April
*Sierra, already a solemn presence in this room of mixed emotions, becomes sterner yet as she sees the young princess enter the room. Her gaze, all her attention, and interest caught by the woman. 

Of course, she wasn't alone in watching Alora proceed down the hall, but she did display an overly open curiosity, for who she was as a person, outside of this occasion. As well as sympathy and empathy for her fathers fate, and what consequences it brought with it and admiration, for the high craftsmanship of her dress. Something she would no doubt bring up later, considering her own experience in the craft. 

She recalled what things her grandparents had divulged of the Alynthian royal family, and remembered her title. 
With her thumb, just as Alora was about to pass, she swiped across the tourmaline in her necklace, and for a moment just, the fellow princess would see it flash in her royal colors, should she looks at the soon-to-be queen of Findara, that was. An encouragement, and if she could make it known that she at least knew 'of' the princess, conversation would be much easier later down the line. 

If she did look her way or not, Sierra cared little. 

But Alora's vulnerable appearance, did awake a dormant, motherly instinct in her. And the high elf would want to seek her after the coronation, when things would quiet down. Be it just to exchange pleasantries, and make sure she managed to stomach the days proceedings, though she did warm up to the idea of planting the first seeds of a potential friendship, the longer she thought about it. 

As her thoughts muddied her mind with fantasies, so too did her outwardly cold appearance melt, for a few seconds only. So she was grateful that hardly anyone had eyes for her, and she could calmly return to her usual, slightly displeased veil. 

And as she did, her gaze once again shift back to the entrance, expecting the man of the occasion, to walk through next.*
Anthony
*The visage of Astalios Dilitirios was normally as stern as his efforts to control himself. But in this matter, there was a different weight to the situation - a different sort of officiality that placed the full burden of leadership upon his shoulders. First came the oath, then the assumption of rule. It was so close he could feel the enormity of what he was about to do settling into his being with a finality that reminded him of the last breath of a soldier on the battlefield - one cut, one thrust, one moment, and it was done.

The death of a father. The weight of a crown. Both over his head.

He had loved his father dearly from the start, taken his lessons readily, not stepped out of line. Moments had passed where he had looked into the bearded face of the king and seen who he had wanted to be, the man he needed to become. It was now over. The man lived only in his memories for the moment. It would be a long time before he lived again. 

The steps of Alora down the aisle were occurring. He felt the necklace travel down the path, felt the gold of the jewelry that their father had given her and the diadem that was made likewise in gold filigree, an work of art upon her head. Felt the threads of her dress, wrought with filament of golden thread. She was taking those steps towards destiny, the oil within her hands. He, however, was waiting in the antechamber, a private room before the doors, in the narthex. It was a space used for ambassadors readying for audiences, bridegrooms before a royal wedding, princes before coronations...

People waiting for their lives to change.

Mosaics in gold and silver tile decorated the room, onyx black patterning stags along with the pure yellow metal. It was fortunate, he thought to himself, that he was the one here. Each surface of the palace spoke to him in some way, whispering of wrought iron hinges and doors, golden candelabras lending their light, silver cutlery for them to eat with. Bronze pots in the kitchens.*

_ _
*Even now he sat upon an old oaken bench, the cushions fastened with brass tacks, faint, but still copper along with the zinc inside them. Even the windows spoke to him, the stained glass holding bits of lead and copper within them, lending them color and life.

The palace was no longer his father's. It was *His*, and his responsibility alone. 

The weight of commanding armies, he had thought, was large in itself. Sending men to die was never pleasant. But winning battles and governing were not the same ordeal, and it was foolishness to pretend otherwise.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Establish a rhythm. Breathe.

His eyes closed, and he let himself see only what could be seen through his magic. One at a time. The shield, made of steel, large enough to stand on, engraved with the stag, carried by four priests in golden livery and vestments. He would be raised on it like his father before him.

Two, the crown. Pure gold, the points of antlers like thorns in a wreath of wrought metal, the symbol of office, the recognition of his birthright. Held by the high priest, his own head adorned with golden symbols of divinity.

