve, finding their ways into nooks and onto ledges, as the Princeps the Emperor-Elect ascend the stairs that lead to the Emperor's platform.

Like a dark moon threatening to eclipse the sun, Khalid's grand, ebon wings stretch out, touching just briefly against Thalia's dove-white ones, as he shifts position within his seat. He holds his muted conversation with his Empyrean Queen and seems very much at ease for a foreign king in the center of power of an empire he was so recently at war with. Thalia, for her part, holds herself with dignity and pride, though she throws a concerned glance at her black-winged daughter from time to time.

Though her eyes had been lingering on the Varati clustered together around their King and her mother, Oriane's eyes immediately turn towards the entrances as a flash of Schola red enters her vision. Catching her breath and holding it, she watches Drusus with a rapt expression.

Holding her proper place and proper silence, only Ipo's eyes move once she is situated next to those of her faction. Only her eyes. They dart purposefully, watching. Assessing. Occasionally latching onto an individual and giving them the dead stare of a shark, moving on only when it becomes almost an offensive thing. Her mastery of the stare is superb.

Quirking a slender eyebrow at Megeara, Arahael pivots in his seat so as to better regard his rather... bold wife. He speaks with her in subdued tones as she appropriates a seat among the Aegis.

In such a gathering of color and pageantry, the simple garb and quiet demeanor of the Sylvans is an oddity. The whites and tans and browns blend to form a peaceful core of calm and quiet which is remarkable in that it even exists in such a place. They seek and find a location that is conveniently vacant and as is their manner cluster there in a group that seems to take strength from each other. The spot they select to sit is one which offers both clear view of others and events as much as it offers others a view of them. The young, blind Apisachi receives the constant comfort of his escort's touch and their calm words to him describing each detail.

Ambriel takes the departure from all the other rooms as her opportunity for escape, thank Tyche she has family here! Just hope her escort doesn't see her... Not that anyone'd really mind about her, in fact, she wouldn't even be here if not for her date, the reception should provide opportunity for return..

Shahar casts a more penetrating glance in Oriane's direction before she shifts closer to Thalia, speaking delicately and diffidently to the Maharani.

The Orcinus remain seated as the designate and his entourage arrives. Onlookers cannot help but to notice that the onyx-black Atlantean is the converse of the pristine, ivory surfaces that are about him. For those of a introspective mind, there is something to be divined from the opposition... but it is soon dispelled as he moves, turning his head towards the unfamiliar woman in his delegation and narrows his eyes.

For a brief moment, Oriane blinks and her wings tense. Tearing her eyes off of the entering procession, she glances towards the Varati with an uncertain expression.

Faisal's two consorts, Rabi and Archana, do not exchange words. The younger woman's eyes cast about hungrily, eager to examine everything and everyone through the veil of her lashes.

At the far end of the room, a lone Sylvan appears. Dressed in the plain, simple garb as many of those in his race are, he looks around, eyes somewhat worried. GreyWolf seems to be completely out of his environment, gaze drifting over the masses gathered here. He seems to be looking for someone, search growing more desperate as the event seems about ready to begin...

Elidi's gaze moves past Darius to Oriane and then, with a frown, she follows her young cousin's look to the Varati. Her mouth thins.

Siranae pauses a moment from watching Drusus' entrance to letting her sapphire gaze rest on the new Princeps. A softening can be seen within her eyes, before she turns to respond to something softly spoken from her father. She nods and turns to regard the pageantry of the moment.

Drusus comes to a halt perhaps halfway up the stairway that leads up the rows of Aegian seats. He is unmoved by the intense scrutiny of those august Empyreans in whose midst he now stands. They have elected him here, and some of them wonder what it is they have gotten with their vote. The pale man of Jove stands, one foot resting on the next step, his left hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He looks up, eyes tracking the progress of the Princeps.

Daren turns, and silences his whispered discussion with his fellow Heralds. The future Emperor has arrived, and even a simple Herald understands the call for silent respect at this moment.

