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[centre][hider=Summary]
Part 1
Peral is dead.
Many people come to mourn him.
Fihriyi is in mourning.
Her aunts visit her with food.
They comment on some things - it transpires that Fihriyi [i]doesn't like Fikra all that much[/i].

Part 2
People from all over come to pledge allegiance to Fikra as their new Bato-Elyd Patriarch.
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[i]Year: 232 P[/i]

Peral was dead. Qari'Ab clamoured with the thousands who had heard of his passing and come to pay their respects to the Eliad Patriarch and his family. He was survived by his only daughter, Fihriyi. In his long life he had married only once and the love of Peral and Makura had become semi-legendary - joining the ranks of the Prophet-Patriarch's love for his [i]Mawtuq Amudiskandar[/i], and the tragic love of the [i]Durghal[/i] for his [i]Dammahshar[/i], and the star-crossed, unrequited love of Rad for his precious [i]Nafzakia[/i]. Heinous murder had separated the Prophet Patriarch from his [i]Mawtuq Amudiskandar[/i], an erroneous blow had separated the [i]Durghal[/i] from his [i]Dammahshar[/i], and Rad's last stand and self-sacrifice at the pass - that his love and her followers may flee to safety - separated him from his [i]Nafzakia[/i]. 
As for Peral and his Makura, cruel death struck again and stifled and suffocated the blooming, bursting, ever-growing rose of love. She had given him a sickly son, Mar, who had died no more than a week after his birth. And she had given him a stillborn daughter. And with every failed birth, she grew weaker and sadder and not even he - whom she loved so! - could comfort her and ease her pain and chase her suffering away. And then she gave him Fihriyi, and Fihriyi lived. But like bloodied Rad at the pass, the loving mother died that the beloved may survive. 

If there was anything that Peral and Ka'al - Fikra's father - had in common, it was that they lost two of their children. But unlike Peral, Ka'al's children had grown into fine young men before tragedy (or was it treachery?) tore them from the arms of life. And unlike Peral, Ka'al's wife, Cala, had lived after birthing Fikra, and bore Ka'al two more sons - Bato and Liskanda. She had lived to a fine old age and had predeceased her husband by just over a year.

[quote=Lineages of the Bato-Elyds and Eliads][i][b]Bato-Elyds[/b][/i]: Eskandar [0-37 P] -> Bato [12-30 P] -> Ely [30-78 P] -> Emara [49-90 P] -> Sakin [72-124 P] -> Innasim [95-148 P] -> Miqda [119-172 P] -> Skender [141-182 P] -> Ka'al [159-232 P] -> [b]Fikra [205-Present][/b]

[i][b]Eliads[/b][/i]: Eskandar [0-37 P] -> Elia [13-43 P]-> Zekra [29-67 P] -> Eliali [53-98 P] -> Mar [76-112 P] -> Sa'aen [99-151 P] -> Albitra [123-168 P] -> Balqur [146-197 P] -> Peral [164-232 P] -> [b]Fihriyi [209-Present][/b][/quote]

And death had now at long last, after playing with the old man and taunting him for long, come for him. And he was survived by one, suddenly very lonely, and suddenly very vulnerable, daughter. It was not that she did not have her thousands of loyal followers - after all, she was seen as the closest thing to a prophet by an unknowable number of people - but it was that she had lost her father and was now truly alone in the world. The final childless child of generation upon generation of Patriarchs. The fate of the Prophet-Patriarch's line through his rightful heirs depended on her. And she was surrounded on all sides by those who were far less than sincere - those who wished only after influencing her for their own ends.

As was the tradition of the Eliads, she sat in her home, in the very room her father had died in. She was dressed in white and her face was completely veiled, and so too was every inch of her body. Had she had siblings, or had her mother been alive, they would have all been doing the same. The direct family of the deceased had to be in mourning for a period of fourteen days. In that period none could enter upon them but the siblings of the deceased. And if the deceased had no siblings, then more distant relatives. It was their job to cook for the ones mourning and to ensure they were well-fed and looked after in that period.

