Beginnings

Born ‘neath the First Star Rising Upon the Seventh Dawning of the First New Moon After the Last Moon Of the Season of the Cotton’s harvest. Born Into the Season When only the Fittest Survive In the Year of Returning Warriors on the Coldest Morn Dawning of the Coldest Season’s Cleansing of the Coldest Year. Born of The Strongest Wind upon the Dry Desert Plain upon the Flattest, most un-Welcoming of Lands the Sacred Bison ever Ranged. A land that had felt no more of Humanity before the Generation of his Mother’s-Mother’s Father, than the Prick of the Hungry Hunter’s Spear, the Foot step of the Valiant, and Enduring (and seldom) Passer through, the occasional Travois ruts of the wandering Nomad from the barren desert to the South, the Bones of the Fallen, Greed Ridden and un-welcomed Conquistador and his Horse, the Invading Charge of a Foreign and Mighty, and Blue Army’s Trumpet and the Saddened Voice of the Honorable Surrender of the tiny