[center][h1][color=940310]Louis Demaar Evermoore[/color][/h1][/center]

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[color=silver]
Louis smiled gently under his helm as her majesty stepped out from her carriage. With the coronation, he hadn’t been surprised to see the Death Guard scattered throughout the crowd, watching for threats to the soon-to-be queen from both within the crowd, and without. In part, Louis was glad he could be here. Both as witness, but to do a duty 

The armored man did his own due diligence, scanning the crowd idly for any suspicious characters, of which he didn’t count the Lammergier. He was certain they were here for a reason, sure, but not as a threat to her majesty. That would be foolish, even for one so mighty. Besides, it wouldn’t make sense, at least not as he understood it.

The Eagles that flanked the man remained silent and stoic as always, watching and waiting as her majesty made her way up towards the stage. He could only imagine the weight of responsibility that the crown of Silliach bore, as the title he was groomed to bear was but a fraction of that. It truly took someone special to bear that kind of power well, and it was yet to be seen if her majesty would be one such person. But he had hope that she’d be a worthy leader of his homeland.

The true concern was how the noble houses would take it. In all of Silliach’s history, Eliora Redmire would be the first queen to truly bear the power of that title, and not just the wife of the king. It would be a change, and he knew a little too well how the nobility of Silliach disliked change. Still, should the day require it, his sword was sharp, and his arm well-rested. Even if the great Patronaat wouldn’t stop the curse of the Redmire dynasty, perhaps it didn’t need to. The protection of her majesty would be the duty of those able and willing, among which Louis considered himself to still be a part of. 

Well, more or less.

The worst part of the day thus far wasn’t the massive crowd or the anticipation. It was the infernal itching. The warm sun only served to make the steel around him warmer, and even with his arming doublet keeping the enchanted steel off his skin, the metal coffin he called armor would quickly become a veritable oven, and the itching was inevitable with the sweat trapped in his underlayer. Still, he’d trained to keep a disciplined appearance in heat or cold, and so he wouldn’t fidget… much. But it was still better than being without the plate, unfortunately. He preferred being able to walk.[/color]