Fihriyi looked up as the curtain covering the entrance to her dark room was lifted and her two aunts, Malha and Hela, entered with food. The young woman lifted the slightly see-through veil and light from the outside shone on her amber eyes, causing them to light up as though they hid within them flames. Her face was morose and her thin lips were set in a straight line. Her nose was small and straight and quite wide, its tip was neither pointed nor overly round. It was, like the rest of her, quite elegant. With the veil lifted, her red-brown curls could be seen cascading down to her shoulders and disappearing beyond.

'Fihriyi,' Malha said as she set a platter of food before her, 'the people have come from all corners of the Realm to be with you in your moment of loss and pain. Your father is mourned by thousands, and those who would sooth your pain are legion.'
'Their loyalty and love are valued and cherished by us,' the young woman responded, her eyes cast down.
'And that Fikra - what a man! - he has called upon all the people to attend your father's funeral and to be among those who wish you ease during your time of hardship,' there was the slightest flash of anger in the young woman's eyes, but she concealed it before her aunt's could notice.
'I trust his burial went smoothly and he is now reunited with our blessed and sanctified forebears,' Fihriyi looked to the two for assurance.
'Oh yes, every learned man and scholar, and every [i]Qarqaz[/i], took part in the digging of his grave and his burial. He lies with all our blessed Patriarchs, and I am certain he is happy, and I am certain that the Moon-Mother, even now, greets him as she would a long lost son,' Hela spoke. Fihriyi nodded and thanked her for her words.
'And how are your children, blessed aunt?' Fihriyi looked shyly to Hela, who smiled.
'Iybar told me to send his regards. He says that he shall pray for his uncle, and he shall pray for you,' the young woman's elation at hearing this was barely concealed - she almost smiled.
'His prayers and his thoughts are heavy in our scale. Send our regards to him also,' Hela looked to Malha and the two sisters looked sadly to the girl.
'Iybar...' Hela started.
'Iybar loves you greatly, Fihriyi,' Malha interjected, 'but you know well what he wishes for you,' Fihriyi kept her gaze downcast.
'It is our hope that, with time, his wishes for me will align with my wishes for us,' she spoke softly.
'Fihriyi, Iybar is wise. And Fikra is not a bad-'
'With respect, blessed aunt, mention not the enemy's name before us. Mention not the despoiler of dreams, the banisher of bliss, the harrower of happiness and hope.'
The two women pursed their lips and sighed, and with that they turned and, one after the other, left the room. The curtain returned to its place, and darkness descended even as Fihriyi reached to eat. As she ate she remembered a strange tale her father had told her long ago. It was a tale, from what she understood, of two tragic lovers. She smiled at the memory, and even as she did her chest very swiftly swelled with emotion and tears flooded from her eyes. [i]Oh father.[/i]

[indent][i]The great Earthen-Beast is said to have told of a little wood man with eyes that hold all the ebonies and jets and obsidians cold. His voice a cacophony, his tone uniform, he could not love and he could not scorn. No fury shook him, no bliss took him, he saw with an Eye that could not cry, he looked with his mind for his heart was blind. But if he could fear then he did fear the blaming eyes and the chiding tear. If he could fear then his breast did shake at the thought that he could make a mistake. 
He fell in love, but he could not say. His tongue was hard, his heart astray. He shunned her heart and he shunned her eyes and he fled away into the skies, and he left her weak and ignored her cries and ran away from all his lies.
She travelled long in search of him till her eyes grew dark and her face grew dim. The deserts plundered and the tundras thundered and where-e'er she went was cursed and sundered. In time she came to a house divine where the weak could strengthen and starved could dine. She settled there and she grew strong and she called to right and forbade wrong. And on a day of sweet delight there came to her a great respite. The very image of her love carved, but weak and ill and all but starved. But lo and behold! she knew him not and all he knew he had forgot! So wait the rise of the wooden man, and till he come the deserts scan: you'll know him by his Eye's command, you'll know him by his bloodied hand![/i][/indent]

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His sleety eyes stared severely from the stern darkness of his doorway. A hard hand - the only part of him exposed to the frigid morning's light - was extended to the next person, who stepped forward and bent low to kiss its back.
'My Patriarch,' he managed in a respectful tone before shuffling along and allowing the next person to pledge allegiance. Fikra's almost-yellow eyes inspected and spurned each of them as they came and humbled themselves before him. Those who were foolish enough to meet his dreadful gaze felt as though their heads had been whipped down and very quickly found themselves bending low and staring diffidently at the ground even as they quickly kissed his hand with trembling lips and swiftly shambled away. The more zealous ones attempted to bless themselves by holding on to his hand longer, and a few tried to grab at a loose bit of cloth from his dress to keep for protection.