Varati before the God-King and Queen. Varati behind them. A wreath of people surround the mixture of light and dark feathers, reinforcing that previous impression that Khalid Atar is the center of the Varati existence. Their silence is like a null-point in the general murmur. The avid eyes, taking in all there is to see, like black holes, sucking in information and spewing few tidbits out.

A hush draws over the crowd as everyone watches the procession of Emperor-to-be and Princeps. Such momentous and terrible times have led to this moment, and almost collectively, the Empyre holds its breath, resting its hopes on the shoulders of the once-Optio and the new Princeps beside him.

In the center of the remaining Acies, there is movement within movement. Drusus and Leonidas step, side by side and pace for pace, in almost military fashion, toward the platform prepared for this event. At the base of the stairs leading upward, however, they part ways. Drusus, and the Acies itself, stop at the base of the stairway while the Princeps continues upward, alone.

He climbs the stairs in silence, speaking not at all as he reaches the platform itself, turns, and reaches for the taper set beside a brazier with glowing embers kept for one purpose, and one purpose only. Touching the slender reed to coals, a flare of fire lights his face, reflects off the golden chain about his neck, and then dies down again to burn cleanly.

It is this flame that touches the lantern's wick, signaling the true beginning of the ceremony.

Medea pays no mind at all to the Avatarati beside whom she sits. Her attention is drawn between the man at her side, Cepheus, and members of his House. Words exchanged are softly spoken, but the smile that plays often on her mouth is evident.

Riva remains seated and her attention straight ahead on the persons approaching and passing.

Many Shadows rises just slightly as she spots the Sylvan male at the door. The straight line of her mouth curves into a faint smile as she raises one arm to attract his attention. Soft words follow. "The gryphon chariots only hold so many. Separated on the way here."

Speaking a last couple of words to his wife, Arahael quiets himself as well. Even some of the more vocal Aegians silence themselves and one grey-haired noble is elbowed into shutting up by his compatriot. As a collective group, they turn their eyes on Drusus and wait. And watch.

Kiral nudges his whispering wife to send her attention toward the start of the ceremony, and Shahar, sealing her full lips a bit much and thereby forming a thinnish line, silences herself and turns her attention toward the dais and the events upon it.

Livia takes a deep breath and smiles as she watches Drusus move up the stairs. Elena straightens in her seat, ever the proud mother, most notably at this moment in time.

It has begun and only then does GreyWolf find his target. He swallows, jaunting around the side of the room, his steps quick and soundless. The Sylvan may be old, but he has not yet lost his grace. He manages to get to the place where Many Shadows sits, but not after a little discord among the Sylvans he has to step over to get there. He settles down next to her, coughing a few times with a depth that must be painful.

Amaryllis watches as her cousin makes his entrance. She feels a tug of pride at being related to him. The new Emperor, a Jovian Emperor at that. It would seem that the last few Emperors taught to by her old teacher were of House Jove too. Her gray eyes, the same hue as a storm cloud just before all the thunder and lightning starts, are lit brightly as they drink in her surroundings. A deep breath is taken once, then twice.

At the sight of the flame and the ascension of Drusus and Leonidas, Lirani stops her examination of the Varati crowd and watches the two men with rapt attention. Elyaena follows her mother's example, moving only to hold her own miniature, silver-threaded shawl closer to her narrow shoulders. In order to make her thistle-maned daughter look slightly more dignified, Lirani brushes back a few wisps of errant flaxen hair from the girl's eyes, not breaking her own stare at the two on the podium.

Cepheus leans over to the Arch-Magus, shaking his head and whisper something back to her. A brief point goes toward the grouping from Tritonis, the Archon shaking his head.

Straight and tall and, for the moment, alone. His is a young body despite its scars and the lines around his eyes that make him seem older. A soldier, hardened on the frontier, drawn back into the web of Empyre and now fixed there permanently. Alone but not alone, soon to be the symbolic heart of a great and living thing, a collection of culture and history, of achievement and hope. Beaten in war, yes, but not broken. Drusus' wings stretch out behind them, pinions clearly defined in the way of a great hunting hawk, the tips just missing the steps behind him. The feathers are pure white and sharp. He carries himself -- and the toga that is wrapped about him -- with something like studied, careful grace, and with the easy stillness of an old soldier waiting for combat.

