[hr][color=778899]The Emerald Isles, [i]Peha[/i][/color][hr]The creation of a new star in the night sky is an event much talked about by the amateur astrologists and recreational sailors of the world. To the average [i]Umana[/i], nothing had changed from the unusual, the merrymaking started by the annual [i]tohunga[/i] of the chiefs well underway. If it were not for the space-worthy prowlers searching through the local solar system, perhaps nothing would be found amiss. Hardly worth of discussion.

Not here. Not in the great hall of the [i]Kiri[/i], of Ngarewarewa’s blood, of Ngareia the Woman-King. Fierce debates, often rising to shouting matches and physical altercations, filled the air and rebounded to make a cacophony of disunited noise. The only silence came from Emerald warriors along the walls, making sure that not [i]too[/i] much blood would be spilled. And of course, from the increasingly impatient, strikingly beautiful young woman which oversaw this angry rabble which made up her “court.” Fist against cheek, elbow against fine wooden throne as a bored look was set on her face. She glanced to her left where a muscle-bound figure in traditional naval dress stood.

[color=darkseagreen]”How long have they been going at it?”[/color]

A deep vibrating chuckle, one which brought comfort to her young soul.

“I believe it has been over a quarter of a moon into the [i]tohunga[/i], my [i]Kiri[/i]. The chambers have not been silent once in that time. Some have taken to sleeping here so that they can continue their debate as soon as they wake.” The [i]Kenera[/i] gestured to the sleeping figures strewn among the many chieftains, slumbering undisturbed despite the fever pitched debate raging around them.

[color=darkseagreen]”Leave it to my people to partake in endurance debates.”[/color] Ngareia snorted as a pair of rowdy chiefs had started to hold each other by their ears, preparing to headbutt each other with wild eyes.

There was precedence for this sort of action from past [i]tohunga[/i]. It was said that her father Natawhau held a conference so long during the debates over the [i]Mandatu[/i] that some chiefs would return to find their once-pregnant wives holding a newborn. If he was to be believed, one woman chief even gave birth amidst debate! She was cleaned up, checked by healers, and continued right on with shouting after a short two hours, holding her newborn in her arms. A powerful woman she was, a shame she and her child were slain for dissidence only two years later. 

Alas, that was enough reminiscing. There were actions to be taken and they needed to be quicker than whatever this was. Lines were forming across the room, many [i]tira[/i] speaking out on who should carry the weight of responsibility for an envoy to the stars. What a trivial question, with only one clear answer.

The Woman-King sat straight and slammed her fist against the armrests, toughened wood shattering on impact to the future dismay of a distant carver.

Her warriors in turn, knocked their jade-tipped staves into the hardwood floor, a staccato rhythm which drowned out the withering debate. She waited, for silence to reign and for the sleeping to awaken, before standing. All in the room bent to one knee for Ngarewarewa’s blood was to address them. All could feel the will, the power, the intrinsic [i]mana[/i] with which she spoke softly.

[color=darkseagreen]”Peace, my [i]tira[/i], my chiefs.”[/color] And that was that. No more debate could be had, not in these halls, not under the eyes of the [i]Kiri[/i]. With increasing volume, Ngareia let her voice be carried into the masses, holding a tone similar to that of a mother scolding her children.

[color=darkseagreen]”Peace, [i]peha[/i], is bestowed upon us by the will of the gods and our predecessors. Through many moons of war, of blood spilt, of [i]waka[/i] used to slaughter and pillage, we have come through and found peace once again. Despite our many sins, our many different familial lines, our bloods have intertwined with each other in the mud, the trees, the waters.”[/color]

The Woman-King paused, thinking back to easier times, her father cradling her in bed as he weaved tales and song. It was from visiting the past that they could gain strength and, perhaps, gain unity. [color=darkseagreen]”All our peoples remember the bloodied shores. [i]Umana[/i] slaughtering [i]umana[/i]. [i]Hatan[/i] murdering [i]hatan[/i]. Them versus the other. We remember babes taken from weeping mothers. We remember the violations wrought upon the women of the lands. We remember the burning soil, the howling trees, the destruction we caused the land. Of [i]Ope o Peha[/i] dying, of fleeing, of [i]hunting[/i].”[/color]

The few [i]Hatan[/i] present shifted nervously, rippling fur indicating intense discomfort at the insult. The rest hummed in agreement; heads bowed in respect to the history of her words. Of their memories.

[color=darkseagreen]”But my forebearer, Ngarewarewa the strong, the wilful, the original [i]tira[/i] of the lands we banquet in today, foresaw a future different from the then present. Of one united under one [i]tira[/i], of a [i]Kiri[/i] worthy of the title, to unify our peoples together through sheer willpower. My father, Natewhau the intelligent, the cunning, set upon his mother’s work to weave the [i]tribu[/i] together, to turn his mother’s legacy, her efforts into a functioning unification of these lands. Many countless moons spent toiling, both of them working with the wishes of our ancestors to find a peaceful future. And with this bickering, with such inaction, such [i]disharmony[/i], you [i]tira[/i] only sing songs of failure.”[/color]

There was stillness, there was sadness, there was respect. And there was shame. Shame at past actions, plastered on the faces of many, joining the [i]Hatan[/i] in discomfort. The loudest voices kneeled the quietest now.

