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[h2]The Rise of the Tamrat Empire[/h2][/centre]
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[sub]Hreelcii Isles, the Riverlands of Irtressi, on a hill overlooking the rice fields of Tamrat.[/sub]

Nothing could quite beat the morning sunrise in the riverlands - the gentle buzz of insects echoing off of wetland trees; the sweet song of waking birds harmonising with the river’s rush; the gentle kiss of sunbeams on the early river fog; nowhere on [abbr=”Hreelcii Isles”]Leligi[/abbr] could one find equal unity of natural phenomena into such a blessed whole. Tarik [i]gosa[/i] Lencho [i]aba[/i] Ifa [i]aba[/i] Moti absorbed it all with every sense, feeding his nose and tongue with the warm, bitter sensation of freshly brewed coffee with grated sugarcane. In the paddies in the lowlands under the hill, the [abbr=Literally “rice men”][i]yeruzi[/i][/abbr] were warming up their throats for the long song. Moti regarded the sky - the inken heavens were dancing eagerly today; it was a sign that the crops would grow properly today. There it started, the low, soft rumble of a hundred voices all across the rice fields, a reverence of the spirits in the mud and water, of the fish and birds in the paddies. Moti would wake up early every morning to witness this event: the world song rang out from the singers’ throats and the water and its inhabitants responded - fish picked lice off of rice stalks; the mud itself spat out weeds and had the water wash them ashore. They would be gathered and cooked along with fish and bananas and be served to the poorest in the city at the soup kitchen every morning. Meanwhile, the rice would be left to grow uninterrupted, allowing for a whole three harvests per year. The farmer’s song was an ancient technique among the Tamrat and its use had allowed their people to prosper for generations. Moti shuffled on his pillow so that he could look further up the hill behind him - there, his eyes followed the cobbled path up to the coffee, vegetable and cereal farms on the plateau, flanking all sides of [url=https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/681136983028138042/783765639100760124/d2b983efffe7ec7fb2ee3e4346ebcdd6.png]Great Tamrat[/url]. He had another slurp of his coffee and waved his hand slowly through the air. A tapestry at his side weaved itself a little longer, threads interconnecting beautifully into images and letters.

“Nephew, your father summons you,” came a sudden call, and Moti nearly caught his coffee in his throat as he had heard neither steps nor breathing. He coughed madly and turned to regard his aunt Gadise, signalling with his hands that he would be right over once he’d gotten control of his cough. Aunt Gadise flashed him a smirk and then blinked down at the cooing babe wrapped around her chest. She gave her scaled cheek a soft caress and played with its fin-like ears, inciting gleeful giggles from her before moving on, picking up a basket full of clothes and moving down towards the rivers. Moti finally wrested command of his throat, chugged down the rest of his luke-warm coffee, took the tapestry and jogged off from his spot under the willow tree. His father’s estate was nothing short of magnificent, as one would expect of the head of the Tarik Clan: It was almost its own village, consisting of six lavish huts for all his brothers’ families and four lesser huts for servants and soldiers.

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The whole village was built around a central plaza on which had been built the family [i]jengo[/i], the great obelisk tomb of the Tarik Clan wherein the remains of all ancestors had been stored for at least six generations.

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Before the obelisk was an altar overflowing with gifts of gold, silver, figurines of people and animals, fabrics, pearls, fruits, spices, weapons and armour, all fogged over with a thick blanket of incense from smoking braziers. Moti stopped before the altar, put his palms together, bowed once, knelt down, let his forehead kiss the ground, stood up and bowed again, and then continued to a grove of trees some ten metres away from the obelisk. Under the grove of three trees sat four men atop colourful pillows, small tables in front of them with steaming food and cups of fresh coffee. The men were serviced by both slaves and family, and all of them expressed a most daunting authority that could only be matched by that of each other. Upon seeing Moti, the man in the middle nodded for him to approach the centre of the circle. “Ah, Moti, my son… Come here.”

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Tarik [i]gosa[/i] Sisay [i]aba[/i] Lencho [i]aba[/i] Ifa was stern by nature as though he had been a father from birth. He wore simple clothing today, a jaguar skin over his left shoulder and a green, red and yellow linen kilt was all he needed on a summer day such as this one; around his neck, he had several charms with bones and figurines to the many gods, the largest of which was a small human face with reptilian features and half-nelven ears. He gave his scaly neck a passive itch, blinked a pair of reptilian eyes at his son and asked, “How are you doing today, my boy?”

Moti waited patiently for one of the servants to roll out a beautifully patterned carpet for him, at which point he knelt down on it, brought his forehead to the ground, sat back up and answered, “Good father, I am very well today, thank you for asking.”