Koralland sits, quietly watching the procession and offering silent comfort to Jasmine at his side, who looks quite discomfited by being here.

Cepheus leans over to the Arch-Magus, whispering something back to her. A finger points in the general direction of the grouping from House Tritonis, the man clearly not finding what he was looking for. His attention refocuses on the event at hand, grey eyes watching Drusus with a distant pride.

Selene watches her cousin and that earlier pride only intensifies, her shoulders square and her wings unfurl at her back, the movement of feathers whisper slightly, mingling with the others that drift through the hall. The presence of any not Empyrean is forgotten has the moment has finally come.

Golden goblet taken in hand, Leonidas turns to face the towering figures of the gods on the level above, looking down over the ceremony below. The goblet is lifted in salute toward cool marble, and Leonidas' voice rings out through the chamber:

"It is in the name of the Empyre that you have provided us, and the lives you grant us to serve her that we come before you tonight, gods of our ancestors and gods of our children. We ask of you who guide and guard us your favor, your blessing, and your welcome. Fruit of the vine that binds us to the land, pressed in your name, poured for your sake."

The goblet is set aside, and the bowl of olives next is lifted. "Flesh of the tree that provides us life and wealth, health and good fortune. Grown in your name, prepared for your sake."

When the bowl of olives is set aside, Leonidas bows his head a moment in silence, utterly still. Silent prayer, it would seem, hands laced before him in a posture of praise.

Silence reigns as all eyes are turned towards the Princeps and the Emperor-to-be. Solemn but fierce pride is on many Empyrean faces along with the air of expectation.

A moment. Two. Respect is offered in Drusus' stillness as the Empyre's Princeps prays. Then his broad wings sweep out and with a single beat they cup the air, carrying him away from the touch of the ground. He floats there for a heartbeat, hanging in the air, and then his feet come to rest on the edge of the platform upon which the altar and Leonidas stand. Feathers rub against one another in a soft susurration as Drusus' wings fold closed neatly, efficiently. And then there is the slithering sound of steel being drawn. No gladius is this: Drusus wields a sabre, and its gently curved edge catches the light in a fine, silver thread. He touches the tip of the blade to the floor and sinks down on one knee, his hands folded over the sword's pommel. His wings slip down over his arms like a cloak settling. He bows his head.

GreyWolf, on the other hand, is not Empyrean. Quiet whispers drift through the air towards Many Shadows, the volume far below the level anyone but a Sylvan could hear. The forest's whisper maintains its useful place, even more in this setting then anywhere.

Rabi starts slightly at the drawing of steel, but the motion is quickly arrested.

Shahar's stillness implies a certain rapt attentiveness to the ceremony, as does the vague squint to her eyes. No whispers or commentary needed now: the future leader of the Empyre -- who indeed is himself the future of his Empyre -- holds her focus entirely. At least, that is, so it would seem.

The room around her falls away as Oriane watches the platform, her dark eyes riveted. Black wings behind her quiver as if she hold her breath and a number of varying emotions fly across her face.

Arahael watches the event with careful grey eyes, even as he leans in slightly closer to Megeara. His expression is muted, somber, despite what many might consider a joyous occasion for House Jove. Broad white wings extend outwards, touching his wife's own.

Jasmine is now captivated by the performance on the platform. What an awesome display. So caught up is she that her tension begins to fade away.

The whisper of steel, rustle of feathers, however, do not bother the Princeps. It is, in fact, the signal he awaits. Lifting his head and opening his eyes, he turns, his own wings shifting to balance the movement, toward the kneeling man. Chin lifting faintly, he draws breath, then asks, letting his hands fall to his sides, "Who are you, who kneels where the Emperor is to stand?"

