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thoughtportal · 2 months ago

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smithsonianmag.com

How Recovering the History of a Little-Known Lakota Massacre Could Heal Generational Pain

Tim Madigan

46–59 minutes

To reach the place known as Mni Tho Wakpala, the Blue Water, you drive west from the Nebraska hamlet of Lewellen, turning from Highway 26 onto a gravel road and turning again through a gate that leads to fenced pastureland. The ancient cottonwood, now known by the Lakota Sioux as the Witness Tree, still towers above the grasslands. Blue Water Creek cuts a crooked path through a broad valley, its waters still pristine.

Then, just after sunrise on September 3, 1855, 600 U.S. Army soldiers commanded by Brigadier General William S. Harney surrounded and ambushed the village, the first time in the Indian wars of the Northern Plains that the military attacked a camp full of families. Today the attack is often known, to the extent it is known at all, as the Blue Water Massacre, but for more than a century it was remembered in a few conventional histories as a particularly ruthless U.S. military victory—the Army’s first major salvo in a 35-year campaign against the Lakota, lords of the Northern Plains, the people of Red Cloud, Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, which ended finally with their subjugation at Wounded Knee in 1890. That episode, where as many as 300 Lakota were slaughtered, is widely known.

The same cannot be said about Blue Water.

The bloody chain of events had begun a year earlier, in mid-August 1854, when a lame-footed cow belonging to a Mormon settler wandered into the camp of the Brulé, also known as the Sicangu, one of seven bands that make up the Lakota nation. There, along the North Platte River in what is now Wyoming, the animal was felled by the arrow of a warrior named High Forehead, who may have been hungry.

The Brulé Lakota chief, Conquering Bear, hurried to nearby Fort Laramie and offered the Mormon a horse from his own herd as restitution. The matter might have ended there were it not for the ill-fated ambition of Lieutenant John Grattan, a 24-year-old Army officer a year out of West Point. Grattan was determined to personally arrest High Forehead and make his reputation in the process. On August 19, Grattan, with a drunken interpreter and a detachment of 29 soldiers, began a ten-mile march to the Lakota camp. Frontiersmen and other civilians they met along the way pleaded with the lieutenant to reconsider, as a small city of more than 4,000 Lakota had grown up by the North Platte. “I don’t care how many there are,” Grattan told them. “With 30 men I can whip all the Indians this side of the Missouri.”

When Grattan and his men marched into the village, Conquering Bear tried to reason with him, but the young officer made clear he would not leave without his prisoner. “For all I tell you, you will not hear me,” Conquering Bear finally said. “Today you will meet something that will be very hard.”

Surrounded by hundreds of Lakota warriors, a panicked U.S. Army soldier fired the first shot. Grattan and all but one of his men were swiftly killed. (The last soldier eventually succumbed to his injuries.) Grattan’s body was riddled by 24 arrows. Conquering Bear, one of three Lakota who were wounded, died from his injuries several days later.

News of the killings became an object of national outrage, though in the months to come congressional and Army reports placed the blame for what happened squarely on Grattan. That November, three Brulé Lakota warriors, later identified as Spotted Tail, Red Leaf and Long Chin, close relatives of the slain chief, attacked a mail coach traveling near Fort Laramie, killing three men, wounding a fourth, and reportedly making off with thousands of dollars in gold, an act of revenge per Lakota custom.

By then, President Franklin Pierce and his secretary of war, Jefferson Davis, had already endorsed a retributive expedition of their own against the Lakota. To lead it, Davis turned to Harney, an old friend who had experience fighting Native Americans in Florida and Wisconsin. In a White House meeting, Pierce gave Harney, a barrel-chested man with a long white beard, simple orders. “Whip the Indians for us,” the president said.

In August 1855, Harney and his men, equipped with new, long-range Sharps rifles, set out from a frontier fort. “By God I am for battle,” Harney told a fur trapper as he departed. “No peace!” By September 2, the troops were camped along the North Platte near a place called Ash Hollow, a popular stopping point for westward-traveling emigrants on the Oregon Trail. Harney learned that Chief Little Thunder, who had succeeded Conquering Bear after his death, was camped about six miles north by Blue Water Creek, a tributary of the North Platte.

As soon as the Brulé glimpsed Harney’s troops the women began to strike tepees, loading lodge poles, skins and other belongings onto travois, sledges drawn by horses and dogs. Seeing the people flee north, Harney feared his cavalry had insufficient time to set the ambush. To stall, he sent a guide to request a parley with Little Thunder. The chief quickly obliged, galloping toward the soldiers with two of his most renowned warriors, Spotted Tail and Iron Shell. According to one account, Little Thunder approached Harney holding an umbrella as a makeshift white flag.

The conversation took place over a distance of 30 to 40 feet. The general shouted his outrage for the killings of Grattan and his soldiers and the murders of the three men in the mail coach robbery. “The day of retribution had come,” Harney said.

Thirty minutes later, feeling delay was no longer necessary, the general sent Little Thunder back to his people. He gave his soldiers the order to open fire, then took up a viewing position atop a nearby hill.

What happened next was documented in Army after-action reports, in the private letters and journals of American soldiers, and in interviews they gave late in their lives. There was also one recorded account from the perspective of a Lakota survivor, a woman named Cokawin who was in her 40s at the time and gave her testimony many years later to another Lakota woman named Susan Bordeaux Bettelyoun. “The smoke of the battle blinded her,” Bettelyoun wrote in her own memoir, With My Own Eyes. “As she looked all around, she could see the soldiers galloping after groups of old men, women and children who were running for their lives. Some were running across the valley only to be met by soldiers and shot right down.”

As Cokawin tried to flee, a soldier shot her in the stomach. “The bullet ripped her open for about six inches, a glancing shot. … Her bowels protruded from the wound as she fell.” To hide, Cokawin covered herself in tumbleweed and tore off a piece of her sleeve to use as a bandage. “There she lay all day listening to guns roar and to the hoofbeats of the horses, the shouting and yelling of the soldiers who came so near at times that she thought she would be discovered. Once in a while she could hear a Sioux war cry. At these times, Cokawin said she felt like singing and giving the trill.”

Perhaps the most complete account of the massacre comes from the journal of a U.S. Army officer named Lieutenant Gouverneur K. Warren. The 25-year-old West Point graduate was a noncombatant, attached to Harney’s expedition as a mapmaker and topographer. Apparently appalled by the brutality he witnessed, he devoted several diary pages to describing the day’s horrors, particularly what he saw at bluff-side caves where many Lakota had sought safety. Soldiers, giving chase, fired indiscriminately into the caves, a barrage that went on until the cries of a child were heard from inside.

Warren wrote:

Wounded women and children crying and moaning, horribly mangled by the bullets … Two Indian men were killed in the hole … Seven women were killed … and three children, two of them in their mothers’ arms. One young woman was wounded in the left shoulder … Another handsome young squaw was badly wounded just above her left knee and the same ball wounded her baby in the right knee … I had a litter made and put her and her child upon it. I found another girl of about 12 years lying with her head down in a ravine and apparently dead. Observing her breath, I had a man take her in his arms. She was shot through both feet. I found a little boy shot through the calves of his legs and through his hams … He had enough strength left to hold me round the neck.

Warren described his attempts to minister to the wounded and his distress at the sounds of a Lakota mother wailing for her dead baby. “The feeling of sympathy for the wounded women and children and deep regret for their being so, I found universal,” Warren wrote. “It could not be helped.”

The story of a dying grandmother and one little boy—the son of the chief—became something of a legend among the Brulé. In 2005, exactly 150 years later, that story was recounted near the site of the massacre by the boy’s great-granddaughter, a Lakota elder and activist named Rosalie Little Thunder. “His grandmother’s blood dripped on him, but he stayed still when he heard all the hoofbeats, gunshots, cries, shouts,” she said to a group of relatives and others who had gathered for a commemoration. “He finally emerged after some silence. The Army spotted him and gave chase. He ran until he got over a little hill and found a burrow surrounded by tall grass. He hid there and stayed there until just before daylight, when it’s coldest and the dew forms. He emerged from there and started his trek—200 miles north to Sicangu country—to take word of the massacre.”

When it was over, 86 Lakota had been killed, many of them women and children. Four U.S. soldiers died. Harney confiscated tepees and buffalo meat for his expedition. The rest of the Lakota belongings were plundered or burned. Then the general marched 70 survivors, mostly women and children, some 140 miles across the grasslands to Fort Laramie. There he insisted that the perpetrators of the mail coach attack surrender. If they did not, Harney threatened to turn his captives over to the Pawnee, the Lakota’s mortal enemy.

That was why the warriors Spotted Tail, Long Chin and Red Leaf trotted on their horses into Fort Laramie a few weeks later. They were dressed in their finest regalia and sang their death songs when they surrendered, expecting to die at the end of a wasichu rope. Instead, they were taken into custody and imprisoned at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. The next year, at the urging of the region’s Indian agent, President Pierce pardoned the Lakota warriors.

The bloody episode had divergent impacts on the Lakota. For some leaders it was a radicalizing event, evidence that the government could never be trusted—that violent resistance was the only path to meaningful tribal autonomy. One such leader was Crazy Horse, who was a teenager in the Oglala village a few miles north of the Brulé camp, and who, coming upon the massacre site, saw firsthand its terrible aftermath. “Scattered along the rocky slope were lodge rolls, parfleches, robes, cradleboards and many other village goods, all trampled and torn and burnt,” Crazy Horse’s biographer Mari Sandoz wrote in 1942, “and among these lay dark places that were blood and darker ones that were the dead of his people.” The Lakota historian Victor Douville has written that the memory never left Crazy Horse, and many say he thought of Blue Water while leading the rout of Lieutenant Colonel George Custer at Little Bighorn in 1876.

For other Lakota leaders, such as Little Thunder and Spotted Tail, what they saw of the government’s cruelty and disproportionate firepower convinced them that their people’s best, or perhaps only, chance for survival was negotiation and eventual peace. Spotted Tail was sure the Lakota “could not win against the power of the Americans,” his biographer George E. Hyde wrote. Spotted Tail would become the chief lieutenant and eventual successor of Little Thunder, who was also wounded in the massacre but survived. Sensing the ultimate futility of resistance, the two men “prepared to lead their people down the path of peace and survival—a survival that included loss of their independence, and a forced residence on reservations,” the historian Paul N. Beck wrote in 2004.

In March 1856, Little Thunder was forced to shake hands with Harney, who had summoned leaders of the seven Lakota bands to Fort Pierre, in South Dakota, to dictate his terms for peace—essentially, obedience and docility. In return, Harney released the prisoners he had taken at Blue Water.

A period of relative quietude between the Lakota, some of their Native allies and the U.S. government ended in November 1864, when a U.S. military force attacked a Cheyenne and Arapaho camp near Sand Creek in Colorado, killing an estimated 230 people, most of them women and children. In the violent years to come, government promises to the Plains Indians were made and quickly broken. The Lakota and their allies won several military victories against the Army, most notably at the Little Bighorn, but as the years passed there was a sense of inevitability, culminating with the slaughter at Wounded Knee, which extinguished the last embers of armed Lakota resistance.

Little Thunder died in 1879, having handed over leadership of the Brulé to Spotted Tail in 1866, according to Douville. “He was shrewdly confident that his successor had the best qualification of securing his unfulfilled goal of accomplishing peace.”

I first came across the story of the Blue Water Massacre by accident, in early 2023, while researching a separate historical project about the American West. In the brutality of the violence and in the event’s bewildering obscurity, it immediately reminded me of another event, the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921, when hundreds of African Americans were killed by a white mob in that city’s Greenwood community.

In 2001, I published a book about the Tulsa massacre, at a time when few people apart from survivors or their descendants knew much about it. What happened in Tulsa, I learned, was not a historical anomaly. Immersing myself in that history not only inspired in me greater compassion for people from different backgrounds, with different histories, but also gave me a more fulsome understanding of the origins of our nation’s racial and social fissures. By the time I returned to the subject of the Tulsa massacre on its 100th anniversary for a story in Smithsonian, the atrocity had become broadly known—and, perhaps not coincidentally, hopeful signs of racial reconciliation in Tulsa and elsewhere had begun to take hold.