Most had come for Peral's funeral and chosen to remain in Qari'Ab until Fikra's waiting period had expired in order to pledge allegiance to him. Entire families and clans had come, and in some cases entire villages and town, and they brought with them various gifts for the Bato-Elyd Patriarch. The affair took over a week as every single follower of the Bato-Elyds - regardless of age or sex - made their personal pledge and covenant with their Patriarch. The Orifids had stationed an extraordinary number of soldiers in the holy town and elsewhere in the area to ensure that things went smoothly and nothing unwanted occurred. 

Throughout the weeks-long rite the people of Qari'Ab - whether adherents of the Bato-Elyd faith or otherwise - housed the guests and prepared food for them. It was the duty of the host to provide in every way for the guest, and the people of the holy town prided themselves on being the most generous and beneficent of hosts. After all, they were the people of the Prophet-Patriarch's town, they were to be an example to all the people and creatures of the world. They were the shining example of the perfection and truth of the Blessed of the Moon-Mother.

On the final day, all the chiefs and scholars and elders who were of the Bato-Elyd creed came forth. Various minor chiefs came forth, and Fikra inspected these carefully and - unlike with others - stopped them and spoke with each as they pledged allegiance. There was much that could be deduced about a person by looking into their eyes and observing their voice and tone. There was much that could be gleaned from the way they took your hand, the texture of their skin, their choice of dress and the way they carried themselves. 

The first to step forth on that final day was a man dressed in brown. His eyes were hard, his features harsh, his beard long and tangled. On his head was the distinctive [url=http://www.babaimage.com/images/badam-doppa-01-green-ghezine-uyghur-online-store.jpg]Dappa[/url] which identified him as being from the south. He took Fikra's hand strongly and kissed it swiftly.
'Foz-Kiyan of the Alk-Kuy tribe pledges allegiance to the Patriarch. The Alk-Kuy are your loyal slaves, Patriarch, and all the people of Kuysa,' he said in a gruff, strong voice.
'You are our pillars. We trust you to hold strong.'
'Pray for us, blessed Patriarch, for the heathen savages who dwell beyond the bounds of the Realm have grown braver in recent years and, though we are more than capable of beating them back, we require the Moon-Mother's aid against them.'
'May She aid you and bless you and strengthen you and deliver Her victory to you,' Foz-Kiyan bowed deeply in thanks before turning away and moving on.
Next came an old woman wearing a long, thick, white robe. On her head was a [url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/56/e7/9e/56e79ef27b36a981b139d9ee978be622.jpg]Tinar[/url] which gave away her western origins. Her movements were slow and the wrinkles around her eyes were so great as to give her eyes the impression of permanently being closed. She was accompanied by a younger man - most likely her son and heir - who was likewise dressed in white. On his head was a [url=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/d/da/Azerbaijani_old_man_in_Papakh.jpg/260px-Azerbaijani_old_man_in_Papakh.jpg]Papka[/url]. His face was clean, his beard well-groomed and impeccable.
The woman took Fikra's hand with her own trembling one - though it trembled not from fear, but from age and weakness. Slowly, she began to bend but found that the Patriarch's hand suddenly rose - gently - to her ancient lips. She kissed the back of his hand.
'Nasawa,' she managed, 'of the Haranma'on tribe. We pledge allegiance. Unfaltering. Abiding. Eternal.'
'You are from Sanman, then,' Fikra noted.
'We are, my Patriarch,' the man responded. He then took Fikra's hand and likewise kissed it and pledged allegiance, 'Ruyab of the Haranma'on. I am my aunt's keeper and heir.' Fikra nodded as he remembered.
'Yes, I remember now. Chieftess Nasawa, the [i]Jewel of Sanman[/i],' the old woman managed a croaking laugh at this.
'Only a crumbling piece of earth, Patriarch - no more a jewel than a hardened piece of mud that melts away at the first strike of rain.'
'Not the shell, grandmother. The [i]Jewel[/i] lies within,' with that, aunt and nephew bowed before shuffling along. Fikra watched them go. The Jewel of Sanman had once been amongst the most famed of the Realm's beauties. How many infatuated, maddened lovers had sung and adored her beauty? How many had found in her heart no place? Who could compete with her Firnas? Who could ever dislodge that dead lover from his beloved's heart? His thoughts turned suddenly to Fihriyi. No sadness showed in his hard eyes, but he could not help but wonder if...
'Caron, Patriarch. Chief of Mak, from Zanka. I pledge myself and people to you,' Fikra tore himself from his reverie and inspected the newcomer. He was dressed lavishly in a robe of differing colours with various precious stones sewn into it. On his head was the eastern [url=http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3087/3109863437_eca900d73a.jpg]Kasaw[/url]. His beard was long and dark, and his eyes were beady. His nose was hooked and there seemed to be an almost-permanent hooked smirk on his face. Fikra's gaze froze over and face crystallised: here was a hypocrite.
'We rely on your loyalty. We shall test you, and are certain that you shall pass our tests,' Fikra's voice and words were as arrows plunging deep into Caron's heart. His hooked smirk almost faltered.
'O-of course, Patriarch. You will find us ever-loyal,' and before he could say more, Fikra dismissed him with a look.  