Megeara leans to the side as well, her own expression a careful match of polite attention to that of her husband. Her feathers ruffle faintly and the resettle at the touch to her wing.

His voice is baritone, a distant voice which nonetheless rings out over the assembly and sounds quiet doing so, somehow. It is rough around the edges in the manner of a man accustomed to shouting orders, an odd contrast its quiet quality. "I am Drusus, son of Marcus, son of Iulius, son of Victor, brother of Justinius of the House of Jove." The line of Victor, known for its service to the Praetorian Guard.

The Sylvan group seems to move little but as a necessity, soft whispers which never reach a level to disturb or interrupt pass amid the group. How else is the blind one to 'see' but through the eyes and words of others? The Sachem watches impassively, bracketed between GreyWolf and SilverFox.

Cepheus leans over to Medea, despite the seriousness of the scene. A slight blush finds its way to his cheeks, his eyes watching the ceremony as he speaks in hushed tones.

Empyreans watch, their eyes collectively judging, praying, hoping.

Aegians, dignitaries, none of them exist in the world on the platform, though all can see the men atop it. Leonidas challenges, "Only those who command the winds may stand where you propose to stand, Drusus Marcus Jove. It is said you have been marked by your House's forefather; so that no man questions you, will you prove your worth?"

Elidi's fingers reach to touch Darius' arm as her attention is fixed upon the ceremony. It is difficult to tell if her expression is a slight frown or merely studiously somber behind that half-mask.

Drusus does not answer. And, for a long moment, nothing happens. Then there is a spark, a flash of light that dances out between Leonidas and Drusus, illuminating their faces to those who are arrayed around and behind them. Another spark joins it and then chains of pure white light rimmed with blue dance along Drusus' sword. They play up over his shoulders and down his wings, erupting from the tips of his feathers in silvery sparks. There is the faint smell of ozone. The miniature lightning storm fades from existence and a breeze springs up in its stead. It's a playful thing at first, gradually building up strength until it is a whirlwind of air, centered around the Emperor-Apparent, that sets the streamers and banners that hang from the ceiling into an angry snapping. One long ribbon of deep blue comes free and flutters down, draping itself across the foot of the statue of Tritonia. The wind dies away abruptly, and peace returns to the decorations.

Exhaling sharply, Oriane tilts her face into the wind as it proves Drusus' worth to take the position he has been thrust to. Dark eyes close and she stays like that until the voices begin filling the room once more.

While her position has not altered since the coronation began, Shahar seems barely to blink, so rapt is she in her study of the goings-on. At her side, however, Kiral finds much to observe in the faces of the onlookers. What he is thinking of those people is anyone's guess.

Those gathered gasp softly at the display, watching intently as the magic that is bequeathed to each successive Emperor is shown for all to see. The majesty of the winds is within this one.

There is silence. There is respect. But more than any of that, there is wonder. A small gasp comes from Daren as lightning plays across the soon-to-be Emperor's body. Things mundane and amazing the Herald has seen -- but none yet to rival that which kneels at the head of the chamber.

Livia blinks in the calm after the display and then smiles brightly as her brother proves his worth to stand where he is.

He was expecting something, the Princeps who shares the platform with Drusus. Something. Not, apparently, something of this magnitude, not this demonstration of power. So it is that even the ordinarily stoic Leonidas' eyebrows arch, and for one moment, ceremony is forgotten. A quiet clearing of his throat, a subtle shift of his wings, and Leonidas' voice rings out again, pitched to carry. "In the name of the Kronian, Drusus Marcus Jove, whose gifts are reborn in you, the Aegis has selected you to assume the throne of the Empyre."

He turns to the altar and picks up the lantern, hefting it over the bowed head of Drusus. "May the light of Tritonia's wisdom be ever with you as you rule, and as you live. And may the blessings of all the gods enrobe you as Emperor and Deus." He turns and sets the lamp down on the altar.