Native American history has its own infamous gaps, but in recent generations many difficult truths have bubbled to the surface of the nation’s cultural awareness. Dee Brown’s 1970 landmark best seller, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, revealed for a broad audience the sanitized nature of mainstream Indigenous history. (Even still, the events at Blue Water received a single sentence.) The American Indian Movement, which flourished around the same time, fought publicly and militantly for unfulfilled treaty rights and the reclamation of tribal lands. In more recent decades, scholars, writers, filmmakers, artists, activists, political leaders and others, Native and non-Native, have filled in the picture more completely. They have highlighted the relatively overlooked history of the enslavement of Native Americans, for example, or challenged simplistic narratives about American colonial expansion to focus on the ways Indigenous people helped shape this country’s borders, history and culture.

Some of this work has broken through into popular culture. In just the past decade, David Grann’s Killers of the Flower Moon, adapted into a movie by Martin Scorsese, publicized the true story of the Osage Nation’s extraordinary wealth after oil was found beneath tribal land—and the string of murders by white settlers intent on stealing that wealth. The Ken Burns documentary The American Buffalo traced how deliberate U.S. policy all but eradicated the once abundant animal, with disastrous effects on the Plains Indians. The theme was explored by the Ojibwe writer David Treuer in his 2019 counter-history, The Heartbeat of Wounded Knee: Native America From 1890 to the Present. Without the buffalo, he wrote, the Plains tribes had little choice but to move onto reservations. “The reservations might have been designed as prisons, but now they became places of refuge.” In 2021, the Chippewa novelist Louise Erdrich was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for The Night Watchman, set on the Turtle Mountain Reservation in the 1950s, the latest of her celebrated books to draw from the realities of Native life and history. And the FX television series “Reservation Dogs” brought American viewers onto a reservation in the present day, following the sometimes comic, sometimes tragic travails of young Native Americans plotting their escape from reservation life for what they imagine is something better.

The U.S. government, meanwhile, under the direction of Interior Secretary Deb Haaland, the first Native cabinet secretary in U.S. history, has opened a federal investigation into the historical abuses of the Indian boarding school system. Haaland convened listening sessions across the country. She opened each session this way: “My ancestors endured the horrors of the Indian boarding school assimilation policies carried out by the same department that I now lead.”

In September 2023, in an effort to learn more about the massacre at Blue Water and its persistent impacts, I made the first of two long trips to the Rosebud Reservation, in south-central South Dakota, which has been a home for the Sicangu Oyate, as the Brulé now call themselves, since 1889. (Both the Lakota and French terms refer to “burnt thigh people,” a name apparently deriving from a terrible prairie fire long ago.) The reservation sprawls across more than 900,000 acres of grasslands, rolling hills and pine forests, and is dotted by small towns, smaller villages, and many ranches and farms. I met with Lakota residents carrying surnames like Little Thunder and Spotted Tail and with descendants of Iron Shell. They told me about their lives, introduced me to their songs, drums and prayers, and spoke about the importance of venerating their ancestors and keeping their ancient rituals and ceremonies. Not everybody was forthcoming. At one dinner, a Lakota elder named Phil Two Eagle, the executive director of Rosebud’s Sicangu Lakota Treaty Council, asked me succinctly: “Why are you here?” My answer had to do with an acquired belief that cultural healing is not possible without a full and honest accounting of the past.

The past and its sometimes grim legacies were evident at Rosebud. About one-third of the Sicangu’s 30,000 or so enrolled members live on the reservation. Of those, more than half live below the poverty line. The life expectancy is a decade less than the national average, suicide rates dwarf national figures, and substance abuse is an epidemic. And yet, for many residents, leaving the reservation is close to unimaginable. “It’s hard for any of us to leave, because we’re just real social beings, and we’re grounded here with all of our family,” Gale Spotted Tail, Rosebud’s program director of child care services and the great-great-granddaughter of the chief, told me. “We don’t look through the eyes of being impoverished. We look more at the values you have as a person. We still have that kind of connection.” I learned that many Lakota weren’t aware of the history of the Blue Water Massacre or didn’t feel it was particularly relevant to their lives. Most are simply too preoccupied with the realities of getting by, Gale Spotted Tail told me.

The first time I spoke with Karen Little Thunder, a great-great-granddaughter of the chief and the younger sister of Rosalie, who died in 2014, she explained that she saw in this effort a way to move beyond the interminable stasis of injustice. “They attacked in very early morning and just slaughtered us, and there was no time for anything except to survive,” she said. “Then the village was burned. Then the survivors were marched away to one of the forts and the women and children were taken and used as pawns. These traumas just kept happening and happening—and we’re still grieving. That’s the way it is, not just for Little Thunder relatives, but for our entire tribal people. We could not do anything except survive back then. Fast-forward 150 years, we’re still in survival mode.”

Karen Little Thunder, today a mother and grandmother at age 59, lives on the Rosebud Reservation in a white double-wide trailer on land that has been in her family for generations. She doesn’t remember hearing about Blue Water until her early 20s, when her father handed her a few photocopied pages from a book that described the massacre. At the time, as she struggled with alcohol addiction, the significance of what she read didn’t register.

In 2004, after several years of sobriety, she enrolled at the tribal university, where a fellow student told her that a professor named Peter Gibbs was talking about the Little Thunder family in his lectures. One day, Karen Little Thunder ran into Gibbs in the school’s Lakota studies building. “We stood in the hallway for 10 or 15 minutes,” she recalled. The topic of his lectures had been the Blue Water Massacre. “He told me in a nutshell what he was talking about in his class. I remember going through the rest of my day, like—mind blown. I needed to do something with all this information. I took as many classes as I could in the Lakota studies department, and in doing so was able to do my own research about the massacre.”

By chance, weeks later Karen Little Thunder received a letter from two sisters, Jean Jensen and Dianne Greenwald, who had grown up close to the Nebraska massacre site. As children they hunted for arrowheads while playing along Blue Water Creek. They had heard a battle had happened there but had only a vague sense of what that was. They finally learned about the atrocity as adults, after reading books about state and local history and talking to history buffs. Now they were writing blindly to any member of the Little Thunder family whose contact information they could find. With family members and local friends, the sisters decided to include the massacre in an event commemorating local history. In years past, the event usually focused on white pioneers on the Oregon Trail who traveled through that part of Nebraska. It was time, Jensen told me, “to tell the Lakota side of the story, to make it known.”

Not long afterward, Karen came across a photograph on the internet—a tiny doll, taken from the massacre site. She was haunted by the image. As a child, she’d learned that, where her ancestors were concerned, moccasins were never just moccasins, buckskin pants and feather bonnets and war shirts were more than mere physical objects. “My uncle Albert White Hat used to talk about how the essence of the person becomes attached to their belongings,” she said. “They are almost like living things themselves.”

And she eventually learned that the doll was hardly the only object plundered that day. Gouverneur K. Warren, the young officer who recorded his horror at the massacre, had apparently collected dozens of Lakota belongings from the site. Karen found a semi-obscure book called Little Chief’s Gatherings, written by a historian of the frontier named James A. Hanson, which had been published in 1996. (The name “Little Chief” derived from a dismissive Lakota nickname for Warren, a reference to his short stature.) Hanson described how Warren transported the Lakota belongings to the East Coast and, the next year, in 1856, quietly donated them, more than 60 items, to the Smithsonian, then a fledgling cultural institution in the nation’s capital.

Warren never spoke or wrote publicly about his contribution to the museum. “I believe he felt remorse and embarrassment for having looted the possessions of a vanquished foe, even though his motives were entirely for the good of science,” Hanson wrote. But the items made up “one of the most significant Plains Indians collections ever made,” Hanson noted, including “dozens of pony-beaded articles of clothing—dresses, leggings, a war shirt, a headdress, baby carriers and moccasins, as well as quilled robes, trade blankets, tepee bags, pipes, a bow case, a complete set of horse gear, a knife sheath, children’s toys including the earliest known Plains Indian doll.”

When I spoke with Hanson recently, he said he had come upon the objects by accident, as a graduate student in the early 1970s researching Sioux trade artifacts. Flipping through the card catalog in the anthropology department of the National Museum of Natural History, he recognized Warren’s name from books and western atlases he read as a boy. “Here’s a whole section of the real early stuff”—Native American artifacts—“that says, ‘Collected by G.K. Warren,’” Hanson told me. “I said, ‘My God, this is something I would love to research.’” Hanson tracked down Warren artifacts that had been scattered among hundreds of thousands of other items in storage throughout the museum. He learned that about 20 of the Warren items had once been on display, labeled as “examples of Lakota life in the 1850s.” But other than the musty references in the card catalog, there was no other written record of the collection or its provenance.

When Hanson’s book was published, it included a formal description of the massacre, a transcript of Warren’s diary and 58 photographs, many in color, of Lakota belongings. The most heartrending image was the child’s doll. Fashioned from tanned animal hide, with seeds for eyes and flowing locks made from black horsehair, it wore tiny moccasins and a blue wool cloth dress.

In 2010, Karen Little Thunder contacted the museum and was granted permission to come see the items in person. The museum’s storage facility was located in a Virginia suburb of the nation’s capital. She and her then husband, Clayton Wright Jr., passed through security and were met by a museum official named Bill Billeck. “When we started going down to where the items are actually stored, that’s where it became dark,” she remembered. “The storage cabinets were like those red toolboxes with shallow drawers. I’m wearing these little cloth gloves. We were able to go through and find and view and hold several items.” A number of the belongings appeared to be stained with blood. “It was good until we came upon what looked like a baby blanket, a wrap made out of buffalo hide. You could see a little hood for the child’s head. When I put my hand on that little baby wrap, that’s when it hit me really hard. I could see, I could feel, I could imagine a child in that wrap. I mean, it just hit me so hard. This is real. This is what happened. There was a baby in this blanket. I had to turn around and walk away. I just felt like screaming and crying and beating on somebody. It made me angry and sad at the same time.”

She composed herself and returned to the belongings. Afterward, she felt affirmed. The experience was a sign “that I’m following the right path,” she said. “It’s like when I hear a coyote or I see a beautiful eagle. Those things are answers as well.”

In 1999, Paul Soderman and his family were sorting through the belongings of a recently deceased aunt at her home on Long Island, New York, when they came across a remarkable letter. The letter was written by Soderman’s great-great-grandfather, James Harney Stover, in 1934, when he was in his 80s. In it, he told the story of visiting the White House with his family in April 1861, when he was 12 years old. President Lincoln himself entered the East Room and greeted Stover’s father by name. It turned out the two men had practiced law together in Illinois years before. “The tall president who was 6 feet 4 and a half inches, stooped down and shook hands with me,” Stover wrote. During the visit, it came up that Stover’s mother’s maiden name was Harney. In fact, Stover’s mother told Lincoln, she was the cousin of an Army general named William S. Harney. “And the president said, ‘Well, he is my general in St. Louis, and he and I were in the Black Hawk War together,’” Stover wrote.

During the next several years, he immersed himself in Lakota culture, history and language. By chance, he met another Boulder-area resident, a prominent jazz trumpeter named Brad Upton, who shared Soderman’s commitment to atonement. Upton was haunted by the fact that his great-great-grandfather, Colonel James W. Forsyth, had commanded the troops at Wounded Knee.

Soderman first connected with Karen Little Thunder on an internet message board, and he met her in person in 2014. A short time later, Karen told her cousin, Phil, that a relative of Harney wanted to meet him. Phil Little Thunder, a short, soft-spoken man, saw it as an opportunity to “count coup” on an enemy, the ancient Native practice of getting close enough to touch an adversary. Phil remembers thinking, “I’m going to shake his hand, and hold it real tight—and then I’m going to give him a left hook, because his ancestor did my people that way.” Then they met. “When I shook hands with him, instead of whupping him, he hugged me.”

Around that time, a Lakota elder and spiritual leader named Basil Brave Heart was leading a campaign to rename Harney Peak. As a seventh-generation descendant of Harney, Soderman publicly endorsed the effort. In August 2016, the U.S. Board on Geographic Names announced the Harney name would be removed, and the landmark would henceforth be known as Black Elk Peak, for the legendary Lakota warrior and holy man. “The initial emphasis was to get Harney Peak changed,” Soderman recalled. “When that was done, we started thinking, in collaboration with Karen and Phil, ‘What can we do now?’”

