Changes in the wind. The leaves. The flow of water. Even the animals seemed to sense a difference. The Voice of the People silenced.
The Silvenar had died. Not unexpected, but an event often attended by varying degrees of turmoil.
Had the city come first, or the Silvenar? No one seemed to know, nor care. There once was chaos, and then came generations of structure. Well, something like structure. Organized mayhem, more like it.
The next Silvenar, a young lad, poised to take up the mantle.
"They're waiting," the attendant said. She held out an alabaster goblet filled with fermented broth.
"I know. Give me a moment." Indaenir closed his eyes and took a deep breath before accepting the ceremonial cup.
The Silvenar. The title wasn't officially his until the wedding, but he could already feel the changes. Like the beat of a moth's wings near his ear, Indaenir felt his new identity whispering to him in quick pulses. It tickled.
The Silvenar represented the Wood Elves. He or she would feel the will of the people and act upon it. The connection went both ways, as his or her influence could also sway the Wood Elves.
And his people were nervous.