Turning back, he says: "May your reign be as long as mighty Jupiter's. May your decisions be as just. May Divanus, he of the gateways and beginnings, bless your beginnings here. May Apollo, lord of light, shine on you and upon all of the Empyre. May Quirinus, he of wars, bring you success in your battles for justice and glory. Merciful Aidoneus, may he grant you a long and fruitful life, and bear you away only at the twilight of your years."

As Leonidas' words fill the room after Drusus' display, Maat is only one of the many Varati eyes that watch with quiet rectitude. In fact, the most alarming of the Varati eyes are those cool, blue ones that belong to Khalid Atar. The war has past. The cries of battle have now receded. Now comes a new era for the Empyreans. In the annals of history, this action and his actions will be forever linked and judged by man's descendants. A decision from the future based solely on the events of now. In the future, who will be judged the true victor?

Cool, composed, collected at her husband's side, Thalia joins the others of her contingent (and of the other contingents) to witness the making of an Emperor. What she, just gone from the Empyre, feels about the matter at hand is well-disguised beneath her mask of dignity. The bubble of isolation is popped by Shahar touching her arm to offer a whispered observation, little more than two heartbeats' worth of speech from the Shakir, and to those words the Queen nods.

Watch the shift in emotion, the slight smile that warms Leonidas' face as the ceremony draws closer to completion, and a new era begins for both Empyre and her people. "And may the Fates approve of this gift, and may Tyche, she of luck, assist you." If Leonidas were older, it might almost be fatherly pride that dominates his expression.

As it is, he turns back to the altar once more, and lifts the simple golden circlet. Now is the only time Leonidas acknowledges those that watch, holding up the band so that everyone can see it. Presenting it thus, he suggests, "Pray, Drusus Marcus Jove, for you will soon bear the hopes and dreams of the Empyre on your brow."

Koralland watches the display, seemingly unmoved as his hand rests on the arm of the lady at his side.

Lirani's slender, pale fingers knit anxiously, azure eyes shifting from Drusus to the shimmering circlet. She whispers something to Elyaena, who thinks for a moment before replying. The Jovian woman nods with a quiet 'Mm-hmm.'

Drusus' pale head bows a touch more and he prays. Oh how he prays: he prays that he learn what it means to bear the hopes and dreams of an Empyre before those hopes are shattered and those dreams are broken by his ignorance. Was he alone before? He feels more alone now than he has at any moment in his life before. How many hours spent in the Palladium cella, pleading that this not be his fate? Here he kneels at the center of the answer. Fear. Deep fear. But there is also the unyielding soul of the line of Victor, determined to do its duties no matter what the heart tells him, in this life and in the next if need be. Nothing is said aloud. Can they hear my heart pounding? Drusus looks up, ever so slightly, at the end of his prayer.

One among those assembled can hear that heart beating. And if she cannot hear it, she can feel it. This may be something he must face alone, but she is there -- quiet, adoring, patient. Oriane feels his fear as well, echoed in her own heart as she sits poised between two nations, but she will be the caryatid he once called her for as long as she is able.

Alone? Drusus isn't alone. He has family to support him, people who are proud of him. It is the Dea of House Augustus who is alone. Alone, here, to represent the House that is slowly sliding into ruin. Alone, here, because her husband is the captive of those hated animals who sit within eyesight. She feels some pang of empathy for Drusus behind the cool copper of her gaze, for she can imagine how he must feel, and she understands it.

And it is done. Leonidas takes two steps forward and bends, wings shifting aside to counter the movement, as he lowers the circlet onto Drusus' brow. That done, he straightens, retreats those two steps, and lifts his voice so that it can be even better heard, so that it truly vibrates in the ears of the hearers. "All hail Deus Drusus Marcus Jove, the new Emperor of all the skies, lord of the heavens, and ruler of the Empyre."

It is done. Leonidas, now, bends his knee, and then his head, in echo of Drusus' earlier posture.

As he bows, so too do the rest of the Aegians in attendance, rising first, and then bending knee to show their allegiance to the newly-crowned man.

