This takes place in the Underrealm in the city of Zar'Ahal, but anyone from the Surface is also welcome within reason. Please do not derail however 
The Coronation Ground
The obsidian tiles of the Queen’s Plaza, in front of the Queen’s Palace, glistened with fresh polish, their black sheen cut through with glimmering veins of red-tinged quartz that pulsed softly in the lowlight. Spider silk banners stretched between carved pillars, drifting faintly in the subterranean currents. From the tiered rows all around the plaza, all the city could look down upon the sacred space that would bear witness to its new ruler.
It was not the Cathedral of Maelzafan or the temple, as many had expected and insisted, even. The high priestesses had protested Vyx’aria’s decision with all the hissing diplomacy they could muster, reminding her that no queen had ever been crowned outside the shadow of the goddess’ sanctum.
But Vyx’aria had been unmoved. The temple had served the old order. She would not be its echo. She had chosen this plaza, a place of war councils, of public executions, of revolts crushed beneath boots. A place of sight. The people would see her rise, not hear of it in whispered canticles behind holy doors.
In the end, the priesthood relented, so long as their rites were performed. Their black-robed mages moved through the plaza even now, staining ritual glyphs onto the black stone with blood drawn fresh by willing tithe or prisoner’s veins; it mattered not. At the center of it all stood the coronation dais, a crescent-shaped elevation chiseled from onyx and webstone, surrounded by high tiers where nobles, generals, and foreign delegates would soon take their seats.
And beyond the plaza…Zar’Ahal sang.
The Streets of Zar’Ahal
Down the roads and across every causeway, Zar’Ahal throbbed with life.
The city was alive tonight, pumping sound and motion through every avenue as the coronation neared. From the basalt chasms of the Deepmarket to the narrow heights of the noble terraces to the tight alleys of Lowtown, drums thundered with deep rhythm, slow and bone-deep. Their cadence reverberated through stone and spine alike, accompanied by the shrill tune of whisper-flutes and the groaning calls of deep horns. The percussion built and broke like waves.
Tor’Rahel’s banners loomed from every outcrop and archway, their edges embroidered with spider-thread glyphs that glimmered in red and black. They whipped overhead, strung between towers by silk-suspended walkways. Below them, the masses gathered, over two hundred thousand souls, packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Drow of every caste and origin, emissaries from distant cities, and curious underfolk drawn to spectacle all swelled together in a tide of faces. Even Surface dwellers were invited to this.
The streets had been transformed into corridors of wonder and threat. Fountains spilled with luminous wine, glowing indigo and gold, ladled out freely to those who could elbow their way close enough. Slave-dancers moved in hypnotic loops along floating platforms, their skin oiled, their faces masked, trailing shimmering veils enchanted to leave behind brief afterimages in the air. The crowds cheered or hissed depending on their origin, but none looked away.
Spell-etched illusions flickered to life overhead, shifting murals of Tor’Rahel’s sigil, scenes of Vyx’aria’s victories, and silhouettes of monstrous creatures she had vanquished or bent to her will. Firewalkers strutted barefoot through trails of psionic embers. Children wore carved wooden masks, some shaped like crowns, others like her helmet. And all the while, the scent of smoke, sweat, fruit, and braised meats mingled into a thick, heady perfume that clung to hair and lungs alike.
Drinks flowed from carved obsidian dispensers ranging from mead, fungal ale, venomous spirits drawn from deep vaults, each sip capable of hallucination, arousal, or forgetfulness depending on the brew. Raucous laughter rolled from balconies. Wagers were shouted across the crowd, bets on the procession’s order, the priesthood’s reaction, even the odds of an assassination attempt.
The Last Of Her Name
In a distance, in a tower, Vyx’aria stood alone.
Her chambers, temporary, until the rites were complete, were silent save for the distant, muffled echo of celebration far below. She stood near the open arch of the window, shoulders lit by the flicker of emerald flame-torches. She was still just in her silk robes, not having dressed for the ceremony yet. Her hands gripped the stone ledge.
Outside, the banners of Tor’Rahel snapped in the updraft. The sight carved through her. She was the last. Every member of her house was slaughtered. Betrayed. Burned in the dark, cast into nameless graves in tunnels now sealed. Friends who had followed her, believed in her, were long gone. And her youngest sister… soft-spoken, gentle, too enamored with books and music, with dreams of the surface. Too good for this world. Vyx’aria could only hope that her death had come quickly.
Her breath hitched. She blinked, and the weight in her chest turned to iron. She pushed back from the window.
And vomited, hard and sudden, into the bronze bucket beside the table.
The retching echoed in the chamber, drowned a moment later by the thunderous pounding of the drums below, the rising chant of the people, and the low, melodic intonation of the priesthood beginning their rites.
No one would see her like this. No one could.
She slid weakly to the ground, her whole body trembling as her eyes began to mist.