A collection of breath before taking advantage of the tense hall. Soft words now, sailing through the shame in the room. [color=darkseagreen]”You failed in unity. You failed in creating the harmonious [i]Kiritane[/i] my father and his mother before sought and fought for. There has been no gentle discussion, no unanimous decision made. And because of what? The creation of a star in our sky? The opening of a door? The path to our Mother, to our past peoples, to the wrongdoers of the past, from which we had fled, is now open for us. And you bicker here, clamouring on top of each other for the position to greet possible cousins in the stars.”

“If you cannot find a quick decision, I will make one. As is my right as [i]Kiri[/i].”[/color] A chill settled in the air, many chiefs stiffening their necks in shock before bowing deeper. Direct intervention into [i]tohunga[/i] was rare, as it was more common for the [i]Kiri[/i] to agree what the council of chiefs had agreed to. But Ngareia had let the bickering go long enough, a decision needed to be made quicker than what a typical [i]tohunga[/i] allows. She must gather the [i]mana[/i] of Ngarewrewa’s blood, gather the shamans for prayers to the gods. The chiefs would not like such blatant strong-arming, despite many of them appearing to agree today.

But they will either go with the tides or be swept into the depths by struggling.[hr][color=778899]Half a moon later, aboard the [i]Yearning Tranquility[/i][/color][hr]This great [i]waka[/i], once used for unbidden war, is now returning to its roots. Exploration of the unknown with a unified face. Though perhaps the word "unified" should be in quotation marks.

Even here, the politics of the [i]Kiritane[/i] take place, even with one of Ngarewarewa's blood overseeing the envoy. Every [i]tira[/i] made their case for sending envoys of their own on the [i]Yearning Tranquility[/i] but as great as its halls were, space was important in this void. Hence the various political alliances sent forth their own representatives, great [i]tira[/i] in their own right, to accompany Ngateia, third daughter of the current king and leader of the diplomatic envoy. She stood resolute within the bridge, a woman who has come into her own at the age of fifteen, taught by the Emerald Isle's best shamans. As all of those who come from her, Ngarewarewa's presence is strong even in one so young.

"Captain," she started, staring at the monitor which depicted the "Gateway" in its entirety "do we have the appropriate shamans to deduce the route towards the Mother?"

It was decided that if the [i]Kiritane[/i] were to set sail in the void once more, they should go back to the lands where their ancestors walked. See for their own eyes the state of their Mother, remind themselves of unjustices wrought upon their lands. No [i]Umana[/i] would forget their Mother's death but it would do wonders to unify ourselves to once again stare at her corpse.

"Aye my princess, should be through the Gateway in a wee moment. Your great mother only send tha' best afta' all." An odd choice, a Gaelic [i]Hatan[/i] captain, prominent black and green chequered quilt clashing with the bare, blue-furred torso. Many of the [i]tira[/i] who were also on the bridge eyed him suspiciously. Alas, with so much forgotten, the [i]Hatan[/i] were still the most prominent spacefarers and captains within the [i]Kiritane[/i]. Hence why the fleet of five ships, one human and four [i]Hatan[/i] made, were all captained by a [i]Hatan[/i]. Thoroughly vetted of course, to make sure no dissenters slipped through the gaps.

She nodded once before telling the rest of the envoy to stay in the assigned diplomatic quarters. It would not do for them to interfere with the crew's work. But she stayed, dorning a grand [i]Kākahu[/i] of flax and bright white feathers. She stayed still in the final moments of entry through the Gateway, determined in thought and stance, refusing to let even a slight sign of discomfort. And later on, suppressing the great revulsion she felt at the sight of their murdered Mother and the unsightly thing which parked itself near it.

The reaction of the rest of the [i]Umana[/i] will be that of sadness and great fury.[hr][hider=To all on the unsightly metal coffin][center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T0j8TmYeD2g[/youtube]
[sup][i]A hauntingly beautiful waiata plays first, capturing both hope and sorrow[/i][/sup][/center][hr]If we were to translate these words in the coloniser's [read: English] tongue, and expand upon the lyrics this [i]waiata[/i] are based on, it would be this:
[indent][i]Peace to the Universe
Love to the Universe
Joy to the Universe
Truth to the Universe

Let the violet flame prevail,
the unfettered spirit
that upholds justice
and truth.

A gift of love this is
to the whole world
an acknowledgement to the
Earth Mother[/i][/indent]

That is our hope and sadness, in song, in [i]waiata[/i]. To understand this is to understand our people.

We could speak upon the insult with which you place this metal coffin in the reach of a corpse but such a vitriolic discussion is best left to future. We reach you from [i]Peha[/i], as envoys of the [i]Kiritane[/i]. Bestowed [i]mana[/i] by the blood spilt of the great Ngarewarewa, we greet you resolutely and with fierce acknowledgement of our independence in the stars. To other children of the Mother, the [i]Umana[/i] spit upon the crimes of old, upon the criminal actions which led to many young taken away from their families, upon the destruction of indigenous identity, upon genocides wrought upon peace-loving peoples, upon lands selfishly stolen by colonisation, upon the sins and unjustices of capitalism. We do not come here to bow, scrape or beg, we come as children of the Mother, of whose death could be explained by many of your predecessor's actions. We acknowledge your great mistakes.

We extend one hand of cooperation in the stars yet carry a club in the other. We have gifts, untouched resources, refreshing beaches to visit and welcoming embraces to be given to our friends. To our enemies, we have guns, ships and fierce [i]mere[/i] with which we can cut your throat and crush your skulls.

We have the sufficient resources onboard our ships for a moon's worth of waiting. We will welcome ourselves to your metal coffin at your behest.
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