Not long afterward, the Little Thunders and their Nebraska friends gathered beneath the Witness Tree for a healing ceremony. When it was finished, Karen Little Thunder was approached by Shelie Hartman-Gibbs (no relation to Peter Gibbs), who had grown up near the Blue Water and remained active in historical commemoration there. The 150th anniversary of Nebraska’s statehood was approaching. Hartman-Gibbs and her sister had the idea of bringing part of the Warren collection back to Nebraska for a temporary exhibition. What did Karen think? “I only remember the overwhelming feeling that this was another piece of the puzzle,” Karen says.

After the women presented the plan to a large group of Little Thunder relatives, who endorsed the idea, the Smithsonian approved the loan of seven items from the Warren collection (deemed by curators as in the best condition to travel) for a three-day exhibition at the visitor center of the Ash Hollow State Historical Park. The center commemorates Ash Hollow’s significance to pioneers on the Oregon Trail, but it also sits atop a bluff overlooking Blue Water Creek and the valley where the massacre occurred.

The belongings were flown to Denver and driven to Nebraska, arriving at Ash Hollow late on a Wednesday afternoon in July 2017. Phil Little Thunder told me that he felt a sadness and a restlessness, like a caged wolf, when he first saw the belongings, which included the doll from Hanson’s book, plus a ceremonial rattle, a decorated saddle, a bag of porcupine quills, a bow, an ammunition pouch and a powder horn. But he couldn’t help but think about the rest of the items, which remained in vaults on the East Coast. “It was like a halfway apology,” he said.

In mourning over the items, he had let out a plaintive cry. “I’ll never forget the sound,” Soderman told me. “He’s done it a few times at the Witness Tree. That’s the connection between now and then, the sound of his grief. It’s real. That’s what I try to explain to my family and others who ask, ‘Why are you digging up the past? That happened 160 years ago.’ For Phil, it might as well have happened last week. That’s how connected they are.”

Karen Little Thunder spent the night in her van at the massacre site. “And I woke up the next morning and was just so happy,” she told the Lakota Times. “I could have been dancing by myself. I felt happy. I felt laughter. I felt peaceful. That told me things were good.”

Afterward, Karen and Phil Little Thunder and another cousin, Harry Little Thunder, together with Soderman, began to discuss the possibility of getting the entire Warren collection returned to the Lakota for good.

The timing for such an appeal felt right. Cultural institutions around the world have been reckoning, sometimes publicly, with the fact that many of their holdings were collected in ways that we now consider unethical. In the United States, federal agencies and many museums and institutions are already mandated by law to repatriate requested Native American human remains, burial artifacts and sacred objects held in their collections. The Warren collection objects don’t fall under these categories, but the Smithsonian has recently enacted a broader, Institution-wide policy called Shared Stewardship and Ethical Returns. Under the policy, which went into effect in 2022, artifacts of everyday life that Native groups deem of cultural importance may qualify to be returned. In certain cases, shared stewardship agreements allow the Institution to care for the items at the request of the original owners.

I spoke recently with Kevin Gover, the Smithsonian’s Under Secretary for museums and culture and a member of the Pawnee nation of Oklahoma, who served for 14 years as director of the National Museum of the American Indian. He was forthright about how much the Institution’s perspective has evolved. “Even if we have legal title for a given artifact, if it was acquired unethically, whether by us or whoever it was that acquired it originally, then we should give it back,” he said. He cited the Smithsonian’s recent return to Nigeria of 29 “Benin Bronzes” plundered by the British during an attack in 1897. “In our parlance, that was unethically acquired. That’s why we were not just willing but anxious to return those to Nigeria. I think the same would apply here,” he said, referring to the Warren collection. “If these artifacts were from a battlefield, even worse from a massacre, clearly they were unethically acquired, not necessarily by us, but by the U.S. Army and given to us. We have an obligation to return them.”

In August, the Little Thunder group formally applied under the new policy for the return of 69 items they believe came from the massacre site. Sarah Loudin, the National Museum of Natural History’s head registrar, told me that the process for reviewing the application will take time. As the museum gathers information, it will consider questions of standing, including, for example, whether the applicants are lineal descendants of the original owners of the belongings; are official representatives of the community where the items originated or are acting on its behalf; and whether there are competing requests for the objects.

Billeck shared Henry’s letter by email with Karen Little Thunder and Paul Soderman, writing that the letter made clear that “Warren obtained the objects at the Smithsonian and that they are from Ash Hollow or Blue Water Creek.” The Little Thunders included the letter as a part of their application to the Smithsonian.

The formal request is one step in an ongoing process of considerable cultural and spiritual complexity. For example, in the past, some Little Thunder family members expressed reservations about reclaiming the items, arguing that other Sicangu families descended from massacre survivors should be involved. There is also a question about what the Sicangu would do with the items if they are returned. Some Lakota elders would likely advocate ritual burning, per tradition, while others favor keeping them for educational and ceremonial purposes. That raises other practical considerations, such as where the Lakota would store the items and how they would pay for any associated costs.

In recent months, Karen Little Thunder, her cousins Phil and Harry, and Paul Soderman have been busy gathering support back home. They found an ally in Phil Two Eagle, the Sicangu treaty council executive director, who last December placed the Blue Water Massacre on the agenda for the annual conference of treaty councils from all seven Lakota bands.

In a hotel ballroom in Rapid City, South Dakota, the Little Thunders and Soderman appeared before the conference and spoke about what happened in 1855. Afterward, the elders stood and, singing an old Lakota honor song, shook their hands.

The next day, Phil Little Thunder read a resolution that Phil Two Eagle had helped draft. In the name of the Sicangu Oyate and the Blue Water families, it called not only for the return of the Warren collection, but also for a geophysical survey of the massacre site to identify and recover any remains of victims, and for the establishment of a memorial and interpretative center at the site. The resolution, while nonbinding, was unanimously endorsed by representatives of the seven Lakota bands.

Gale Spotted Tail, the descendant of the Sicangu chief, has become another important supporter. “I’m in favor of it, because it will bring attention to the Blue Water,” she told me. “A lot of people don’t know about it. Healing ceremonies would come with those belongings being returned. That kind of spiritual power will help our souls. It’s an opportunity for kids here to know their identity.”

Recently, the Rosebud Sicangu’s historic preservation office, along with representatives of the Little Thunder family, have been in discussions with Nebraska state officials about storing the items, should they be returned, at the Ash Hollow visitor center. Under the proposed agreement, the visitor center would host the items in a secure and managed environment for at least two years while the Sicangu work to decide on their final disposition. During that time, according to the proposal, descendants of massacre survivors and other Sicangu tribal members would have the right to privately view the collection.

Gover, when I spoke with him, recalled attending ceremonies as director of the National Museum of the American Indian when belongings were returned to their original owners. “People would just weep,” he said. “That made it a powerful experience for us as well. It’s not even making amends. In the Native view of the universe, that is a step toward restoring balance, just putting things right to return those things to the community where they originated. There is real power in that. There are a lot of these incidents from history that still need to be put right.”

The Blue Water valley has been in private hands for generations. Today it includes a patchwork of different owners, not all of them sympathetic to the Lakota or an organized effort to remember the massacre. A Nebraska rancher named Pat Gamet, who is 56, is an exception. He owns the acreage surrounding the Witness Tree and the area where the Lakota village once stood. He says he has kept the land as it was to protect it for the Lakota people and help honor their history there. “That’s my role in all of this. It’s a very humble one.”

On that hot afternoon last year, the 168th anniversary of the massacre, about 30 people gathered under the Witness Tree with the Little Thunders. Gamet was there, and the sisters, Jean Jensen and Dianne Greenwald, and their families. In the healing circle, Soderman and his wife, Cathie, who were ceremonially adopted into the Little Thunder family a few years ago, stood side by side with Brad Upton, all of them singing ancient Lakota healing songs. The echoes from Phil Little Thunder’s drum were carried off by the wind. Karen Little Thunder spoke up. “I would just like to say thank you to everybody for being here, for being here for us, for all of us,” she said. “You’re helping us to lighten this heavy load that we carry.”

The scene called to mind a favorite phrase of Basil Brave Heart, the Lakota spiritual leader, that has become a mantra of sorts for the people beneath the Witness Tree.

Taku wakan skan skan, the saying went. ��Something sacred is in motion.”

#article #smithsonian #plains Indians #history #19th century #Indian wars

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notwiselybuttoowell · 11 months ago

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California’s Yurok Tribe, which had 90% of its territory taken from it during the gold rush of the mid-1800s, will be getting a slice of its land back to serve as a new gateway to Redwood national and state parks visited by 1 million people a year.

The Yurok will be the first Native people to manage tribal land with the National Park Service under a historic memorandum of understanding signed on Tuesday by the tribe, Redwood national and state parks and the non-profit Save the Redwoods League.

The agreement “starts the process of changing the narrative about how, by whom and for whom we steward natural lands”, Sam Hodder, president and CEO of Save the Redwoods League, said in a statement.

The return of the 125 acres (50 hectares) of land – named ’O Rew in the Yurok language – more than a century after it was stolen from California’s largest tribe is proof of the “sheer will and perseverance of the Yurok people”, said Rosie Clayburn, the tribe’s cultural resources director. “We kind of don’t give up.”

For the tribe, redwoods are considered living beings and traditionally only fallen trees have been used to build their homes and canoes.

“As the original stewards of this land, we look forward to working together with the Redwood national and state parks to manage it,” Clayburn said. “This is work that we’ve always done, and continued to fight for, but I feel like the rest of world is catching up right now and starting to see that Native people know how to manage this land the best.”

The property is at the heart of the tribe’s ancestral land and was taken in the 1800s to exploit its old-growth redwoods and other natural resources, the tribe said. Save the Redwoods League bought the property in 2013 and began working with the tribe and others to restore it.

Much of the property was paved over by a lumber operation that worked there for 50 years and also buried Prairie Creek, where salmon would swim upstream from the Pacific to spawn.

Plans for ’O Rew include a traditional Yurok village of redwood plank houses and a sweat house. There also will be a new visitor and cultural center displaying scores of sacred artefacts from deerskins to baskets that have been returned to the tribe from university and museum collections, Clayburn said.

It will add more than a mile (1.6km) of new trails, including a new segment of the California Coastal Trail, with interpretive exhibits. The trails will connect to many of the existing trails inside the parks, including to popular old-growth redwood groves.

The tribe had already been restoring salmon habitat for three years on the property, building a meandering stream channel, two connected ponds and about 20 acres (8 hectares) of floodplain while dismantling a defunct mill site. Crews also planted more than 50,000 native plants, including grass-like slough sedge, black cottonwood and coast redwood trees.

Salmon were once abundant in rivers and streams running through these redwood forests, But dams, logging, development and drought – due in part to the climate crisis – have destroyed the waterways and threatened many of these species. Last year, recreational and commercial king salmon fishing seasons were closed along much of the west coast due to near-record low numbers of the iconic fish returning to their spawning grounds.

The tribe will take ownership in 2026 of the land near the tiny northern California community of Orick in Humboldt county after restoration of a local tributary, Prairie Creek, is complete under the deal.

A growing Land Back movement has been returning Indigenous homelands to the descendants of those who lived there for millennia before European settlers arrived. That has seen Native American tribes taking a greater role in restoring rivers and lands to how they were before they were expropriated.

Last week, a 2.2-acre (0.9-hectare) parking lot was returned to the Ohlone people where they established the first human settlement beside San Francisco Bay 5,700 years ago. In 2022, more than 500 acres (200 hectares) of redwood forest on the Lost Coast were returned the InterTribal Sinkyone Wilderness Council, a group of 10 tribes.

The ’O Rew property represents just a tiny fraction of the more than 500,000 acres of the ancestral land of the Yurok, whose reservation straddles the lower 44 miles (70km) of the Klamath River. The Yurok tribe is also helping lead efforts in the largest dam removal project in US history along the California-Oregon border to restore the Klamath and boost the salmon population.

The Redwoods national park superintendent, Steve Mietz, praised the restoration of the area and its return to the tribe, saying it is “healing the land while healing the relationships among all the people who inhabit this magnificent forest”.