Ifa nodded approvingly. “Good. What have you been doing this morning?” The other men in the circle regarded Moti as well, sipping their coffee and picking on occasion pieces of food with their fingers to eat. 

“I was watching the [i]yeruzi[/i] in the paddies, good father - listening to their song, admiring their bond with the water and mud.” One of the servants came over to him with a small table that resembled more of an upside-down box with a tri-coloured, zig-zag-patterned tablecloth, topped it with a cup and poured it half-full of coffee. After the servant had poured, Moti picked up the cup with his right hand, sipped it once and put it back down. “I have been noting down their behaviour and rituals for my book, in fact.”

“Ah, yes, your book - do tell how that is going, my boy,” Ifa continued politely and beckoned over one of his daughters, whispered something to her and then refocused his attention on Moti. Moti smiled.

“Of course, good father. I have already catalogued the planting process from earlier in the spring - [abbr=The spring monsoon, literally “Klaarungraxus’ rain”][i]Zinabi Garungasa[/i][/abbr] came so soon, after all, so the [i]yeruzi[/i] could start earlier as well. In fact…” He took the tapestry he had brought along out from under his arm and rolled it out. The yellow background hosted pictures of meadows in shades of blue and green, populated thickly with dancing spirits atop water commanded by sitting sages. The tapestry was as long as two men were tall, and detailed descriptions next to the pictures explained thoroughly the processes of worldsong rice farming from planting to weeding to fertilising to irrigating, as well as treatment of the fish, birds and insects in the paddies. The people in the circle leaned in to get a closer look, nodding their amazement at the work. Ifa clapped approvingly, but without the vigour of his diction. 

“That is splendid work, my boy. Your [abbr=”Spellweaving”, primary method of Tamrat writing.][i]asimena[/i][/abbr] has improved considerably since last year. How much more do you have left?”

Moti rolled the tapestry back up. “Just the harvest and fallowing of the paddies, unless I am mistaken. I also hope to include some stories from the [i]yeruzi[/i] as well - something about their experiences and connections to the spirits.” He quieted down once he saw Ifa wag a finger warningly.

“Now, now, your eagerness is most admirable, my boy, but you know the law - only the [abbr=Royal family, literally “of the pride”][i]ye Bontu[/i][/abbr] may speak with the [i]yeruzi[/i], and unless you choose to accept the [abbr=King, literally “proudest][i]Bontenya’s[/i][/abbr] daughter’s hand in marriage, you will never be able to speak to them.”

Moti blinked. “Has, has the [i]Bontenya[/i] offered--”

“A joke, my boy,” snickered the father. The other men and some of the family members serving them joined in the laughter. Moti chuckled along politely, though his face couldn’t hide a shade of disappointment.

“O-of course, good father.”

Ifa’s smile faded and he lifted his cup, took a sip, put it back down and kept his eyes on his son as a daughter came to fill it up. “As much as I would like to talk pleasantries for the rest of the day, my boy, there is a reason I have called you here. I take it you are keen to know.”

Moti nodded. “Yes, good father. What do you wish of me?”

“It is not just of you, my boy - it is for all your brothers and cousins. However, as my eldest son and heir, you speak for them all, and thus you should know first so you may pass the message on.”

Moti frowned with concern and nodded slowly. “Of, of course, great father.”

“Do not flinch now, my boy. Remain stoic and stalwart if you are to inherit my seat.”

Moti flexed his muscles and sat up straighter, his face like stone. “Yes, great father.” Ifa nodded approvingly.

“Well, then, let us begin. A messenger came from the [i]Bontenya’s[/i] palace today: Ekitili is dead.”

Moti recoiled in shock. “The warlord?”

“That’s right. The royal [abbr=Augurs.][i]meklits[/i][/abbr] all had a simultaneous vision sent by the Many Eyes in the Sky. His rule is no more, which means that the [i]Bontenya[/i] believes the time has come.”

Moti blinked. “The… Time?”

“Indeed,” nodded Ifa. “I’m afraid your book will need to wait, my boy. The [i]Bontenya[/i] has summoned every clan to Great Tamrat for a war council. He believes this is the opportunity the Wise Kings of the Past have been waiting for - the chance to lay all of Irtressi under Tamrat.” He paused brieflyto  take a small pancake from a clay plate, pack it with some meat and vegetables from another plate and put it in his mouth. After swallowing, he continued, “What I need you to do is to gather your brothers and cousins, share with them these news and then send them to your uncle Desta. He has already journeyed off to establish a foothold and altar on the [abbr=One of the great rivers of Irtressi.][i]Lulit[/i][/abbr]. Tell them to bring plenty of meat and chum for the crocodiles and jaguars. The last thing we want is tumultuous waters in war.”

