Intergalactic Summit

Cousins.

We make our way by nature, and our nature is how we was made by Old Mother. In the tell of the whole beginning, if it be Stark's bitter truckwender in the deep dunes of the Sobaki; the kin of Thuk on the Great Wet Desert pushin' the first path to Mahj; in a glass-faced theurgess, listening to the whisperin' of the spectral sky at the top of the world; or in any tell of the Matari turns aslumber now in the dusty dark... we know what she hid in our bones. We judder with the feelin’ of it.

When the First Mother told to make truck for the Grand Caravanserai, after so long parched of the taste of bitter bloods and soured spirits, none but Kruss would brave to catch the wind thrown at him soz to spread the word among the cousins: the way was not yet lost. The shinin' of wisdom that was put on our forebears showed out from the Elders, and their Tribes spoke as kinfolk, searchin' for the good of us what to come. It was in the nab and nail of settlin' their matters that the truth of our way was made plain: that whatever the ways of our wanderin' we always cling to that spark what makes us kith.

Each Tribe then walks their path, knowin' what to truck proper, and how not to lose the way. The luck of each is their own, but the luck itself is shared by all. So it comes to be the Tribal way, passed from the ancestors to the whelps, the gifts that grew us over the dusty mile... and when dark spirits and storms afury come to wreck us, the Elder vision kept the spark alit. Our way preserves.

Now the everborn of this new Circle take up that vision to the paths about the stars we used to learn the truck on Old Mother's back. Though first she carried us, the ancestors tell us to catch the wind and carry the way of the Tribes a pace further. The stars in our bones whisper that all the sky is home, so long as the Matari Tribes be there.

The wind is caught. Raise a hand when you see us on the path.

The way is shown.

Well said.

Good luck to you.