#excerpts #yurok tribe #national parks #California #environment #indigenous rights #tribal rights #land back #national park service #ecosystems #biodiversity #salmon

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attendsquoi · 6 months ago

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Thea's Quest ~ Ch. 3

Chapter 3: Breakdown

Summary: Thea runs into the woods and confronts some past and current fears. She’s reminded that healing takes a village.

Warnings: Canon typical violence, panic attacks, hallucinations (there’s a happy ending I promise!)

Word count: 3.5k

Five years at camp made Thea pretty familiar with the woods. The forest was undoubtedly dangerous, but if you went in prepared and level headed then you’d make it out fine. The closer you were to the border with camp, the less likely you were to encounter monsters. Under normal circumstances, Thea would stick close to the treeline. But she needed to fight something, so she followed Zephyros Creek deeper into the woods.

It wasn’t too long before Thea felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She was being watched. Good.

While she was looking for a fight, Thea still wanted to be careful. She walked through the stream to get to the other bank, not caring about her socks and boots getting wet.

In the near distance, she heard rustling. Thea adjusted her grip on her dagger. She was ready.

The noise grew louder, and almost seemed like it was coming from above. Thea’s eyes darted around the area when she finally saw movement. Off to her left, a giant ant was clambering toward her. And then there was a swarm.

“Styx.” Thea swore, realizing her mistake.

It was one thing to go look for a monster or two, but in the darkness she had stumbled upon the Myrmeke Lair.

The massive ant hill was home to the Myrmekes, giant ants the size of German Shepherds. While not the most violent, they are powerful in numbers and determined hoarders of all things shiny.

Thea’s dagger glinted in the moonlight. The Myrmekes barreled down the hill. Thea turned and ran.

The first Myrmeke caught up to her quickly. The girl turned to face it, barely managing to avoid a spray of poison.

Thea crouched into a defensive stance and started swinging. She quickly cut one of the mandibles before it could call even more ants over. Then the Myrmeke pushed toward her, shoving her into a nearby tree.

Its antennae tickled her neck, and the Myrmeke pushed harder.

“This is so gross.” Thea couldn’t help whimpering aloud.

The Myrmeke’s unscathed mandible scratched her wrist. She dropped her dagger.

“No!” She yelped.

Immediately, the Myrmeke pulled away from Thea, snatching up the weapon and then rushing deeper into the forest.

“Huh?” Thea wondered aloud.

Without any precious metal on her person, the Myrmekes didn’t seem to pay Thea much attention. They were swarming toward something else.

Without a weapon, Thea knew it was time to find a way out of the woods, but her curiosity got the better of her. Hiding behind rocks and shrubs (you can never be too careful), Thea followed the trail of Myrmekes and eventually saw something shine between the trees. It was gold, like her dagger, but it wasn’t any kind of weapon. It was huge, and vaguely mechanical. The Myrmekes converged upon the metallic object. Thea never got a clear view, but she swore it looked like a massive wing.

Thea turned to find her way back when the ants finally unlodged the piece of metal; a grating scraping sound rang out around them. Thea froze.

The harsh noise brought her back to the sharpening of the butcher’s knife. She felt the ropes digging into her skin, holding her above the flame. She could smell the charred flesh, burnt hair, and the putrid, warm, suffocating scent of death.

Out of the corner of her eye, Thea saw movement in the shadows. She spun around; she swore she saw something glint in the dark.

Clash! Clang!

The Myrmekes started rolling the metal back to the ant hill.

Thea jumped, startled, and then she started running.

She had to get away from the ants, from the wing, from that sound, from the woods. As she ran, Thea felt the wind stinging her face. She realized she was crying.

The realization only made the feeling worse. Against her will, Thea wished Luke was there. All the times he hugged her after an injury or comforted her after a harsh day of training flooded her mind. Only now was she beginning to feel the pain of what she had lost.

Thea yelped, then hit the ground.

~~~

She had tripped over the root of a tree. Pulling her ankle to her body, she stopped to examine it. No break, and it probably wasn’t sprained. The only thing she really had to worry about were the new scrapes on her palms.

Pulling herself up, Thea glanced at the tree that she had fallen over. She swore it was frowning at her disapprovingly – or perhaps that was pity – and she wished that Grover were in here with her. He always knew which trees were dryads, while Thea only guessed right half the time.

“Sorry.” She apologized with a pained smile. Better safe than sorry.

Looking around, Thea noticed that she was no longer on the path. She moved to retrace her steps, but when she walked forward she realized she no longer had any sense of direction. She couldn’t see her footprints, couldn’t hear the stream, and the dense tree cover blocked any view of the stars and moon. Thea became uncomfortably aware that she did not have any weapon.

It was at that moment that she heard it. The faint crushing of bark and leaves, the deep echoey rumble of the earth.

Immediately, her breath grew ragged. She knew that sound. Thea felt hot with fear, standing as still as she could despite the way her hands shook and her breath came out in anxious pants through her nose.

It was no use. It had already heard her, seen her. The snapping of twigs grew closer, and through the foliage, high in the trees, Thea saw the blinking of one big, evil, yellow eye.

~~~

Thea ran. She had no clue what direction she was going: if she was heading out of the woods or deeper in. She paid no mind to the brambles scratching her arms and legs or her cold feet - still wet from walking through the stream - or the blistering of her ankles. She just ran.

Behind her, she could hear the rustle of trees being pushed out of the way, and feel the stomping of the cyclops’ massive feet from the vibrations across the forest floor. Gradually, though, the sensations started mixing with her memories – the creaking of old floorboards, the crackle and pop of a flame, the stomping echoing across cement rooms.

She kept running. Somewhere, deep in her head, a rational voice was telling her to calm down, to find a place to hide, to remember to breathe. She couldn’t hear it over the roar of her heartbeat flooding her skull.

She remembered feeling so afraid. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears. Her whole body pulsed with her erratic breathing. She was so scared then. She was so scared now.

Last time, they had managed to escape. All of them. Thea, Annabeth, Thalia, Luke. But Thea played no part in that. It was all Annabeth. If not for her, Thea would have died – and so would have Thalia and Luke. Not that it mattered. Thea couldn’t save Thalia in Virginia, and then she couldn’t save her at Camp. Gods know she failed to save Luke, and now she was going to fail to save herself.

She’s not good for anything – for anyone. She’s stupid enough to go into the forest, at night, barely armed. Now she can’t even fight. The only thing she’s ever been good at is the same thing that saved her every time she couldn’t save one of her friends: running away.

She ran away from the Hill; she lost Thalia. She ran away from Camp; she lost Luke. The only one left to lose was herself.

Thea could feel a familiar dread creeping up on her, clouding the space behind her eyelids like the most menacing experience of deja vu.

Just then, she spotted her saving grace: a small hole in a rock wall. It was barely large enough for a small family of woodland creatures, but Thea didn’t care. She squeezed her body down, scraping her arms and legs against the rough, cold stone. Already, in the corner of her vision, she swore she could see a silhouette. She recognized it immediately; she would know Luke anywhere. She forced herself deeper into the hole, leaning her head back against the rock and clenching her eyes shut. It was too late.

~~~

When Thea had gone into the Big House to bandage her wound, she failed to see Chiron, observing her from the window. The centaur watched her carefully, realizing she was not in a proper state of mind, but before he could confront her she turned and ran toward the woods. As soon as he realized what she was doing, Chiron trotted after her. But even with four legs, he was too slow. By the time he made it to the treeline, she was already gone.

Back in Washington D.C., Diana Prince got a phone call.

“Hello, this is Miss Prince.” She answered groggily.

“Diana, it’s Thea. She needs help.” Chiron’s voice rang through the other line.

There was a moment of silence as Diana sat up suddenly, immediately concerned.

“What has happened? Where is she?” She asked worriedly.

The centaur sighed wearily on the other end.

“She ran into the woods. Even in daylight we’d be hard pressed to find her. She seemed… motivated. But also scared. I– I’m worried for her. The woods are not a safe place to be alone in, especially at night.” He informed her.

Diana frowned.

“I’ll get on it.” She replied, hanging up the phone.

~~~

A light flashed on the batcomputer, indicating an incoming call.

“Hello? Wonder Woman?” A young voice asked.

Diana paused, confused, stopping her preparations.

“Robin?” She asked, after a moment.

“Yes ma’am.” The voice replied.

Diana huffed.

“Robin, it’s - what - three am?” She said, confused.

“Uh huh.” Robin hummed in affirmation, unbothered.

“Why are you awake?” Diana pressed. “Actually - no, nevermind. I need to speak to Batman.” She insisted.

“Um, I’m sorry, he can’t come to the phone right now.” Robin said.

“Robin.” Diana warned.

The boy heard the threat in her tone.

“Just one second, patching you through now.” He replied hurriedly, not wanting to be on the Amazon’s bad side.

Diana frowned as a quiet elevator jingle played through the phone.

“Stupid bats.” She muttered under her breath, raking her hand through her hair worriedly.

A moment later, the phone clicked.

“What do you want.” A gruff voice demanded.

Diana breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bruce.” She began, not bothering with codenames. This was serious. “It’s Thea, she’s in trouble and– and I don’t know where she is. I need to find her.” Diana said, the worry seeping into her tone.

Batman huffed at the lack of professionalism, but was uneasy at the anxiety in Diana’s voice. It wasn’t like her.

“How can I help?” He asked, grunting as he kicked a goon. He was working, after all.

Diana sighed.

“I– I don’t know. I need to find her. Do you have a tracker on her?” Diana asked.

On the other end of the line, she could only hear faint grunting.

“Why would I have a tracker on her?” Batman asked, defensiveness slipping into his normally steady tone.

“Do you?” Diana pressed, not in the mood for a conversation around boundaries and personal privacy. Not when Thea was missing.

There’s a beat of silence.

“... yes.” Batman replied.

“Send me her location?” Diana asked, tone almost begging.

“Of course, right away.” Batman agreed, then hung up the phone.

Diana sighed, stressed out. A moment later, her phone pinged with Thea’s last location.

“Don’t worry baby, I’m on my way.” Diana murmured to herself, rushing out of the apartment.

~~~

As she flew to the zeta tube, Diana called Chiron.

“Diana.” The centaur answered quickly.

“I’m on my way. I have her location.” Diana said breathlessly.

Chiron sighed in relief, deciding not to question how she knows where Thea is.

“Good luck. And be careful.” Chiron reminded her.

“I will.” Diana promised, hanging up the phone as she plugged in the coordinates for the Manhattan zeta tube.

Diana flew through the city with a one track mind: to reach Thea.

Reaching the hill, Diana flew quickly over it and through the border, making a beeline for the woods. It was still too early for most campers to be awake, but Diana was concerned with the amount of time it had taken her to get there. If something had happened to Thea… she didn’t know what she would do.

Once she got into the woods, she couldn’t fly because of the trees - but she ran quickly, heading toward the tracker. She jumped across the stream and moved deeper into the forest. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shaky trench, as if something had been dragged across the ground, but she paid it no mind.

When she got within a few yards of the tracker, she was on her own. She started looking around, searching frantically for her protege. Diana scanned the trees and – though everything in her refused to believe it – she inspected the ground, looking for any sign of Thea’s lifeless body.

Suddenly, from a little ways away, Diana heard a desperate whimper. Her eyes shot over to a rock wall a few feet away.

~~~

Thea was cold.

She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes, she couldn’t tell if her eyes were shut or open. She couldn’t move. Her body felt impossibly stiff, like she had been turned to ice, or to bark. For a moment, Thea wondered if she had been turned into a tree like Thalia. Had her mother – whoever she was – in one fell swoop, a first and final act of mercy, transformed her to stop her suffering? It was hardly unheard of.

For only a second, the thought brought her peace.

But then Thea heard the snapping of branches and she knew it wasn’t real. And of course it wasn’t; Thea’s mother had waited 17 years to show she cared – why would she start now?

Unbidden, Thea’s thoughts shot to the words Luke said to her last night. He hadn’t really been there, but Thea had been bombarded with thoughts of him the whole night. Along with their other talents, some cyclops can cause hallucinations - of which Thea had undoubtedly been the victim.

Still, real or not, she heard the words again.

Your mom doesn’t care about you. Whoever she is, she doesn’t even know you even exist. Or maybe she does – she just doesn’t care about you enough to claim you.

