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From the South it rises, vast, undulating through green forests not yet claimed, its waters paying no heed to frontiers and countries, indifferently witnessing the petty squabbles of man. It flows to the North, towards Kemet, to spill its waters at the delta, to join the great water ruled by trident and salt, echoes of its power reaching the lands beyond the sea, the lands from whence have come generations of conquerors to soak the desert's sands with blood.

The sands…

Shift do they with the wind, hiding the vestiges of kingdoms fallen, burying palaces and temples alike, eroding even the memory of ages past. Great kings have tried to tame them, to build their empires of bronze and stone; their tombs now litter the desert, their names uttered solely by poets in remembrance of their demise.

Nothing prospers on the sands; not men, not empires. To the desert and its gods, all things must bend the knee. All except the River, in whose wake life grows unchallenged, undeterred.

Here, on black earth made fertile by the River's infinite generosity, man and beast have found susteneance. Abundant crops feed thousands, an empire born in defiance of the sands. In murky marshes the mighty hippo dwells undisturbed, storks and herons searching for prey under its lazy gaze. In the depths, fish scatter to avoid nets and snares, the shade of passing boats spelling doom for those not fast enough. At the banks, the antelope and the gazelle come to drink. The oxen pace in the grasslands. The ibis hunts the worm. Man builds his cities and lives to see the sun rise.

For the River bears blessings, for the River gifts life.

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