[u][b]592 Years after the declaration of the Amureik[/b][/u]

The tepee was a symbol of deep meaning to the Oglala.

Though in ancient times most tepees had been unadorned, the tradition of the painted tepee stretched back centuries. Since the resurgence of the Sioux however, it had been tradition to decorate the surface of one’s tepee. Most were decorated with events from its owner’s life. Spiritual dreams, and the origins of one’s family were often quite common. These were far more than simple decorations. It was said among the Sioux tribes, that the spirits of the earth and sky dwelt in these paintings, so they might walk among the Sioux people, guiding and protecting them.

How feeble these spirits must be, for their people to be so easily slaughtered

Seigeisel sat on the back of his barded horse, gazing over the battlefield. Before him was a sea of Chwarkin huts. To either side, the vast green prairie spread as far as the eye could see, though the village was nearly bereft of green. The ground, muddy and trampled from the stampede of thousands of hooves and feet. Fire licked at many of the tepees, threatening to spread and consume the entire encampment. The billowing smoke was so thick overhead the Khan could not make out the sun. Bodies of Chwarkin lay spread across the ground like fallen leaves. Now and then a group of the Khanate’s horsemen could be seen, riding through the camp in search of another Chwar to capture. To his left, a great train of Chwarkin could be seen. Men, women, children. All dressed in the traditional garb of their people. Blood flecked the faces and clothes of many within this slave train, a testament to the melee that had ensued in the camp. Now and then a cart could be seen mingled among the captured Chwar, pulled by whatever slaves were deemed strong enough to endure the burden. To either side, Weiskin could be seen flanking the train, either archers on horseback or lightly armored infantrymen. Seigeisel breathed in deeply. The scent of fire, blood and charred flesh filled his nostrils.
He was called from his thoughts, as though from a distance, by the familiar voice. One of his Chieftains. Efeuger Daggreif, leader of the tribe of the Dawn Griffin. 

“My Khan, we have a prisoner for your inspection. The Chwarkin chieftain is dead, but this one should do well.”

The Khan turned, curled black hair drifting with the movement of his head. Chieftain Efeuger sat nearby, seated upon his horse and wearing a fine suit of Weis plate. In his hands was a great lance, its surface decorated with the image of a great crawling vine extending the length of the pole. On foot were two warriors in the chain mail and doublets of the Khanate’s veteran footmen, rich or fortunate enough to furnish their own arms and armor, yet too poor to afford a horse to ride upon. Between them was an aged Chwarkin, fifty perhaps. He wore the traditional bison skin garb of his people, a crucifix made of shrub wood hanging from his neck by dried animal cord. The Khan’s eyes gazed coldly over his captive. The Chwar simply stood stoically in place, hands clasped at his waist while gazing steadily ahead. The Khan continued staring ahead, before speaking.

“Kowtow.”

The Khan extended an arm, finger pointed downwards to his soldiers. He swung his legs to the side and dismounted, ignoring the two men in armor as they pushed the shaman to the ground. Seigeisel walked slowly to where the man was pushing himself onto his hands and knees. Seigeisel bent to one knee, drawing a long knife at his side. The leaf-shaped blade extended to the man’s neck, brushing against the surface of the man’s skin before coming to the man’s crucifix. He cocked his head, the end of the knife lifting the wooden cross.

“What manner of shaman wears a token of Yesus?”

The man’s eyes rose, meeting the Khan’s own bloodshot pupils. He remained on his knees, raising his body so he was sitting on his knees. His face grew serene once more, even as the Khan inspected the crucifix balanced precariously by his knife. “I am Twice-Born Bison. I serve the Oglala of this village as both their shaman and their pastor. I commune with the spirits, and the Almighty, on their behalf.”

“Ah,” The Khan’s eyes suddenly glowed with a newfound light, a sinister smile playing on his lips. “You are a man of letters then?”

“I am, Weiskin.”

“Englische?”

“I am adept in writing in English, and I have knowledge of the script of the Caliphate, murderer.”

The Khan gazed across at the Chwar shaman, nodding his head with satisfaction at the unconquered Sioux. The Khan pressed his hands to either side of his head, long knife still in one hand.

“I have searched long and hard, for one such as you.” The Khan said. Despite his stoic resolve, Twice Born Bison could not help but try to pull himself away. There was something in the Khan’s gaze. A sense of deep joy, at having found Twice Born Bison. A tear slid down the side of the Khan’s face as his grip tightened. “Man of Amur, I tell you now I have a bold plan, that will shape the future of the Amureik. A plan that will engrave my memory in this land for all time. When my plan comes to fruition, I intend for you to record it in your own tongue, so that Chwarkin mothers may frighten their children to sleep at night with stories of what I have done.”

The Khan’s hands fell from Twice-Born Bison’s head, the long blade leaving a red cut along his cheek. He hissed bitterly and raised one hand to the wound. The Khan walked placidly to his horse, turning to the guards with a nod.

“Bring him a horse. He joins my retinue.”