You failed your mom and you failed me.

Just like you failed Thalia.

Failed.

Thea whimpered.

The words spiraled in her head, the voice morphing – sometimes Luke, then her dad, then Thalia, then Diana.

You failed.

She heard her mentor’s voice, angry and sad, the epitome of disappointment. Thea thought that it couldn’t get worse than the memories of Thalia and Luke, but somehow this cut through the numbness only to hurt sharper, deeper.

She thought that if she could cry, or if she had any awareness of her body, that she would be crying.

Somewhere in the back of her brain, there was a rustling noise and muffled words, but Thea wasn’t present enough to pay it any attention, much less understand what was being said.

Diana’s voice emerged again, gradually morphing into Artemis then Robin then Batman then Kaldur, as they all tell her how they don’t trust her, they can’t, not after she’s failed so many times. Not after she’s been so stupid.

There was a miniscule part of Thea’s brain that was sure she was crying now.

A new word cut through Thea’s mind.

Cold.

Yes. Thea thought. I’m so cold.

But different from the other memories and hallucinations, this voice wasn’t taunting. If anything it was… worried?

A muffled flash washed over Thea. Her muscles burned, as if her body had been put through the most intense workout. She felt tired. She heard the voice again: Diana.

Thea gasped as her eyes shot open for a split second. She saw Diana, who had woken up in the middle of the night, who had flown to save her, who had pulled her weeping body out of a hole in the rock.

Thea saw Diana, the edges of her vision still white and blurry. Then she passed out.

~~~

When Thea came to, she was somewhere warm and soft. Her eyes felt heavy, and she waited as the feeling gradually came back to her fingers and toes. She listened, and she could hear Diana’s voice muttering not too far away.

She couldn’t make out too many words, but it sounded like she was assuring whoever was on the other end of the phone that Thea was okay. She caught something that sounded like freezing and hallucinating.

Gradually, Thea forced her eyes open, blinking hard. She hissed as she felt blinded by the soft lamp light. Off to her side, she heard Diana gasp lightly then hang up the phone.

Before she could really realize what was happening, Diana was at her side, brushing her hair out of her face. Unwittingly, Thea leaned into her touch.

“Sweet girl.” Diana murmured.

Thea flushed slightly at the sympathy, glancing down at herself. Her arms and legs were covered in cuts and scrapes, but they’d all been cleaned and the deeper ones had been bandaged. Suddenly, she felt her stomach churn uncomfortably.

“Diana.” Thea whimpered a warning, and Diana quickly reached for the trash can, already prepped with a trash bag.

Thea threw up, stomach turning as she recalled the previous day’s events, feeling the toll on her body. Diana rubbed her back soothingly. After a couple minutes of mostly dry heaving, Thea felt her breath coming back to her more steadily.

“Okay. Okay, I got it. I’m done.” She muttered, leaning back against the couch.

Diana looked down at her with a concerned frown.

“What… what happened?” Thea asked her.

Diana sighed, worried.

“You’ll have to fill in some gaps for me.” Diana said. “But I’ll tell you what I know.”

~~~

Diana filled her in about the call from Chiron and flying to find her in the woods. She told her about where she was hiding, and how she had pulled her freezing body out of the rock. Apparently she had been hallucinating and mumbling in fear through most of the day. It was now about three in the afternoon the next day.

Thea sighed as she realized what had happened.

“I– I ran into a cyclops. Had a panic attack as I ran away. Between the fear and their ability to mimic voices, I must have started hallucinating.” She said.

Diana’s eyes widened in concern.

“Thea… why were you in the woods?” She asked, raking her fingers gently through the girl’s hair.

Thea felt her eyes watering slightly at the affection.

“I– I had a nightmare.” She murmured. “About Luke.”

Diana nodded as she realized that there was a lot to Thea’s story that she didn't know.

The older woman sighed, shifting on the couch. Thea’s eyes followed her movement, and she sat up slightly against the armrest, pulling her feet closer to her body to make more room for Diana. Diana watched her actions fondly, resting a hand on one of her knees soothingly, adjusting to sit more comfortably next to the girl.

“Thea, I am not going to make you explain everything to me. I know there’s a lot. But with that, I ask that you consider therapy.” Diana said quietly, not wanting to startle her.

Thea’s brows furrowed.

“Therapy? Diana, I– I know I need help.” Thea began. “But who am I supposed to go to for therapy? There aren’t demigod psychologists. I’d get sent to an institution.” She said.

Diana huffed with mild amusement. “Dinah, Black Canary, is a counselor, a therapist.” She explained.

“I thought she ran a flower shop.” Thea muttered.

Diana laughed gently.

“She owns a flower shop, yes. But her day job is as a therapist. I– I hope you don’t mind. I already asked if she’d be willing to sit down with you, about more than just the team. She’s already agreed. She’s ready whenever you are.”

Thea nodded, taking in the information. It’s a lot to process, but she already trusted Black Canary, and she knew she couldn’t keep running on fumes.

“I– okay. Yes. I’ll do it.” Thea murmured, looking back up to Diana.

Diana sighed in relief, hand finding its way forward to cup her face gently.

“Thank you, Thea.”

Thea shook her head, a frown returning to her face.

“No. Gods, no. Why would you thank me? I’m– I’m such a mess. I mean, I was gone for a day and you had to come save me.” Thea cut off her frustrated rambling quickly, realizing something.

She looked up, searching Diana’s face.

“You saved me.” She whispered. “Thank you.” She said, eyes watering.

Diana suddenly felt herself holding back tears.

“Of course, Thea.” She murmured, leaning forward to wipe a tear off her cheek. “I’ll always save you.” She promised.

Thea lunged forward weakly, pulling her mentor into a bony hug. Diana chuckled through a few tears, holding Thea tightly.

“I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you, always.”

#kaldur'ahm x oc #luke castellan x oc #percy jackson #young justice fanfiction #young justice #percy jackson fanfiction #kaldur'ahm x reader #luke castellan x reader #kaldur x reader #kaldur x oc #wonder woman x child!reader #thea's quest #grover underwood #annabeth chase #diana prince #wonder woman #kaldur'ahm #luke castellan

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heliads · 2 years ago

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Hi, same anon who asked before! Can I please request Goody with a female reader who’s secretly a witch and a member of the seven and he finds out when she uses magic during a fight and takes out like ten guys at once? Thanks so much ❤️❤️

this is incredible. magnificent seven fans we must find each other

masterlist

Witches are not real. We love stories, all of us, tall tales and fables and legends too, but they’re not real. No matter how many times your older cousins whisper things to you under the cover of nightfall, terrible, twisted imaginings about elderly crones with raven familiars or eternally youthful enchantresses compelled to grind the bones of wrongdoers, we know they are not real. The glow of the firelight makes you think they could be real, but they are, at the end of the day, just stories. Stories, and nothing more.

Witches are real, because you are. There is no telling how it happened, what combination of full moons and thirteenth Fridays, black cats and broken mirrors, all manifested to make you what you are. We are a product of what we need. Perhaps your family needed the protection that a normal daughter could not bring. Perhaps they just deserved the curse of you. No one can tell for sure.

You grew up in a small town, same as everyone else’s but wonderfully original, too. The lanterns that swayed when a cold wind blew in were a particular shade of muted gold known only to you, the floors creak in a tune that no one else would hear quite like you did. Backcountry village dwellers know the clopping of new hoofs, the signal of a newcomer, and they know how the sun beats down on your back after a long day of work, but they’ll never know your particular shade of it.

It was a quiet upbringing, for the most part. Your mother raised you right, and turned a blind eye when you took to foraging in the woods for plants and stones she did not recognize. She wasn’t too pleased about the whole affair at first, but then one of the younger boys across the street broke her favorite ceramic jug, the one her mother had made. You fixed it with a few muttered words and a twist of your wrist, and after that your specific brand of devilry was allowed in the house so long as no one else saw it.

No child likes to hide away forever, though, not when they feel there’s nothing about them unduly wrong. Perhaps the devil himself had chosen to make you a little more than human, or perhaps the angels lingered too long over your cradle when you were a baby, but regardless of the source, you were still you, still good, and you didn’t see why that warranted the need to forever live in shame and fear of discovery.

You came close one night. You were old enough to outgrow your mother but too young to match her wisdom. In an attempt to help your family, you were almost discovered while trying to turn the smallish squirrel one of your brothers caught into something better, something that could feed all of you. One of the neighbors had decided to do a little poking around at the time you were spellcasting, and that little glimpse could have cost you everything.

They never saw anything outright suspicious, but it was too close, and the prospect of a witch hunt wouldn’t do you any good out here when no one would speak up for you. People don’t like girls with mouths to run. No one would defend such a witch from the flame.

If the town will not protect the girl, then the girl will protect herself. You ran far away, far enough away that no one had heard your name and certainly didn’t care to listen to it. You find work here and there, never quite enough pay to make you settle in one place but enough to keep you alive. You pass from village to village, city to city, and somehow along the way, you find a little place called Rose Creek.

It’s not a marvel by any means. This is a town. You have seen many of its kind before, countless iterations of the same style of brick and mortar and abandoned hopes for better things. The faces are new, the people down on different kinds of luck, but it’s largely the same as always. You were planning on repeating your usual schedule of sticking around for a few months before hitting the road again lest someone discover you, but then you hear about the situation they’ve got going on and you decide otherwise.

A man named Sam Chisholm is putting together a plan to release Rose Creek from some kind of mining tycoon. He’s asking for every able hand to pitch in, something you hear about when you ride in later that night. Over time, you’ve had to learn how to defend yourself from a great many sharp-eyed bullies who’ve found you out, so your marksmanship is as good as any hired gun.

You find Sam’s main group sitting around a table at a nearby saloon and decide to offer up your services. Doing good makes you feel better, eases the heavy burden that always seems to press against your ribs after too many long nights. When you have gifts like yours and you don’t use them to help, it’s as good as aiding the enemy.

The men take your offer about as expected. One of them, a cocky hotshot you later learn is called Faraday, actually starts laughing. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he chokes out between guffaws, “I don’t think you’re made for the front lines. Maybe you can help get the rest of the women and children to safety, though?”

You arch a brow. The rest of the group has the decency to shake their heads and look away, avoiding eye contact. “Alright,” you tell him coolly, “Just to ease my temper, though, would y’want to engage in a bit of a shooting contest? Since we’re so far from the front lines now, I’m sure I’ll survive somehow.”

Faraday grins and agrees to your challenge in a heartbeat, smirking over at his friends like he isn’t stressed about losing in the slightest. One of the men looks like he might have to disagree with Faraday’s bravado, though. He’s a little older than the man rolling his eyes as he heads out to the targets outside the saloon, and looks at you with a smile you’re pretty sure is with you instead of just at your expense.

This second man chuckles a little to himself, takes a swallow of the drink in front of him, and tells you to make Faraday wager on the contest, just so your opponent can embarrass himself a little more. You laugh at that, raising your hand in mock salute before joining Faraday outside the saloon. The rules of the shooting contest are agreed upon; three targets from increasingly far distances, closest to the center wins.

Five rounds later, Faraday’s swears increase in volume as he loses progressively more money, and you’re sitting at Sam Chisholm’s table, discussing the group’s plan to rid Rose Creek of its rather oppressive hosts. You learn the names and attitudes of all those at the table, including the one who’d known you’d win from the start.

Goodnight Robicheaux is not what you’d expected of him. You’ve heard stories of an ex-soldier with a gift for bloodthirst, as the so-called Angel of Death is a tale that’s spread far and wide even without Goodnight’s input, but you hadn’t expected the actual man behind the myth to be quite like him. Goody’s nice, a decent man and a better shot, but you wouldn’t connect the name with the body unless someone told you. Goodnight doesn’t like showing off with a gun.

In fact, he doesn’t like touching a weapon at all. You can tell that it’s starting to rankle Faraday and the rest of the men from Rose Creek who’ve agreed to help out– here you have a legend of the war, and he won’t even look at a gun– but Goodnight steadfastly refuses to give in to their not so silent pressure. He offers advice and has promised to help liberate the town, but he will not become the man of such fear and admiration.

