Wasula got her name the way many of her people had. She earned it as she grew from Little Sprout, a child, to Hair Storm, a woman. And true to her name, her long dark hair, that fell in wild waves of feather shining black, was almost always loose. It fell over her shoulders and down her back. It whipped up in the wind and sometimes tangled with the trees. Never one to mind such inconviences, Wasula left it undone and always combed her fingers through it, taming its unruly behavior every time.

Her elder brother Chaska, rightly named Eldest Son to her family, often frowned at his sister's vanity, or so he called it. But Wasula did not adorn her hair in fine thick braids, nor dress it with pale hide straps, shells, beads, feathers, or flowers. She simply let it be. Unmarried, it was not uncommon for young women of her tribe to dress up their appearances as much as possible, in hopes of luring in a fine Hunter to marry. 

But Chaska was always in bad weather these days. Mother said he was in love with another tribe's maiden, sour without her sweetening, as the elder women put it. But Wasula knew it was not for lack of loving affections that her brother grew sullen and prickly as an ill-tempered bear. It was often that he escorted her to the White Men's markets. And often that he slipped White Men's coin into the palms of those who traded ill medicine, burning waters called 'al-co-hol', partaking in it till he could not find sureness in his feet nor good words on his tongue. 

Wasula could not stop him though. He was second to only her father. If she ever had complaints, they would be heard by her mother first and foremost. And although Wasula did not lie, she could not bring herself to mention her brother's troubles to their mother. Sure she was that he of any of the warriors in her village could defeat the attraction to al-co-hol. He must. He was their finest Hunter and swiftest warrior. 

The second night sleeping in the plains outside of South's Valley, for no sane people of the plains would willingly sleep [i]inside[/i] the white's villages, Wasula awoke before sunrise. Her brother's sleeping skins were empty and cold, so he must either be restlessly hunting for their breakfast or asleep outside the 'sa-loon'. Wasula hoped it was not the latter, her stomach growling in contempt.

Combing out her long hair with a precious elk bone comb that had been her grandmother's, she huddled in her sleeping skins. No fire should be lit when outside the villages of the dangerous pale men, especially when her protector was not around. Wasula could of course weild her dagger, a gift and honor given to her by her father when she was grant permission to trade in markets since she knew English and some French. But a weapon carried should never give freedom to entice conflict. Especially when the pale wolves that would gladly devour your life held 'guns', takers of life with just the simple sound of thunder and a small ball of metal. 

Her dark eyes scanned the plains, seeing no sign her brother would come with breakfast anytime soon. The dawn peeked shyly over the edge of the land, making it blush with fair warm colors of purple and gold. The native young woman stood, setting quietly to her task of cleaning up the humble camping site with yet another morning of an empty stomach. While her brother was to be respected, this did not mean she wouldn't rattled his sore head with many angry words.

Hiding their small camp site once more, she took up her large basket, one deep with furs, hides, shells, seeds, long lasting supplies, and edibles, and resigned herself sternly to her days work. Let her brother find her! Let him feel some shame at knowing he once more did not feed his own young sister, but left her defenseless in the plains as he lost himself to ill waters and bad ways!

With her head held high, the native woman passed through the slowly rising town, never knowing the rippling turmoil that was slowly growing. Once at the market building, or 'General Store', Wasula greeted the keep. The elder white man was not so hard eyed as the others. He and his wife saw many and knew many. Smiling to the keep and his woman, she presented each of her trading good proudly. A few shimmering shells from a forest lake earned some bread, meat and dried fruit. A well earned breakfast. Two fox furs, a water skin bag and corn seeds earned a cooking pot, five metal cooking spoons, and a tarnished hand mirror. 

A good day's trade. Wasula was practically beside herself with pride. But her brother still had not found his way to her. Which meant he was probably still sleeping off his drink. The sun was well up, he would probably be accosted with a pail of old water by now. But she would find him anyway, make sure he did not get into any unnecessary fights, as a good sister should.

Going to the door, she had to stop a moment for a young white man. He was entering as she was trying to leave. He took off his hat to her, something she had seen these men do only for their own pale women. Her dark eyes watched him, saw him flicker in realization that he granted a native an honorary greeting on accident. And he seemed distressed enough by this that he wished to speak to her. Or at least this was all how it went to the best of her knowledge.

"[i]Hee ya[/i], no, I can not," her heavily accented English was as warm as honeyed butter in the summer plains' sun, her dark eyes watching him with a weariness hidden behind a stoney expression that would give nothing away. Many of her people wore such expressions when around the white men. No weakness should be shone to them. 

She explained nothing more to him either, for why should he know that she had to look for her brother? A brother possibly still rather drunk from his night at the saloon, weakened from warrior to drunkard fool? No, he did not need to know and she did not have to tell him. If he feel foolish for greeting her with more honor than he deemed she deserved, he should overlook it. Simple as that. 

At least he called her 'Dakota', which was almost 'Lakota' as her own people used. Many called them 'Sioux', a mean spirited name given by the French. She was of the Lakota people, but many men like this one before her hardly knew the difference between the many names. To them she was just another 'Indian', whatever that was suppose to mean. 

"I wish to pass," she stated, lifting her chin a bit so she didn't appear meeker than him, "Please I ask you, step to side."