Like the surge of the sea, there is a roar that slowly builds, crying out cheers for their new emperor, their new hope. Empyreans in every corner of the room rise almost as one, shouting in exultation for Emperor Drusus Marcus Jove.

Assisted to her feet by Arahael, Megeara rises and then bends to a gracefully bent knee along with the members of the Aegis. Snowy wings sweep back in a gentle motion, balancing her before she rises. Both the voices of the Dea and Deus Jove raise firmly, intoning the words in echo of Leonidas, "All hail Drusus Marcus Jove. All hail the Emperor!"

It weighs so little on his head, but the weight on his soul is enough to bend him in half like a slender reed. Drusus rises slowly, stubborn, and stands as those around him kneel. His lips move, the sound of his voice lost in the din, but that is well, for the words are meant for Leonidas alone. And then he turns to face his people and the guests of his Empyre, his expression unreadable.

Elyaena and her mother are two of the first to stand. Liri's voice -- so used to shouting insults -- rises in a shout of, "All hail the Emperor!"

Orcinus Kuronbo looks somewhat distracted during the final portion of the ceremony, his head canted marginally in another direction as he nods to himself on occasion. He also raises his hand to rub absently at his crimson right eye every so often... however, he turns his head back towards the dais as the final proclamation is made and he, too, rises when the Emperor receives his crown. He stands respectfully enough, his hands clasped behind his back... but he does not kneel, he merely observes this moment.

As the cries build within the room, they are heard without the building, and so too begins another cry, carrying through the entire city and perhaps to the Empyre beyond. They have their new Emperor, and perhaps the darkness does not seem so bleak. None will think of the marriage to come, or the god-king sitting in the midst for today... Today they have their Emperor.

Wings unfurl, stretching out. The statue of Zeus Jupiter, the Kronian, looms over Drusus, and he feels the weight of his ancestor's stony gaze between his pinions.

Selene rises with the rest of her family and the rest of the Empyre represented in the chamber. She, too, goes to her knee, adding her voice to the cheers of the others in support of the new Emperor.

Livia rises and goes down to her knee as well, voice lifted to join those of the others in the chamber.

Medea at first kneels, showing in that singular movement devotion to the Emperor and the Empyre itself. Her voice rings out along with the others in jubilation.

Rising with the surge of the crowd, and kneeling as well, Oriane watches no other in the room but Drusus. For a brief instant, her eyes close in silent, selfish mourning. Then, when dark eyes open to the world once more, her soft, gentle voice joins those crying out for the new Emperor. No matter her own sorrows, there is an unquenchable pride in her.

Like the tides drawn by the tug of the moon, Shinjukou finds her feet as the shouts break the air. Hands clasped before her waist, the woman dips her head forward respectfully then lifts her chin to focus bland eyes on the Empyreans' reaction to their new Emperor.

Though slightly below the height of an average Varati male, Khalid Atar's tall frame does not leave his seat for the floor of the platform, but stands in silence. The dark hands meet and clap amid the roar of exultation. Following the lead of the God-King, other Varati, Maat among them, also rise and clap under the huge rush of Empyrean voices.

Elidi will kneel. For Drusus, she will kneel. Here, today, she will kneel. But only to Drusus.

Amaryllis stands proudly beside her mother as they both watch on. Their voices join the crowd in hailing the male upon the platform in front of them all.

GreyWolf and the rest of the Sylvans sit, their eyes watching that which happens around them. Calm rests in their gaze, but they do not cheer like the rest of the crowd.

Riva stands with the rest of her group, head high, silent respect offered. She seeks eye contact with her old friend and offers him a small nod of approval and respect combined.

Shahar and Kiral stand nearly in unison, though otherwise the tonality of their congratulations matching those of the God-King and his Queen. As if the Varati presence were one in spirit... which indeed it may be.

Cepheus' motion is slightly slower then the rest of his race, the man kneeling respectfully slightly after the rest of the crowd. His eyes are distant, the oracle acting somewhat erratically on and off for a few moments. He shakes it off a moment later, gaze solidifying for the time being.