Three, the royalty arrayed in a row. The rings of Prince Hannibal, decadent as always, each one alloyed of gold and silver. A silver collar. He had to remember - who was it on the end of the aisle, next to the silver mounts for ribbons? Sierra. Princess of Thyseer. It was an introduction to remember, he supposed. It had a gemstone of some kind mounted in it. Strange. 

Armor, alloyed gold and iron and copper, in large dimensions, towering over Prince Hannibal's rings and circlet. It was quite like him to attempt to intimidate at any event. A crown made in extravagant proportions, overblown. Obtuse. Showy. Alyus. And... The seating chart laid itself out in his mind once more. The lace, criscrossing itself around a thin golden collar, the backing of a dress. Princess Nala Samir of Khisfire.*

_ _
*The final one in attendance, Delsandra of Thyseer, bedecked in golden thread. He knew her jewelry well, those ears shot through with filigree.

And... 

A stag, silver through and through, shining bright to unseen eyes, made by his hand and by his magic, the maker of the call, the symbol of favor. On the other side of the aisle.

They snapped open, the muddy brown orbs revealed under weathered eyelids, as a knock sounded on the door, gentle. One of the priests, he knew. He could feel the holy symbol hanging on the chain of gold. 

It was time to wait before the door, until the call of the priest summoned him into the throne room. His feet found the floor firmly, placing themselves one after the other under him. He wore no armor this day, nor his prince's crown. The circlet was abandoned for something greater. He was adorned in a white robe of silk, no embellishment upon it. Over it was a black cloak, the same silken consistency, made by craftsmen that had woven these garments for his ancestors. At his shoulder was a clasp of gold, patterned with antlers, wrought by the hands of dwarves hammering in sacred duty, holding the cloak in place. Upon his feet were sandals of brown leather, studded with gems each, a yellow diamond in black iron mounts upon the fastenings.

His legs carried him to the door, one step after the other. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. 

His father had worn these garments, he thought to himself, and so would his son after him. He wished that his father was here to see him now - to see the cloak of office upon his shoulders, and the crown upon his head. Would he have been proud or disappointed? Would he be a good king? His hand rested on the handle for a split second.

Steel yourself. Move forward. **Be** The man you need to become.*

_ _
*He pushed the door open with finality, striding past the priest with a knowing glance and a nod of respect to the man that had come to remind him. When the great oaken doors to the throne room faced him, he stopped, waiting breathless for the call to enter.

Astalios's hair had been brushed back, carefully curated, cut precisely. It fell in orderly waves of black from his head, contrasting in some respects the weathered face of the man about to be king. His eyes were the muddy brown of silt at the bottom of a lake, ears slightly pointed in the fashion of half-elves. His jaw protruded in a masculine fashion, and he could have been called handsome by those inclined to such compliments. His frame was more heavily built than a true elf's, resembling a human in that respect.

Iron Prince no more. Now... About to become something greater. He waited, eyes closing once again, and dipped his head in silent prayer, asking the gods for guidance. For the wisdom he needed to endure the years to come...*
Samuel
As Alora made her way down the aisle, each guard in the two rows dipped their heads respectfully as she passed. The priest retrieved the oil from the princess, and once she took her place next to the queen, the priest returned his gaze to the doors. Two men stood ready to open the doors once more, and with nothing but a simple nod they did so. As the large doors opened, the two rows of guards stiffened before unsheathing their swords and pointing them upward in a ninety degree angle, the tips of their swords meeting the opposite guard's. After the gentle clinging of metal and the shuffling of armor was overtaken by silence once more, the Iron Stag finally made his entrance.
Anthony
*The sound of the unsheathing swords would have been enough for Astalios's eyes to snap open, even if he had not seen in his mind's eye the myriad weapons pulled from their scabbards, forming an arch in front of him as the hinges of the throne room door began to swing forwards. It was now. The time was here. As those first few glimpses of the aisle in front of him met his eyes, he drew in breath once more, then exhaled. And before the doors had fully opened, he found himself being carried forward, not only by his feet, but by his destiny.

One day, his father had told him, he would sit upon the throne, and take charge of all Alynthi. 

Today was a day no different than any other. The sun rose in the east, set in the west. And tonight the seas would rise and fall, the moon shine bright. The world seemed to change, however, as he made his first footsteps towards the dais that awaited him, golden decorated sandals making his feet feel lighter, the cloak he wore like an iron weight. Black and white garb, the gold at his shoulder. Perhaps it was every man's destiny to one day take up the mantle of life. 