You have to respect it. Although you haven’t asked Goody why he won’t shoot a round with the rest, you can guess as to why. Death doesn’t come easy to everyone. This man is a soldier. Was a soldier. He knows what it is to hate what you are. You can understand that better than anyone.

Maybe that’s why the two of you have gotten along so well. You talk when you want to, swap stories when you wish it, but when the nights get long and neither of you can sleep for memories both of you want to hide, you can find him pacing the streets of the town, and you know that you are not alone. Sometimes you walk for miles in the silence, and you have never felt more secure.

The day of the attack sneaks up on you. Bogue’s men show up on the horizon, too many, too strong, but Rose Creek won’t waver and neither will you. You all have your places to be so this mad plan can be orchestrated, so when the sun starts to flood across the sky, you hurry to your station, ready your gun, and prepare your mind to die.

You swore to yourself that you would not use magic during this fight. You don’t need your spells, not really; you’ve long since learned that it’s safer to use a gun to fight off attackers, so you trust your aim in cases like this. The benefit of magic, though, is its strength. Picking off enemy fighters one by one with a gun is nothing compared to how simple it would be to pull up energy from the ground and condemn a dozen men to their graves in the span of half a second.

You can feel it gnawing at you throughout the fight, the knowledge of how easy it would be to end it all. Is it not a sort of betrayal to your friends, to have the capacity to save them all the faster but refuse to use it? You are helping them with your guns right now, but could it ever be enough?

You will not use your spells. You cannot. You should not. Bogue’s men seem to pour out of every cavity in every wall, a thousand rats in a plague upon your friends. If this is your last stand, so be it. It is a good thing to die for a good cause. Better when you’ve spent your whole life running in the hopes of finding something like it.

There is one thing you cannot accept, however, and that is the death of someone you care about. It is one thing to rationalize your own self-sacrifice, but when you look across the battlefield and realize that the bullets of a Gatling gun are about to speed across town and wreck the very church steeple in which Goodnight and Billy are stationed in, the shock and fear of it cuts you like a blade to the heart.

There is no time, none at all. The trigger has already been pulled. There is nothing any man could do to save them, not up there. You will have the perfect view as they fall from all the way up there. And you look up at him, up on the steeple, and you know that he is not coming down. Not unless you do something. Not unless you do it now.

Nothing no man could do. You are no regular man. It is the easiest thing in the world to think of what you wish. The magic responds instantly, tugging away from your fingers and into the earth. It’s like it’s been waiting this whole time, begging to be used. Clouds of dust rise up from the streets, forming a perfect circle around the church. Then, in a flash, they move out, blocking everything in their path. The bullets ricochet off, finding new targets in the sides of buildings and even enemy soldiers. You count a dozen downed fighters, maybe more than that, all having previously aimed to kill your friends. All dead now.

The Gatling gun goes silent. All is quiet for a moment. You see silhouettes shifting up in the church steeple, and even from this distance, you recognize Goody when he stands and stares at you. Your hands are raised. No one else had been focused on the steeple except for you. There is no proof that you could do something like that, but he does not need proof to explain what he feels, what he knows right now.

We do not ask questions when impossible things happen. Not when they are good. When a bullet that should have struck you right between your eyes somehow curves and misses you mid flight, you praise the Lord instead of asking why. When you swear you caught two fish but there are four flopping there on the bank the next time you blink, you only admire the fine meal you have before you. They could have known you were a witch, all of them. Odds are they did. You don’t ask, though. None of us do.

Goodnight asks. He waits until the battle is over, until it is won, until the only danger comes from him knowing and you not being able to tell how he will react. He times it so you almost think you’ll get away without him putting two and two together, and then he turns to you, muffled by the din of victorious conversation, and asks, “It was you that saved us, wasn’t it?”

You shrug, looking away with a pointed determination. “I’d say that’s a pretty strong compliment. We all helped as much as we could, you know. Saying that I specifically saved you ignores the rest.”

Goody shakes his head. “You know what I’m talking about. Bullets can’t bounce off of thin air. Unless, of course, someone makes them.”

Your fingers are perfectly still on the table in front of you. “I don’t know how that would happen.”

“Neither do I,” Goody says quietly, “And I’ve decided that it’s not important to me that I do know. What’s important to me is that whoever saved us risked their life to do so. Secrets like that can be deadly. If you ever find out who diverted those bullets, I’d like you to thank them for me.”

You risk a glance his way. Goodnight’s looking fondly at his friends gathered on the other side of the table– a round of cards has started up already, even though the only deck they have has been riddled severely by bullet holes– but that smile, that smile is for you. You know it. He does too.

“It might have been me,” you whisper.

He looks over at you at last. “I’m glad it was,” he tells you. “I’m glad it was you.”

magnificent seven tag list: empty for now, feel free to ask to be added!

bonus tag for @starlit-epiphany bc its your man!! and there are other people than us still in this fandom!!

#goodnight robicheaux #goodnight robicheaux imagines #goodnight robicheaux x reader #goodnight robicheaux oneshot #magnificent seven #magnificent seven imagines #magnificent seven x reader #magnificent seven oneshot #magnificent seven goodnight #magnificent seven goodnight imagines #magnificent seven goodnight x reader #magnificent seven goodnight oneshot

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headchefshcs · 1 year ago

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Creek // NSFW HCs

“only one person who can think in this relationship and it isn’t you”

NSFW undercut Minors DNI, They/Them pronouns used,

*Very all over the place forgive me

When you first meet Creek your hesitant, after all your friend Branch has told you how . Little did you know you caught his eye. He convinces you to join one yoga class with him, it’ll be fun! oh boy…

Creek would mess with you when your first in a relationship. With both in public and in private be all lovey dovey and giving you attention one minute then giving you the cold shoulder and being a dick the next.

Hes not afraid to tease you in public, for example he’d he placing his hand a little too high on your thigh when sat down or in yoga session pinch your nipple while smirking, knowing you can’t say or do anything.

When hes being both sweet and awful to you he would call you pet names such as beloved or sweetheart, babying you and making you feel inferior to him. When your completely brain dead after he’s done with you he’ll be squishing your face and baby talking to you. “Cant even handle such a simple task hm?”

Creek loves saying things such as: “awww what’s wrong can ya not understand, my words too much for ya?”, or “oh come now my dear, I'm sure you can manage a task as simple as this..? For me?", especially after he’s fucked you stupid. He also insists you call him Master or Sir

After going back and forth with his tactics you just become so reliant on him you just become a nothing more than little accessory or pet to him, draped around his neck going wherever he goes

Creek would make you get a unwanted tongue, multiple ear, nipple, belly, dick/pussy piercings, all nice and gold just like his ones. He has you get multiple at a time and immediately starts playing with them after their done. Maybe a tramp stamp or a tattoo of his name just above your dick/pussy. all while saying “I’ve got the best intentions for ya babe”

Creek would put a collar on you, a stylish one with a nice pattern on it and gold pendant with you name (or petname) and on the back says either “if lost return to creek” or “creeks slut/pet” engraved with his name and a pretty leash

Creek loves showing you off to everyone, leading you around the village nude, with only you collar on having you on your hands and knees whimpering for him.

If someone asks about you he just casually says “yeah they can’t keep their dick/pussy to themselves”, “just taking my little puppy for a walk”, “you can look but can’t touch…”

Creek has trained you so well that he can just wake up to you sucking him off or sitting patiently with your tongue out. Everyday when seeing you each morning, ready to please him, with you pretty collar and accessories and can’t help but think of how proud he is... For breaking you, for treating you like his little personal pet. The you before him is gone now. As he pets you on your head he chuckles to himself “look at you, you were meant to be like this”

Sorry this is very all over the place these HC are from a discord discussion and is all over the place. Most likely a part 2 will come out soon

#trolls x reader

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mkorpse13 · 1 year ago

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Time to ramble about my Ed Edd n Eddy Fantasy AU that I keep forgetting about.

I really like the idea of a lot of them being mythical creatures, it’s so fun to draw them as mythical creatures! I decided to give you guys the roles all the characters play in this au.

The pictures below each description is more of a reference than the actual design. Most designs will turn out to be much different from how the original design looked in each image.

(Any drawings of this au from the past are considered outdated as some of the designs have changed)

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Ed - Half dragon that is learning magic

Ed, like his sister is half dragon. He had more human features but he still has visible horns and sharp teeth. He wears a cloak and wizard hat with star and moon designs all over them.

He practices magic and mainly learns from the picture books he reads. He somehow learns way better from pictures than he does from actual spell books and actual magic classes.

Edd - Lizard Human Hybrid

Edd specializes in potions, and usually is a big help whenever you need a remedy for healing, strength, etc. He mostly is going on adventures with his two best friends.

Eddy - Jester

When he isn’t entertaining the royalty, he is usually scamming the towns people or stealing with the help of his two friends.

Kevin - Royal Guard in Training

He’s usually riding around on his horse or is training to be the top guard.

Rolf - Faun

His family had recently traveled up to the village know as “Peach Creek”, where he meets his new friends. He is mostly seen at his farm, but sometimes has the free time to goof off with Kevin and Nazz.

Nazz - Mermaid

She is usually found near the ocean talking with the village boys who make attempts to date her, she usually brushes them all off. When she isn’t being flirted with she’s usually hanging out with Kevin whenever he isn’t training.

(Didn’t have a picture for her 😭)

Jimmy - Princess

Jimmy prefers to be referred to as a princess and wear a princess dress as he thinks it makes him look more royal. He enjoys long walks in his garden or secretly running off to go enjoy his time with his friends of Peach Creek.

Sarah - Human Dragon Hybrid

She is very fond of gold and treasure and tends to hide it from everyone else, although she gives Jimmy some when she feels generous. She has the more dragon features out of her and Ed.

Jonny - Elf

He is usually found in the woods hanging out with his buddy, Plank. He can clone himself using certain spells, and is quite helpful with direction or when you are lost in the woods.

Kanker Sisters - Witches

The three sisters are usually in their cottage far into the woods plotting their next evil plan against the people of Peack Creek.

This AU idea is so fun, hopefully I can and even maybe make fanfics for it in the future :D

#definitely want to draw more for this au #if you have any questions for this please ask!!#ed edd n eddy #eene #eene rolf #eene kevin #eene edd #eene eddy #ed eene #eene double d #eene nazz #eene jimmy #eene sarah #eene jonny #eene may #eene marie #eene lee #eene fantasy au

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whencyclopedia · 3 months ago

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Battle of the Little Bighorn

The Battle of the Little Bighorn (25-26 June 1876) is the most famous engagement of the Great Sioux War (1876-1877). Five divisions of the 7th Cavalry under Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer (l. 1839-1876) were wiped out in one day by the combined forces of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors under the Sioux chief Sitting Bull (l. c. 1837-1890).

Custer located Sitting Bull's camp by the banks of the Little Bighorn River (known to the local Native Americans as the Greasy Grass) in modern-day Montana but had no idea how large it was or how many warriors were present. Having been given a free hand to wage total war against the Plains Indians, Custer divided his command as he had in 1868 at the Washita Massacre. His plan was to attack the camp from opposite sides and close on it in a pincer movement, capturing the women and children as hostages, and forcing whatever warriors had not been killed to surrender. He sent Captain Frederick Benteen (l. 1834-1898) to scout, and Major Marcus Reno (l. 1834-1889) to position himself to strike at the far side.

When Reno launched his attack, however, he was met by a large force of warriors under Sioux war chief Gall (l. c. 1840-1894). Benteen, who had been ordered to bring ammunition to Custer's position, instead tried to support Reno but wound up joining him in retreat. While Gall was driving back Reno and Benteen, Sioux war chief Crazy Horse (l. c. 1840-1877) led a charge against Custer's position.

Custer and all five companies with him were killed in what has come to be known as "Custer's Last Stand." The battle was a decisive Native American victory but could not be capitalized upon because of the public outcry for revenge for the death of Custer, a popular hero of the American Civil War who had also made a name for himself as an Indian Fighter.

After the Battle of the Little Bighorn (also known as the Battle of the Greasy Grass), the Native American leaders went their separate ways to avoid capture and execution. The last major engagements of the Great Sioux War were US victories (or a draw, in the case of the Battle of Wolf Mountain), and, with the Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and others pushed onto reservations, the Great Plains were open for colonization.