Jasmine stands, following the motion of Riva and Koralland beside her as she looks toward Drusus.

His god rises, and so does the ebon nightmare at Khalid's side, his haik a billowing cloud of blackness before it settles down to stillness. And Faisal claps, his eyes like black chips of night as he scrutinizes the new Emperor. Gauging. Assessing.

Rabi and Archana rise with the Nayaka. The motion of their hands ripple the silks of their veils and saris, a flurry of color.

Daren rises and, what the heck, joins in with the Varati applause. Hooting and hollering seems unseemly, although if Daren was with the crowd outside, you can be certain he'd be whooping it up. Not for any allegiance to the Emperor or love of Empyreans. But you gotta hand it to a bunch of winged people who can put on a spectacle like this, complete with lightning. And, if nothing else, the Herald appreciates spectacle.

Sapientia stands and applauds as well, and is immediately glad she did... muscles were meant to be used.

It's proper to rise. Proper to show respect. Proper to give respect to those who have earned and attained high status. Therefore, Ipo rises silently with her companions. But her expression remains steadfastly neutral. Neither praise nor condemnation are in her features. She remains standing only as long as is perfectly proper. Not a heartbeat more, not a heartbeat less. And she does not applaud.

From the silent seated Sylvan gathering, there is a bit of a stir. They lean forward and flats of hands begin to pound on the platform in a rhythmic drumming. Soon one male voice, deep and resonant, is joined by a second which is thin with the onset of aging. A third full of rich youth joins, and finally, the rich tones of the male storyteller. Apisachi and Ettowealona all joining in one moment of rare harmony in a deep, compelling chant. Amid the words soft feminine voices, young from the caretaker, and full and powerful from the Sachem add themselves. The chant grows and amid some of the words which may be recognized is the names of some of the Sylvan Gods... and Drusus as they pray a blessing on his wise leadership.

Drusus turns and murmurs something to Leonidas. He returns his sword to its sheath and, left hand in its place on the pommel, bids the Princeps to join him with the right. Behind them, servants gather up the altar and the items it held, carrying them away. The activity reveals a lump of black-flecked white: although the Emperor sits in the same chair used by Emperors for the past five hundred years, he is allowed to choose his own throne on the day of his coronation. It is an ordinary soldier's three-legged camp stool, draped in the thick ermine cloak of kingliness.

The standing Varati, with their calm, respectable clapping, is easily overshadowed by the cheering Empyreans. The hard faces, used harshly by the world and the veiled faces, hidden by silk, are difficult to interpret. When eyes are the only method for determining the emotional compass of a person, anything beyond acceptance is hard to determine. Yet, unlike the veiled visage of Maat or the other Varati women in attendance, the Queen-Maharani has her face more exposed and a bright, vivid smile can be seen gracing her gentle features. And, perhaps her hands clap a bit more enthusiastically than the rest of the entourage. Under the continued activity, another few words pass between her and the lioness of Khalida, Shahar.

Many still kneeling to their new Emperor, Empyreans turn their eyes on Drusus, waiting expectantly for what he will say. A hush begins to fall over the crowd, signaling that he will speak soon. Outside, though, the roar of desperate jubilation still sounds through the streets of the cloud city. Even as the crowd within begins to wait for the words from their new leader, couriers take flight to carry word of Emperor Drusus Marcus Jove to all Empyreal provinces.

Leonidas rises, clasping Drusus' wrist in a firm grasp, and stepping forward once, inside his reach to murmur in return, expression briefly animated and eyes alight. Perhaps he's told a joke. Leonidas? Impossible. Then he releases Drusus' hand, spreads his wings and lifts himself off the platform, landing at the base of the stairs where Drusus once stood. It is his throne, his time to shine. Leonidas will watch from below.

Riva retakes her seat and folds her hands in her lap while observing the remainder of the event in progress.

