I watch as the old man dances around the fire, his tale long and worn with the telling yet passionate and sorrowfull in his footsteps. Howling snake, the shaman of our band beats his drum dolefully, watching our chief weave back and forth as the flames leap high into the dome. Our warriors chant along, this tale is our history and our purpose.

Long ago the outsiders came, they came to pillage our sacred icons and push us from our lands in their search for wealth. We tried to explain that the only wealth needed was that of the hive spirits and of the anscestors, but they did not listen and in droves they came. Plucking the domes and wastes of all that was holy to us, they corrupted our braves with drink and intoxicants, poluting their ways and destroying families. Tribe turned upon tribe in the confusion, their warriors angry at the desecration of our most holy shrines and they began striking out at the settlers. Already fighting amongst themselves they did not realise how strong we were until it was too late.

We called it the wrath of the anscestors “Tonahe-te-onahe” bands of warriors bloodied in raids past, laid their Coup sticks into the ash and painted their faces the colour of war.
In one night many braves and warriors attacked the settlers town. Their wall defences were taken by our most stealthy hunters and we attacked without mercy. We met their warriors in open combat. Blade verses blade, shotgun verses shotgun. Many of our kin were slain, but we had made our voices clear, the settlers could not stay.

We thought we had ran them off, many fled but others proved to be all to stuborn, they became cunning and strong, the bald ones laid traps for our warriors whilst the ones known as the reclaimaters used their strength and numbers against us. At the battle of little big tears we suffered greatly. The townsfolk called upon their kin and slaughtered us, they ripped the life from our warriors and cast them into the ancient river. Its colour ran red with the blood of our kin. Our leader Yellow hand, taken captive by the settlers begged them for peace, an end to the killing. in his old age and foolishness he brings the townspeople to our village and our people are taken by force.

Our chief, all but a young brave was out in the wastes with his warrior band. They had fled the battle of Little big tear as our leader was captured and our brothers killed, a runner came from the town telling of our people being taken in chains by the reclaimaters, but the band were too few to stop them and could only watch, our chief Grey Spider saw our mothers and sisters as they were taken away to be sold like commodities in a great market. Our braves and spirit guides were strung from the town gates as a warning to the tribes, the remaining bands fled into the wastes to find the survivors of our village.