Moti made a quick mental note. “Yes, great father. Is there anything else you wish of me?”

“There is, actually. While you and your uncle establish the warfront, you will be the only [abbr=Sorcerer.][i]tenikwayi[/i][/abbr] there. The rest of us are needed in Great Tamrat for [abbr=King’s ancestor’s birthday.][i]Keni Yenigusi aba Bontenya[/i][/abbr].”

Moti swallowed. “Shouldn’t, shouldn’t I be there as well?” But Ifa waved dismissively.

“The [i]Yenigusi aba Bontenya[/i] will understand. We cannot very well allow our warfront to be without the assistance of magic. However, just in case you are attacked before we can get there…” He nodded at one of the slaves, who brought over a gilded lidded basket to Moti. She placed it down on the ground before him, lowered herself to the ground along with it and slowly lifted the lid without looking into the basket. Moti gasped.

“G-great father, are you sure I can--”

“You will not use it frivolously, is that clear? It is a gift from the Bontenya himself and will be treated as such. If anyone in that camp sees it except for you and your uncle, be it stranger or brother, you are to execute them on the spot, do you understand me?”

Moti swallowed again and had the slave lower the lid onto the basket again. “Yes, great father. I… Understand.”

“That’s my boy. Now run along and tell your brothers and cousins to prepare. Me and your uncles here must ready ourselves to go to Great Tamrat.” With that, he and the three other men stood up. Instantly, the servants and family members hastened to clean up, dress them more properly and offer them basins of water in which to wash their faces and hands. Moti did the same and three servants came over to him respectively carrying a water basin, a clean cape and his [abbr=An upside-down cone-like hat.][i]barineta[/i][/abbr], dressing him as he washed himself. Once finished, he was handed his trusty bronze dagger, sheathed in a jade-speckled length of leather, and turned to his father once more.

“Alright, great father. I am off, then. May you and my uncles be at the best of health until we see each other again.”

“And to you, my boy,” said the patriarch and tugged his clothes into place. “Be safe out there, and do not let anyone see inside that basket.” With that, he walked off with his three brothers and almost all the servants and family in the village. The slaves carried chests and baskets full of gifts of grain, meat and metals, and Moti was left pretty much alone. Not quite alone, though - he heard voices coming from outside the estate walls. He tugged at his own cape and moved himself to the exit. As the eldest and heir of the clan, only he was permitted to speak to the patriarch in his fellow sonfolk’s stead. He never warmed up to that sort of pressure - on the occasions where he had misspoken or gotten some message wrong, his brothers had been the ones to be punished for it. Yes, in the eyes of the law, he could do nothing wrong, but all eyes were upon him, watching his every move and mistake. He halted by the corner of the exit, preparing himself quietly. He cleaned out his nose, tugged his clothes into place one more time and adjusted his hat as perfectly as he could. Then he rounded the corner and lifted his right hand in greeting.

“Brothers and cousins - the Hundred Rivers collect and bring us together on this occasion. I bring news from Our Father, brought onto him from the [i]Bontenya[/i], brought onto him from the Many Eyes in the Sky.” Around him gathered both eagerly and lazily a crowd of boys and men between the ages fourteen and twenty-five. Twenty-five in total, they were the sum of Ifa and his brothers’ kin, as well as spawn of other clans that had been adopted into the Tarik clan - a man as affluent as Ifa would have been considered greedy and selfish had he not taken in children of other clans; he himself had sent many a brother and sister of Moti to the other families of Tamrat. 

A man five years Moti’s senior bent the knee. It was his cousin, Tarik [i]gosa[/i] Lencho [i]aba[/i] Lishan [i]aba[/i] Workneh, a man destined to serve as Moti’s right hand in time. The bond between them flickered only with the smoulder of politeness that was considered the bare necessity between a patriarch and his close kin. Neither had made much effort to change this, despite their relationship going back over a decade. Still, neither could afford to lose face for selfish reasons such as rivalry, so Workneh knelt all the same and said, “The Thirteen Lakes flow into one as we gather to greet our master, Ifa [i]aba[/i] Moti. The ancestors listen in anticipation - what word brings the son of the master of masters?” With Workneh’s pledge of servitude, the others followed, the internal hierarchies falling in place as the closest kin spoke for the furthest, the elders spoke for the younglings, and the fullbloods spoke for bastards and adoptees. Moti regarded them briefly and pondered who among them knelt for him and who knelt for his rank. He dismissed the thought and spoke,

“The Singing Warrior odes a call to battle, my kin. The tyrant Ekitili is dead, meaning the [i]Itumasa[/i] are in disarray. It is known to all of us that Ekitili never spawned an heir - his eggs never saw the light of day on account of his weakness and impotence as a man. His decades of devastation wrought upon our kin and the kin of our kin shall be repaid in blood and bone. The Wise Kings of the Past decree it must be so - the [i]Bontenya[/i] will unite all of Irtressi under Tamrat.” He scanned the faces of his audience. “We have been ordered by Our Father to bring arms and don armour and sail our canoes to the mouth of [i]Lulit[/i], where we are to meet with Lencho [i]aba[/i] Desta. There, we will establish a warfront and wait for Our Father there. Any questions?”