Livia clears her throat and rises from her knee to retake her seat. The motherly figure beside her also rises and takes her seat once more, in order to listen to the new Emperor's words.

Drusus looks out over the gathering. He sees the upturned faces of the Aegians, the vast majority of which whom have been politicians and leaders longer than he has been alive. He sees fellow soldiers, hopeful and proud. He sees his family -- yes, there's mother -- he sees friends. He sees the honored guests of the Empyre, some welcome, some tolerated. He feels the combined gaze of all of these people and if his heart is beating, he cannot sense it. "Dei Leonidas, Arahael, Longinius, will you sit in counsel to me?"

Jasmine sits weakly back in her seat when Koralland sits. She is weary, and being here has been a strain. She closes her eyes as she leans back into her seat.

The small Sylvan group seems oblivious to all else around them till their prayer/chant is done, then in unison cease the drumming and sit back to watch what else unfolds before them.

Medea rises, a hand reaching to touch Cepheus' arm. She frowns, their conversation perhaps not entirely pleasant, then smiles at murmured words. As the new Emperor speaks, she looks off towards him, an arched brow then smile at his words.

At Megeara's side, Arahael stands stiffly taller upon hearing his name. Pride marks the bow he delivers to the new Emperor. Pride in his House, and also in this young relative who has ascended to the throne of Justinius. "It will be my honor to serve you, my Emperor," he says in quietly serious tones as he rises from the wing arcing bow.

Longinius rises as well, an impressively large man for the Empyrean race. A level gaze regards Drusus as he bows at the waist, voice easily reaching the ears of many, "It would be an honor for me as well, Emperor."

Leonidas and Drusus were Praetorians first, so there is an odd sort of synchronicity in the Praetor's salute Leonidas gives the new Emperor, fist against his chest as he bows. "It would likewise be an honor for me, Emperor."

Drusus nods, pleased in his earnest, serious way. He looks out over the crowd again and inclines his head. His voice fills the air. "My thanks to all of you, Aegians, Dea and Dei, honored Majesties and guests, for your trust and for your respect. But there is much to do. I enjoin you to enjoy the hospitality and festivities prepared for this occasion. Counsel, to me." And, with that, he turns on his heel and strides from the platform. The hem of his toga rises as if wanting to stay, but it is relentlessly drawn with its master's body as Drusus vanishes into one of the shadowed alcoves followed by two of his guards.

Rabi blinks. She leans forward as if to follow the departing figure of the Emperor and glances up at her Imphadi, the Nayaka.

There's a murmur through the crowd that was expecting a lengthy, flowery speech. Though the cheering and celebration still continues on the outside of the building, there's a faintly confused air lingering in the wake of the departed Emperor.

Elidi rises to her feet as the Emperor departs, silver-edged samite cloak gently swirling. Her face depicts no surprise or any other emotion, the smooth flesh of the right side of her face as enigmatic as the silver mask upon the left side.

Shahar's expression is not far beyond Rabi's and, with a glance at Thalia and Khalid, she turns to Kiral and makes a soft inquiry to him. With a bold gesture and a few choice words he answers her, then rises. Belatedly his hand is offered to aid her in standing as well.

Livia takes her mother's hand and leaves her seat, heading towards the exit.

Megeara shakes her head wryly at the sudden departure. So like Drusus -- ever the soldier without the flair of diplomacy to smooth the rough edges. A few whispered words are exchanged between she and Arahael before that man departs the room in the wake of the new Emperor.

Cepheus slowly rises, a nod going toward Medea. He extends a hand to her, perhaps offering to help her up from the kneeling position.

And that, as they say, is that. High on spectacle, short on speeches, Daren thinks this Emperor just might be a decent fellow. Throw in some bread and a circus or two, and things ought to be hunky-dory for the Empyreans. The Herald rises, and makes his way out to mingle and begin to plumb the opinions of the masses.

FIN

(I've ended the log here, since many of the recent scenes I've posted have been so long. Players may have the scene in its entirety on their web-pages if you're curious to read about the festivities that followed the coronation).  

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