Many other came forth and departed - the alluring Chieftess Mirga of the Zamancheeq tribe, the stony Chief Jaru of the Khalisati tribe, the spirited Chief Muhaya of the Ahja clan and the intelligent and quiet Chieftess Haleeqa from the Nayab clan. Scholars came forth, [i]Qaraqeez[/i]* also, and Fikra eventually found himself face to face with famed [i]Qarqaz[/i] Laminat son of Ramak, who had written the huge history known as [i]The Meridian of Chronicles[/i], and for which people dubbed him "The Esteemed Voice of the Goddess".
'This lowly slave pledges allegiance to the son and rightful heir of the children of the greatest in creation, the word of the Moon-Mother in the mortal world,' and he bent low and kissed Fikra's hand. After a few moments Fikra caught him by the shoulder and pulled him up so that their eyes were a mere palm-width apart.
'When will [i]this lowly slave[/i] replace his lies with truth?' the [i]Qarqaz[/i] seemed visibly shocked at the hostility in the Patriarch's voice and the fearsome coldness in his eyes. With that, Fikra pushed him away and turned to the next person. And the day dragged on.

The last of the non-Eskandars to come forth were those who dwelled in Qari'Ab. Chief Arkoz of the Sariq clan came and pledged allegiance. Fikra accepted frostily. Then Chief Sarat of the Sula clan came forth. Fikra trusted him even less than Arkoz, but he accepted without complaint. And last of all came the huge Chief Fentig of the Agira clan who made a huge show of humility. Fikra did not doubt that he was more sincere than the others - but it was not so much sincerity that Fentig lacked. The man sincerely believed that all that was good for the Agira clan could only be good for the Patriarch also, and that no matter what he did was no doubt good. No, it was not sincerity that he lacked, but vision and understanding.

At last, there came the noble children of the chiefs of Eskandar's progeny. From Qari'Ab came the Amarid clan chief, Molfri. He was dressed in the traditional kop, and on his head was the kapakel which identified him as a chief and elder of the Qari'Ab. He stepped forth, a feverish fire burning in his eyes, and he took Fikra's hand in two of his and bent low to kiss it before placing his forehead upon it in respect. In that position, he spoke.
'Son of the noblest daughter, of the noblest father, of the noblest grandfather. These are not our hearts that beat, and these are not our chests wherein they beat, and these are not our hands that grip yours. We are but an extension of what you are. Move your hand in the west, and ours move in the east. Command in the north and we obey in the south. Our arms are but extensions of yours, our tongues speak only as you bid them to. We are yours, all yours.' Fikra lifted him slowly and looked into the man's bright green eyes. He placed a hand on Molfri's golden beard and brought him close, placing his lips upon the chief's forehead before pushing him away gently.
'We know, Molfri. We know.' For the slightest second there seemed to be tears in Molfri's eyes, but he quickly composed himself and bowed deeply before turning away.