Background

According to the Yanktonai Sioux Chief Lone Dog's Winter Count (a yearly account of events from 1800-1870), "White soldiers made their first appearance in the region" in 1823-1824 (Townsend, 128). The Sioux had little to do with them until 1854 when 2nd Lieutenant John L. Grattan arrived at the camp of Sioux Chief Conquering Bear (l. c. 1800-1854) and demanded the surrender of a man he claimed had stolen a cow from a passing wagon train of Mormons. Conquering Bear refused the demand, Grattan's men opened fire (mortally wounding Conquering Bear), and the Sioux then slaughtered Grattan and the 30 troops under his command in what came to be known as the Grattan Fight or the Grattan Massacre, leading to the First Sioux War of 1854-1856.

Prior to the Grattan Fight, the US government had negotiated land rights and territories with several nations of Plains Indians, including the Sioux and the Cheyenne, through the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851, which stipulated, among other terms, that the United States had no claim on the lands occupied by those nations. Southern Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle (l. c. 1803-1868) was among those who signed the treaty, which was never honored by the United States and was broken in 1858 when gold was discovered in the region, prompting Pike's Peak Gold Rush and an influx of settlers. Further encroachments led to the Colorado War (1864-1865), during which Black Kettle's peaceful village, flying the American flag and the white flag of truce, was attacked in the Sand Creek Massacre of 29 November 1864.

Black Kettle at Sand Creek

Stone Rabbit (CC BY-SA)

As more settlers claimed Native American lands as their own, Oglala Sioux Chief Red Cloud (l. 1822-1909) launched Red Cloud's War (1866-1868) in defense of his people's land and to force the United States to honor its treaty. The war concluded with the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 but, that same year, Black Kettle, his wife, and between 60-150 Cheyenne and Arapaho were slaughtered by troops under Custer's command at the Washita Massacre on 27 November. The treaty of 1868 established the Great Sioux Reservation, but this was broken when, in 1874, Custer discovered gold in the Black Hills, sacred to the Sioux (and other nations) and part of the lands promised them. The Black Hills Gold Rush of 1876 that resulted from Custer's find ignited the Great Sioux War when the US government demanded the Sioux sell the Black Hills and the Sioux refused.

#History #SittingBull #GreatSiouxWar #USHistory

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gardengummyeel · 4 months ago

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Frog Wizards

Frog wizards, three of them, and their human mercenary-turned retainer-turned adoptive father warrior that bring balance to the elemental forces through their self-sacrifice, each becoming a statue that guards a valley associated with whatever element they embodied.

One guards a valley high in the mountains, snow perpetually covering the steep, but safe, staircase that leads to the small grotto where their statue resides. The grotto plays host to a small temple and settlement, where devoted peoples tend to the statue of their patron and cultivate the population of ribbit-rimes. Small frogs covered in rime and cool to the touch—called ribbit-rimes—decorate both the staircase and the grotto, and in the deep, deep winter they glow ever so softly with cold, blue light. Though harmless on their own, combined they enforce a deep, magical connection to the tree of the world, a single, spiritual root tied directly to the statue of the wizard frog. This connection allows the spirit and will of the wizard, and thus, by extension, the spirit and will of ice itself, to protect the grotto and stabilizes its magic across the planet and planes. Pilgrims are more than welcome, and a village across the grotto's lake is the home of thousands who have decided to carve out a life high in the mountains, or those descended from such people. Though deep in the caves of the mountain, sunlight streams in through crystal clear ice that bathes the hollows in light, and brilliant moss illuminates the cavern ceilings at night with an exact replica of the stars outside; a gift from the spirit of frost. Those knowledgeable in magic that study ice here become as resilient and enduring as the stuff, with the ferocity of a snowstorm that leaves few willing to cross them. Despite this, they often also become kinder, more welcoming people willing to help others at any cost, a teaching from the villagers and monks of the caves.

Another guards the volcanic crevasses of a great desert, where stone, not sand, gives the desert its foundation and where the great heat drives most living things mad. Yet, all throughout the desert exist great towering pinnacles of green, spires growing around ancient cores of volcanoes where cities take root. See, the desert is a mild lie, for beneath the scorching stone lays deep, rich roil, fed by the minerals deep within the earth pushed up by the magma that also scars the land. Caverns here are filled with life, and where it manages to break through the stone above, it turns into these brilliant displays of endurance. It is in the greatest of these that the wizard resides, a massive, wide spire growing around a recently-extinct volcano. A city here celebrates their patron yearly, and worship fire as a force of destruction necessary for life; even the worship of death is welcome, as long as it is selfless and borne from the need to learn and grow. In the stony lands around it, a great labyrinth of homes and worship-palaces and markets trickles out following the gentle flow of the many rivers and creeks flowing from the spire, while the spire itself is a great farm, growing endless fruit and grain. Sky-docks adorn the very top of the spire, and at the center of these stands the proud visage of the wizard, guarding the city through the tiny flicker-frogs. Smaller than a thumb, these tiny creatures glow bright red through their obsidian-black skin, and form the anchor that allows the world tree to manifest a precious few branches in the physical world, blooming with pitaya and lychee and cherimoya and many more tropical fruits. Precious beyond compare, fruits from this tree are valued for their taste, magical properties, and cultural significance. Though they're worth more than their weight in gold, the city distributes the fruit to its citizens every ten-year, when the branches have given enough fruit to do such a thing. The fruit of these branches will never rot, and are in every instance delicious to any who taste their flesh. Foreigners may purchase the fruit for high prices, or they may arrive during the ten-year to receive them as gifts in exchange for other valuable goods. Every century the branches bloom with such vigor that the city sees it fit to share the fruits with the world at large, and send beautiful barges through the sky to distribute the fruit to those who want them. Through these voyages many make friends with those of far-off lands, and some even marry and sire children, settling in their new homes far from their homeland.

The third among them boasts a place in the sky islands floating across the planet's equator, visiting the skies of dozens of nations and peoples in their journey. Though not unified in government, the people of the islands take great care to pass along the wizard's island against the spin of their islands, and the globe. Thus, every person making a home on the floating continent is able to visit such a venerated site and pray or simply lay in its magical wonder. Along the island's journey, small tadpoles with feathery gills swim through the air, translucent and nearly untouchable, only pushing and pulling on physical substance when they deem fit. These develop into small frogs, though these live for many, many years. Most remain small, and are content with being guardian spirits in many homes on the islands. Some grow large indeed, and become venerated spirits in the settlements they call home. The largest among them live in the clouds themselves, swimming contently alongside a retinue of tadpoles and smaller frogs, likened to whales in the sky. These spirits form the anchor of the world tree across the whole world, and its roots are the currents of wind that dictate the weather and routes of sky ships.

All are guarded by a statue of a man, dressed in simple leather armor and with a distinct but not gorgeous face. A man one might come across at any point in their life, elevated to the guardian spirit of the tides of the wild themselves, and venerated just as much as the wizards. Myth speaks of times of crisis, where all seemed lost and the forces of darkness drew their swords to strike down the wizard frogs and break their hold on magic and seize it for themselves. In every attempt the statue is said to have produced a spirit made of flesh and bone in its likeness, drawn its blade (shining in the sun or starlight, depends on the story, with the unmistakable glint of common, cheap steel) and cut them down with as much ease as one might walk through a gentle breeze. The veracity of these claims is contested, but none can deny that the statue of the guardian hidden deep within the valley the wizards first met the man holds great magical power, the confluence of his sons' magic in tempest and tranquility. Rarely, if ever, does the spirit of the guardian grant its gift to a warrior, but when it does that warrior is endowed with a love for their purpose greater than any seen in mortals otherwise. These warriors, called paladins, can dedicate themselves to anything they deem worthy of their service, though the statue grants its gift only to those with love in their hearts. Even so, many paladins have become corrupted by this love, the ways too numerous to list. Around the statue is a small village, protected by the statue and small, mortal frogs that have no innate magical abilities. Despite this, they anchor the heartwood of the world tree to the world, and the force so many describe simply as love becomes a physical, manipulable force. It isn't any stronger than the elements the guardian's sons oversee, not is it weaker. It simply is, and the heart of that which calls upon it dictates its manifestation.

#worldbuilding #frog #wizards #cloudburst #fantasy

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posttexasstressdisorder · 6 months ago

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Lefsetz Letter: Richie Furay in Beaver Creek

[ptsd ed note: this brought me to tears several times. Old Buffalo Springfield/Poco/SoutherHillmanFuray head. But Mr. Leftsetz hit more emotional buttons than those...please read.]

Richie Furay in Beaver Creek

It was my generation.

And I'm not quite sure how I feel about that.

It's not like the old days, there's so much activity in the mountains in the summer you'd almost think you were living in the city. Subsidized performing arts centers, name talent, and a ton of semi or non-talent, you open the "Vail Daily" and there's an endless list.

And there's a free concert series in Beaver Creek every week, Andy said he went to see Asia there, without one original member.

Richie Furay is the genuine article. With a pedigree. The only guy with that high a profile who didn't break through to stardom. You had Stephen Stills and Neil Young and Jim Messina in Buffalo Springfield. The Eagles expanded on that sound. Furay ultimately teamed with Chris Hillman and J.D. Souther in the ill-fated Souther-Hillman-Furay Band, but the act broke up because Richie's wife told him it was either her or the band, and Richie chose her. The scuttlebutt was that it was J.D. who broke up the act, but Richie told me he was checked out during the recording of the act's aptly-named second LP, "Trouble In Paradise," which was released with a whimper.

But that first Souther-Hillman-Furay Band album, I played the sh*t out of it. I recorded it for a cross-country drive. I remember this fisherman singing "Border Town" as he skied the bumps at Alta, I was stunned he knew it, I thought it was more of a secret, then again, the album did go gold.

And in the middle, of course, there was Poco. Richie's band that never lived up to its rep commercially until he left.

And there you have it. Rock history, FROM FIFTY YEARS AGO! That's right,

Richie Furay is eighty. Doesn't look it, but the stunning thing is he still has his voice. And he played acoustically with his daughter on backup vocals and a young guitarist and the harmonies...were better than Crosby, Stills & Nash's ever were. Oh, those albums were sweet, but live, at Woodstock, on "4 Way Street," I thought it was nearly impossible to get three part harmony right live until I saw Yes, which wasn't known for harmony, but nailed it nonetheless.

I mean all these years later, Richie still has it.

But it is all these years later. Now the thing about these free shows, on the ice rink in the village of Beaver Creek, is people get there early, to set up chairs, to be close.

And they were all of my vintage.

And they knew who Richie Furay was.

I saw a woman dancing and singing to the heavens along with "A Good Feelin' to Know" and that's when I realized, they'd lived through the era just like me, when music was everything, when of course you knew the hits, but also the music of the quality acts you heard occasionally on FM, but never on AM.

The initial Poco album is a classic, "Pickin' Up the Pieces," which got great reviews when it came out but was dwarfed by Crosby, Stills & Nash. There was a trade, Epic got Richie and Atlantic got Crosby and Nash and...Furay believes if Poco had been on Atlantic things would have worked out differently. Then again, Leslie West believed if his manager didn't nix his appearance in the Woodstock movie, he would have become legendary. And the truth is Mountain was pretty big in its era, but now the band is almost completely forgotten, I don't hear about young people streaming Mountain songs.

And I don't hear about them streaming Poco songs either.

I initially stopped after "From the Inside." It was clear, the band was never going to break through. I was stunned when it ultimately did, when it moved over to ABC from Epic, but by then Rusty Young was a lead vocalist, which was unfathomable to early fans of the band. And I love "Heart of the Night," and "Crazy Love" is a staple, but no one ever talks about the opening track on the first ABC album "Head Over Heels," entitled "Keep On Tryin'," composed and sung by Timothy B. Schmit with a voice so pure so airy so right sans commercial success it's no wonder Timothy B. ultimately decamped for the Eagles.

So back in '65, after a Vermont washout over Christmas, my parents took us to the Concord, where no snow would not nix a good time. I skied three of the four days, the fourth it rained, and one of the perks of the hotel, other than endless food, was nightclub entertainment, and the star was Neil Sedaka, who was by this time a has-been. We had no idea who he was. We were all Beatlemaniacs. This was my first exposure to someone touring after their prime. It was kind of creepy, then again, who would have expected that Sedaka would have a comeback in the seventies!