He wondered if for all of them, it felt quite so momentous. 

One foot in front of the other had carried him from the bench to the doors, and likewise, they carried him down the aisle as he held his head high, the expression on his face just as grim as any other day, the worries of his daily life creasing his brow permanently now that his daily life included kingship, and the responsibility of filling his father's shoes. He knew he was capable. Every man was capable with the right will to improve. But the ability to lead... It needed to never cease within a kingdom for that kingdom to be prosperous.

Leadership made the difference in times of trouble.

With Dazvaz stirring like a hornet's nest, Gantrick's concerning policies... His father might have been able to navigate all of it. But he supposed he had been preparing for a while now.*

_ _
*He had been sent on diplomatic missions, he had been to Thunder Fest, he had mingled and met people day in and day out. He had learned to hunt, to relax when needed. To judge and investigate properly those crimes he considered intolerable, to show the people he was a man of his word and a man of honor. The eyes of the world were upon him, and he intended not to disappoint. To be harsh in times when it was needed, kind to his people, unquestionable in judgment. To always be discerning in whose word to trust.

He needed to create a council of his own. His father's council would be retained, mostly, but at least for the military, he needed a commander he had served with and trusted beyond doubt. Someone who not only had a reputation for personal bravery, but an intellect to match, a strategist, a tactician. He could not always be there to make the decisions.

Perhaps that was the only seat he knew quite how to assign. Perhaps he might have needed a quartermaster of the army for a master of coin. The swords over his head, the guards providing him an archway of steel. It was as it should have been. Each of the men present in this honor guard had served with him in Dazvaz, proved themselves worthy. Officers, enlisted men, peasants, nobles. Each had distinguished themselves within their roles, and each held their swords straight. He could not have been prouder.

One step after the other. He continued down the aisle, into the gold-wrought throne room, facing his sister gravely, watching his mother's eyes stream with tears. One step after the other, and his feet had suddenly carried him up the steps of the dais and before the throne - before the priest. His head bowed before the authority of the gods before he knew it, and he knelt as was tradition.

Behind him, the four priests carrying the shield that he was to be raised on stopped, waiting below the steps of the dais to hear the incantations of the priest, and Astalios held his breath...*

_ _
*Hear now the supplication of us the unworthy...*
April
*Sierra finds herself surprised by how solemn and depressing everything was. 
She thought this would be a cause for celebration more so than anything. 
Loss of a king or not. 
Tears were bein shed, heads were held higher to hide pain, and some lower to express it. 

She began to feel out of place. Apathetic to the struggles that had lead to this moment for Astalios. And she realized what she had missed out on. 
Being raised to be king. Was so very different than being dragged from a normal life into the role. 
Not to mention how slow it all was to an elf. Yet how quick this all had gone down. Not even a weeks time to prepare.
Her gaze shift to her side, to the crying princess next to her mother. 

She imagined herself standing there. Her father dead. A brother she might have had taking the throne. 
But while she imagined it, she hardly felt it. She had no idea the completexity of emotions going through her. 
A thought that troubled her deeply.*

*And turned back to watch the prince approach the altar.
Despite her features as cold as ever, she found herself suddenly moved by the solemnity of the moment. The swords, a show of loyalty. 
A tear welled from the corner of her eyes, rolled down her cheek, and dropped to the floor. Her left hand jerked forwards, as if to stop it, a futile attempt.

Once again her mind returned to her simple life as a farmgirl in Khisfire. And she realized, that she has sacrificed something herself. Something so fundamentally different, and that she gave away so irrationally easy. She chose to. And what was apathy, turned to empathy. He had lost so much more than her. More than she could most likely fathom. And he never had the choice, never wanted to choose. 

The tear made sense now. 
And as Astalios passes her, she closes her eyes, and gave him a solemn nod of respect. And another tear, passed down her other cheek. 
Surprising even herself, she had managed to understand his pain. Never in its entirety of course. But enough to know. Or so she thought. 

She knew she could not be a replacement for their father. But the siblings made her want to protect them. Be there for them. As little as that would mean.*