One of the youngest, a lad by the name of Tarik [i]gudi[/i] Gudina [i]aba[/i] Dejen [i]aba[/i] Dejen, whispered something to another boy next to him; that boy then shuffled over to Workneh and whispered something similar to him, and then Workneh spoke, “The youngest ask why we are going ahead - why does not Our Father travel with us?”

“Our Father must travel to Great Tamrat for [i]Keni Yenigusi aba Bontenya[/i] - doing one’s duty to the ancestors comes first always, even before battle and glory in war. For what do we fight for if not to honour the wishes of those that came before us?”

Nods of agreement rippled throughout the elders in the crowd; the youngers seemed more aversive. Moti paid them no mind and continued, “The order has been given. Go to your huts and don your armour and grab your weapons. We leave at sundown.” 

“Understood!” With that, they all returned home to prepare. Moti had his servants remove his long, white cape and armour him with a finely woven grassteel harness around the lower chest and belly, with another circular collar to protect his shoulders and upper chest. They gave him dexterous linen pants and packed them tightly into a pair of shin protectors, also grassteel-made, to serve as protection against waterborne parasites and leeches. On his feet, he put on agile sandals with frilly bottoms, made for allowing good grip on slippery surfaces while simultaneously exposing the feet to the open air to ward off fungal diseases that would thrive in closed off boots. Finally, they gave him a red cape - a symbol of the warpath - and a red [i]barineta[/i] - denoting the rank of leader.

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Once fully clad, he brought along his dagger, a water flask and a longer, flat-headed machete and headed outside. His followers had likewise prepared, all of them wearing grassteel imported from the reef lands by the Delta, armed with spears, blades and axes of bronze and bows with grassteel arrows. Behind Moti, servants carrying carcasses of slaughtered animals and pots of fresh blood followed in a line. Moti offered Workneh, his second in command as evidenced by his white [i]barineta[/i], a confident nod and led the way to the [i]jengo[/i] to offer their prayers to the clan ancestors before departure. Moti offered the altar before the towering tomb one of the pots of blood and a shank of pork and spoke,

“Blessed [i]aba[/i] Tarik - today, we will begin the work for your dream of old: The Itli will no longer enslave and pillage your sons and daughters. Today, the legacy of Ekitili will end. Please bless us with your guidance and wisdom so this may come to pass.” Then, as one, the men put their palms together, bowed once, knelt down, let their foreheads kiss the ground, stood up and bowed again, and then journeyed down to the canoes. There were four canoes in all, each capable of seating nine men. The twenty five warriors spread throughout all of them, the rest of the spots being filled with servants carrying equipment and goods or rowing. After leaving the first offering of blood and meat on the altar to the local crocodiles, they sailed off down the river. Moti had brought along his father’s gift, the basket with the secret content. He used is as a stool at the far back of the canoe from where he steered and kept watch. Reaching the [i]Lulit[/i] would take the whole evening - he would have much time to plan.

[hider=Summary!]
Welcome to the ricefields, motherfucker! So we open upon with Moti in Tamrat, Irtressi, Hreelcii Isles, writing down his observations of the yeruzi, magical rice farmers, when his aunt tells him his father, patriarch Ifa of the Tarik clan, summons him. Moti runs over, stopping by the family shrine to pray, and learns from daddy that Ekitili, an Itztli warlord is dead and that they now gonna take over Irtressi. Moti says aight and daddy tasks him with telling his brothers and cousins to go prepare. He also gives him a super secret superweapon to be used only in the most dire circumstances. He then bails because he and the other elders gotta go to the capital to pray to the big ancestors of the king. Moti then goes and tells his brothers and cousins to prep and they do and then sail off to establish a foothold at the frontlines. 
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[hider=MP Sumsum!]
Gibbie’s MP, but spend as some other entity - probs the lifeblood: 5MP/5DP

The Yeruzi: A holy order of rice farmers that use their secret understanding of the Worldsong to talk the mud, fish, birds, seeds and water in rice paddies into cooperation, growing rice with much less effort than through manual labour.
[list][*]2MP - Mudmancers: Members of this order master talking to spirits in water and mud to the point where they can convince them to move by themselves and thus farm without physically interacting with the soil.[/list]

End: 3MP/5DP

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