(HAPPY THANKSGIVING YALL! I hope you enjoy this little idea I had INSPIRED by the ones who ruled the land before. I mean no disrespect by any indigenous people, I only wish to make a good story)
In a time where early America ran wild, untouched by the outside world of war. It was simply survival by bands of humans who lived off the land. However within nations there are stories, stories of warriors who fell from the sky and made trophies of men, the Apache roamed the land in a Nomadic and Prideful mind. They where known for hunting what was required but one day during a hunt for Buffalo they where met with a disturbing sight of mass murder of their sacred bisons.
One however seemed to be moving while laying down,but the Bison was skinned and missing it’s head. A figure appeared behind it, rising covered in crimson blood with golden eyes, wearing a wood like armor with a bronze mask resembling a falcon. From a distance the Apache Hunters suspected it to be some sort of mad man, one who needed to be put down, with one kick to the horses they ride towards the being……just like the Bisons it was a slaughter, some Hunters managed to hit the unholy spirit with their arrows. The creature roared but kept cutting the Hunters down one by one, forcing a retreat with one leading the pack away from the monster.
This was only met with more blood shed, whoever was behind the leading hunting party was soon taken down by the Spirit jumping and ripping the rider from the horse. All the Hunting Leader could do was ride away listening to the sounds of his friends screams behind him till they where silenced. When the Hunting Leader came back to his village he was terrified, demanding to speak to the chief, his father. The Apache Chief approached his son, to which he listened to his sons story. Each word he put together brought a shock to the Chief, he simply told his son to go to his tipi (tent) and told the village that tonight we shall morn the ones lost in a “hunting accident”.
Hours later the families mourn around a campfire, all while the Chief in his Tipi readied himself for a battle. Equipping himself with a Tomahawk, a family War Club, while he wore his ancestors war headband covered in feathers down to his back. When he was about to leave his son stopped him, urging him not to hunt the spirit but the Father only comforted his son saying he had to. The father left on horseback, riding towards the massacre where he found the bodies hung and skinned on a old tree. But on the ground was a dimly lit neon green liquid, a trail that lead to a stone cave mountain where a blood cold roar echoed out scaring any near wildlife. The Chief walked in with a torch and a tomahawk at the ready, walking in slowly where he was met with old animal skulls and bloody new ones.
He then was met with a opening in the center of the mountain, but saw that the creature was here with a few broken arrow and pulled out arrow heads littered the floor along with fresh blood growing brightly. He then heard the clicking he was warned as by his father and his father before him, followed by echos of the screams and pleas of the one who fell to the creatures claws and blade. “COME OUT OF THE SHADOW, SPIRIT! I, JUMPING BULL IS CALLING YOU OUT FOR A HONORABLE DUAL! only one of us is leaving this cave…” said the chief as he threw his torch in the center of the cave almost lighting up the whole room. The Chief waited for a couple of seconds as the sounds of static rang through the cave, and from somewhere in the hidden holes in the cave did the creature jumped infront of the Chief, growling as he stood in all his glory.
The creature roared at the Chief charging, swinging, and scratching like a animal. The attacks where dodged with sparks flying from the walls, Chief retaliated by swinging his tomahawk at the creatures mask only for it to break upon impact. This left Chief exposed enough to be countered, lifted up over the creatures head and slammed on the floor. When the Chief tried to get up he was kicked across the cave, he felt weak and was barely able to stand up but with the help of his family war club he stood proudly and ready. Managing to deliver some blows, breaking the wood armor and knocking off the evil spirits mask. It only seemed to piss off the creature, wanting to finally end this the creature unsheathed his wristblade and drives it towards the heart of the human warrior. The Chief awaited death as he wanted to make sure the creature remembered him till his soul left his body.
When morning arrived, the Apache relocated with many asking what happened to their Chief. Only his son, Sitting Bull knows as he looks on in anger saying his father was stabbed to death by a Crow Warrior. A lie that would hide what really happened, and one that fueled Sitting Bulls practice of becoming a leader to one day kill whatever took his father, his friends, and the creatures sacred to the Earth. On a Predator ship in space, the Hunter who claimed all his kills in the wild America while also painting his mask is the blood of those he killed and white paint laying around……honoring his kills of the warriors who he now respects….even calling himself “Chief” not only as a status but as a respectful name.