The Meliwid chief Qaran stepped forward. He was a huge man, bigger even than Fentig. His hair was stunning orange, and his eyes a piercing blue, and his beard was huge and his face ruddy. On his head was the traditional Qari'Makian [url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/ec/eb/61/eceb61f3d7d488043e958c1e567a103a.jpg]Qasta[/url]. It had been the traditional headwear of men there since long before their submission to the Prophet-Patriarch. He wore a long-sleeved green tunic which reached his knees and was tied at the waist with a leather belt. Above it was a [url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/86/69/64/866964cadfcaf99dde80a823ac1a013f.jpg]loose cloak[/url]. His legs were bare and he was wearing sandals - though that was due to the warmer climes down here in the south, for in the north the cold did not allow for sandals. It was something of a Qari'Makian tradition to dress as such when they came to Qari'Ab, though how the tradition had come about was anybody's guess.

The huge man looked down at Fikra before smiling broadly and taking the Patriarch's hand in his own enormous one. He got on one knee and kissed it before looking up and meeting Fikra's iron gaze.
'The weight of heaven, Master, is on your shoulders. Command and it is lifted. Mountains obscure your path. Speak and they are flattened. Caverns and trenches and canyons all around: my back shall be your bridge. I am your beast to command, release me against your foes and I will return to your with their blood and fingers and ears, and I will bring the eyes that thought to look above their station.' The dread beast of ice stared into the eyes of the dread beast of flame. Flame smiled, ice glowered. Fikra stepped forward and hugged the enormous head to him.
'It is good to know that the blood of the Prophet-Patriarch boils yet with battle fury. The enemies of the Patriarch are many and mighty: be mightier.' Qaran rose and spread his arms wide, then released a great roar.
'By the goddess! You shall find none mightier!' and he moved on. 

The Garid chieftess Ruya came before him next. Her eyes were a light honey, the closest thing that Fikra had ever seen to the colour of his own. Her skin tone was light, and her nose long and thin, but widened at the tip, which gave way to a thin upper lip and a thicker lower lip. On her head she wore the women's variation of the [url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/cf/67/61/cf676135162280b2813cfd5645013ffc.jpg]Qasta[/url] which prevented Fikra from seeing much of her hair. What he did see of it appeared to be light brown. Her chin was well-rounded and her jawline well-formed and...delicate. She was quite a small woman, barely reaching Fikra's chin, and the rest of her small body was clothed in a long red tunic-dress not dissimilar to that of Qaran - only that it was long enough to reach her heels. Fikra guessed that she was anything from nineteen to twenty-four. To his eyes, she was exceedingly beautiful. And what was more, her eyes betrayed a striking intelligence. It was only to be expected from a Garid. She took his hand gently and bowed down to kiss its back. The thousands of layers of glaciers around the Patriarch's heart very nearly melted at her touch - but how could anyone ever hope to melt the very being who defined coldness, and against whom all other coldnesses were held up in comparison.
'My Patriarch,' she said - and to normal men her voice would have been bewitching, the movement of her lips tantalising - 'the Garids are your loyal slaves: our hearts, our bodies, and our minds are yours to command. You will find us the stalwart, unmoving rock upon which you can lean when all others give way at last and fall. The world and all that is in it may abandon you, but we will be here still: you are the pivot of our universe, [i]you are the one solid the spaces lean upon[/i].' Fikra was quiet for a few moments.
'And we lean on you,' he said quietly. She looked up, almost surprised, and a small smile grew on her lips. Fikra did not smile. She bowed deeply and turned to leave, but she stopped when he spoke again, 'you will find us heavy.'
'You will find us steady,' she responded without turning, and moved on.

