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.