The Damid chief Bikama, who had come all the way from Qari'Derk, stepped forward next. A clear warrior, his face - under a well-trimmed, jet black beard - sported many scars. His nose had been cut deep into at one point, and the end of his left eyebrow had been shaved clean off along with a considerable bit of meat. His eyes were a forbidding grey and his body seemed to seeth with barely restrained power. His hair was black and slightly curled in places, and was long enough to reach the knape of his neck but no farther. Atop it, slightly towards the front of his head, sat a red skullcap. His powerful form was covered by a long black cloak, underneath which was a white robe tied at the waist with a belt. Taking Fikra's hand with a rough, scarred hand, he gave his pledge of allegiance.
'The Damids are your loyal soldiers, Patriarch,' he said simply before kissing the Patriarch's hand. He rose and grey eyes met yellow.
'And what of your service with Orifids, [i]Isken[/i]?' Fikra asked. Bikama's eyes did not waver at being referred to by his military title. It was not like he was attempting to hide the fact that he was amongst the most senior military men in the Realm, and it was not like he ever hid his Bato-Elyd creed.
'The protection of the people is our Patriarch's foremost priority, and we carry out his wishes even before he commands.' Fikra nodded slowly.
'May the Moon-Mother bless you and keep you, and may She strengthen your body and soul.' Their eyes hung to one another for a while longer before Bikama bowed slowly and departed.

Siknara, chieftess of the Radids in Eni-Elia, stepped forward next. There was a wide smile on her face and her eyes were clearly impassioned - she gave Fikra quite the intense stare. She was no doubt beautiful, but there was a madness to her beauty and a crazed eagerness in her steps. She descended to her knees before Fikra and took his hand in both of her's, hugging it to her cheek. Her wild, ruffled brown hair seemed to consume his hand before she looked up and wild brown eyes met unperturbed yellow. The Radids were well known for their...[i]intense[/i] reaction to their Patriarch. Siknara appeared no different from her numerous forebears. She did not speak, but she hung onto his hand and refused to release him. And when he attempted to raise his hand, she rose with it and wrapped her arms around him and placed her ear against his chest. His heartbeat was very suddenly deafening.
'Ah! A heart beats here. It is not ice.' She suddenly said.
'The heart is flesh, its spirit of something far colder.'
'Its spirit is of no matter: a heart of flesh is a heart still. It can yet love.'
'That it can.'
'But not me.' He was silent at her words.
'I love all who follow me loyally. And you are loyal.'
'Yes yes. But not me. Never me. I shall man the pass.' She suddenly let go of him and turned away. He watched her leave.

The final person to step forth was the Alawid chieftess Udhradea of Qari'Ala. She was a tall woman, perhaps forty years of age, with harsh features and a slightly hooked nose. She was slightly thin, but there was a power to her stride and pride ebbed from her, and dignity. There were silver streaks running through her dirty blonde hair, and the area around her brown eyes was showing signs of wrinkles. She was dressed in the normal attire of the elders and chiefs of Qari'Ab and the nearby area. She bowed low and took Fikra's hand before planting a kiss on its back.
'The Alawids are your most loyal servants, Patriarch. We have been steadfast, and we remain so. We have been your spears, and we remain so. We have bled for you, and shall bleed at your command. We have marched for you, and shall march wheresoever you point your hand. Our loyalty: immeasureable. Our obedience: unquestionable. Our love: undeniable.'
'We shall not measure, we shall not question, we shall not deny.' Fikra stated and gestured for her to rise, 'you are close at hand and are trusted by us. Be prepared always, for your Patriarch needs you.' She bowed deeply at his words.
'Fear not, blessed Patriarch. Disappointment shall not enter your heart by our hands.' And with that, she turned and departed. Fikra remained where he was for a while longer, watching as the sun slowly set on the far horizon. As its dying light disappeared over the edge of the world, he melted back into the darkness of his home.

*[sub]plural of the singular [i]Qarqaz[/i][/sub]