At the time of that show, Sedaka was twenty five. Over the hill.

And there were all the acts my parents talked about, that they went to see in NYC. They took us to see Ella Fitzgerald... All these acts on late night TV we'd never heard of, which unlike Neil Sedaka, never came back.

And in the eighties, there started to be the comedy circuit in Florida. Aged acts playing to aged fans. Maybe it started earlier, but that's when I heard about it.

Sad.

But I was young.

And now, the acts that aren't dead are still out there, playing to us.

Mostly retired. All about lifestyle. Not in the mainstream and not concerned about it. After all, it's been half a century, more.

But all that music of my parents' generation, it was disposable. Sure, not Sinatra, some of the big bands, but really, it was music of the time, there's always popular music, but that's different from...

The British Invasion.

The San Francisco Sound.

Singer-songwriters.

Prog rock.

Bob Dylan, the Beatles, the Stones...

Our acts were icons. Untouchable. We played their records in our bedrooms, in our dorm rooms, you went to the gig on a regular basis, it was a religious experience, all about the music, no one shot selfies and many of the venues did not sell beer, although that did not mean we were not high.

Musicians were the new baseball stars. But with brains. We idolized them. We listened to what they had to say. They were beacons in a tumultuous era.

But then it became all about the money, music once again slid back into entertainment as opposed to art.

Which leaves us with our memories.

"Kind Woman." Do you know that one? If you were more than a casual fan, you do.

And the aforementioned "A Good Feelin' to Know" resonated with me for the first time ever.

I was a Poco fan, but when Epic sent me the two CD "Forgotten Trail (1969-74)" package in 1990 I became a devotee, long after the band's status had been set in stone, listening to the music with no context, context was created, it was a really good band. Actually, I recommend two two CD compilations, this Poco one and "Free - Molten Gold: The Anthology." You'll be stunned how good Paul Kossoff was. Free was much more than "All Right Now," never mind featuring possibly the greatest rock singer of all time, Paul Rodgers.

Richie was not a nobody. Like failed singer-songwriters singing down in Florida, at the Villages, other retirement communities, this guy was right up front and center when we were all paying attention. And he's just as good.

Not that you know all the material. The solo stuff...

And Richie got deep into Jesus, and if that bugs you, you're going to wince when he goes on about God during the set.

But I stood up to take a look. The first two-thirds of the space were all people my age, there were no youngsters up front, only in the back.

Now nobody likes a deal like a retiree. Especially free.

And the set started at 5:30. You could call it an Early Bird Special.

This is what it's come to.

But even after waiting for half an hour for the crowd to thin out to say hi to Richie, people were still lined up to talk to him, to buy merch, to get a photo, to get an autograph. These are the same people who won't go to the grocery store during rush hour, whose line up days are through, even though they lined up for tickets way back when.

And I look as old as they do. I'm no different from them. I couldn't square it, made me want to go back to L.A. and sit in the Forum, go to a theatre show, hang with the insiders, anything but this.

It's just like my parents' generation. We had our acts, they meant so much to us and they won't mean much to anybody after we're gone. Most of rock history, kaput!

And the funny thing is most of rock history is now being written by people who weren't there in the first place, in some cases not even born. Not only do they often get the facts wrong, the nuances they miss completely. They rely on the charts from an era where Top Forty meant nothing and some of the best acts were rarely heard on the radio.

And if you try to tell anybody younger how it used to be different, they laugh and say it's the same as it ever was. Then again, if that's so, why is there such hoopla over the re-release of "Stop Making Sense"?

This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, many are past being able to fool around.

You had to go to the Mudd Club, CBGB's, being home was death, it all happened outside, at the club, whereas today the entertainment at home is nearly always superior to that outside. It's fading away. It's on its last gasp. Do you embrace it or stand up and protest like the Nazi in "The Producers," telling everybody they don't understand how it was, what it meant.

I don't know.

-----

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fatalfangirl · 1 year ago

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Almost Six Books Sunday

Hi, i’m around, just perpetually exhausted and still dealing with everything I previously shared. Which means I have not had the mental capacity to write! At all! Not even a little! But I have been reading because *escapism*

So I’m here to share five books I have recently enjoyed. They’re all m/m, most are a mind-the-trigger-warnings situation, and they have all kept me sane during times of e x t r e m e stress.

A Strange and Stubborn Endurance by Foz Meadows.

Byzantine politics, lush sexual energy, and a queer love story that is by turns sweet and sultry, Foz Meadows' A Strange and Stubborn Endurance is an exploration of gender, identity, and self-worth. It is a book that will live in your heart long after you turn the last page.

And boy if that ain’t the truth. I LOVED Vel and Cae so much and world felt full and rich (even if the main political mystery element was kind of unnecessarily convoluted). Definitely mind the TW, but I enjoyed this book greatly and thought Vel’s growth in particular was well done.

To say I look forward to the second book is an understatement.

A Taste of Gold and Iron by Alexandra Rowland

To prove his loyalty to the queen, his sister, Kadou takes responsibility for the investigation of a break-in at one of their guilds, with the help of his newly appointed bodyguard, the coldly handsome Evemer, who seems to tolerate him at best. In Arasht, where princes can touch-taste precious metals with their fingers and myth runs side by side with history, counterfeiting is heresy, and the conspiracy they discover could cripple the kingdom’s financial standing and bring about its ruin.

This book is delish. Yum yum yummy slow burn. Very character driven where (once again) the political mystery plot sort of takes a back seat to the more interesting relation developing. Kadou and Evemer have that sort of interdependency that I am weak for. WEAK I tell you.

Also the author wrote a fic for her own book and I love that for all of us.

Lord of Silver Ashes (Rowan Blood Book 2) by Kellen Graves

After two weeks in the attic of Danann House, Saffron anticipates the moment he can finally be reunited with Prince Cylvan--but that day is unexpectedly marred by a visit from Headmistress Elluin, who doesn't believe Saffron was the one to perform magic in Beantighe Village in the attempt to save Berry. Saffron will be expected to prove it; if he can't, every other human he loves will be arrested and executed for arid practice and conspiracy.

This book series is the type of thing that I could binge read forever. Is it ultra original? No. Are there TW galore? Definitely. Does our plucky mc have plot armor? The thickest. He should be dead like 10 times over, but is instead in a constant state of what must be agonizing pain from gruesome injuries he somehow just grits his teeth through.

And I love every fucking moment of this series. Saffron is BABY and his dumb high elf lover is ALSO BABY. I cannot wait for book 3.

Prince and Pawn (Perilous Courts Book 3) by Tavia Lark

Prince and Pawn is a high fantasy gay romance with hurt/comfort, forbidden pining, inappropriate use of vines, and more magic tigers. The Perilous Courts series is best read in order, but each book follows a different prince and his Happily Ever After.

I have read 4.5 of the planned 6 books in this series and I keep thinking “surely there’s no possible way I’ll enjoy this couple as much as the last.” And then I DO. EVERY. TIME. But Audric and Corin get special mention because their particular trope is one I’m extra weak to.

This series is really about the characters with the barest thread of a plot, but oh how yummy those characters are. I freaking churned through a book a day and then ended up on the author’s Patreon because I couldn’t get enough. BOOK 5 SOON!!!!!

Wolfsong (Green Creek Book 1) by TJ Klune

Wolfsong is the beginning of the Green Creek Series, the beloved fantasy romance sensation by New York Times bestselling author TJ Klune, about love, loyalty, betrayal, and family.

I will murder for this pack!!! Ox and Joe are just so very!!!!!!!! WEEPS!

Now does it take some wrapping your head around the whole “they were 10 and 16 and destined to be together”? Yes, yes it does, but I think this series does a good job of showing that love is not necessarily sexual—as good a job as it does showing family is not necessarily blood.

(I’m almost done with book 2, and Mark might be the ultimate babe.)

If you managed to make it this far, thanks for that. I’ll come up for air again soon.

#all I want to do is read about overcoming challenges to be together forever #I don’t want to be challenged by a book right now #I just want to swoon and hug it close to my chest and just breathe

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bestgirlinc · 2 years ago

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The Perfect Soundtrack in a game.

Hey Folks, Wanted to talk about something important to me, music.

See, Music in my opinion is probably one of the most important things in games. It sets the tone, tells a story and sets one of the biggest impressions on the game.

From Serious games to less than serious ones. From MUSIC to Atmosphere and everything in between, video games RELY on their soundtracks more than many realize.

But One question on my mind: What makes the PERFECT Soundtrack?

Well I obviously think that is subjective. Naturally that's up to everyone's own individual opinions.

Mine though? It's pretty simple. It has to work as both a Soundtrack to a game, AND, it has to work as an album. The Soundtrack has to work in both regards and be uplifted in different ways in both regards. Naturally I want to give examples.

Silent Hill 2 is often considered the best in the series, but as far as Music is concerned I think it takes the silver trophy. The Soundtrack is great, genuinely amazing. But the problem with it is that a lot of it feels more just atmosphere than it does music. Take this for example:

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This is Ashes and Ghost, a song used for the Blue Creek Apartments section when enemies are around. Is it bad? No, far from it, it works perfect for the game. Sets up the atmosphere great and is an overall great song IN GAME. But it isn't listenable. Mostly just scary atmosphere to me.

But of course, let's also add my favorite:

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The Melancholic tone, the guitar that that drives it, the garage tone to the whole thing. It makes it feel more natural and real. The song is down to earth and homey. Perfect for the tone the games give of real people delving into hell (metaphorically speaking)

Now, Does SH3 have atmosphere songs to? Yes, Yes it does. BUT here's the thing. The Soundtrack works though. For the actual SOUNDTRACK, they trim the fat and make it a full actual album. Yeah, I think this counts. To me, if they put the thought of which ones to put in it for you. That works too. The soundtrack's melodic tunes used actually fit a full album. Listen to is and you feel like you have both a great OST and a great album. Here's my favorite.

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The Way the song perfectly explains Heather's emotions and pain. The way it epitomizes how much the pain has changed her in just a single night. The way the song sets up all of the emotions. Utterly perfect song, for a near perfect game. Silent Hill 2 and 3 both could be considered perfect, but I give the gold to 3 as it feels like it tried a little harder to be listenable than 2.

Bloodborne is another perfect one to me. The soundtrack is gothic in nature and every boss has a unique song that fits the boss perfectly (Except the Chalice bosses, but we don't count them). The Songs are all amazingly done and fit the game so well, telling the story of the characters perfectly often without any words at all. Here's 2 of my favorites:

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This song is why I am giving 2 songs here. This one is very good and super haunting, for many acting as the END GAME'S FINAL BOSS THEME. It's quiet and scary and is a song that you've heard a few times before even all the way back in the beginning of the game. You were MEANT to fight this boss. This is what you were put here to do. You never had a choice as you realize it had been a leitmotif* the whole time in the game.

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This song is the epitome of what Bloodborne's music is like. Haunting, intense, intimidating and perfect. Lady Maria stands tall as the Postergirl for the whole DLC expansion: The Old Hunters. Her Song becoming even more haunting when the lyrics are translated (A rare luxury in FromSoft games) Telling the tale of how this whole thing with the fishing village happened and the regret she feels. She isn't a bad guy, she isn't trying to kill you for a bad reason. She just want you to back off and not repeat HER mistake. That whole thing makes an extra layer of sadness to her theme, especially for me who more than repeated it by joining her family's group.

Many out there will wonder which FF soundtrack I think is perfect and while I will tell you my favorite one right after, just for fun. I think this is the best soundtrack they made. Trigger is more the fan favorite but it's soundtrack has some pop culture songs in it which takes me out of it (Robo's theme being the obvious example). This Soundtrack though, oh it fits so well. Not a single song misses the mark. The Music feeling like you've entered into the tropical world of the El Nido archipelago. The composer researching how the music in these places are like to properly recreate it for the soundtrack being the icing on the cake. Here my favorite:

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The Opening song accompanying the opening movie paints a picture of the grand journey you are about to go on, and the vast array of unique locations. The Song is beautiful and unique and feels like a song straight out of the world itself, I get lost every time I listen to it.

The swan song for the Turn Based RPG era of Final Fantasy. Final Fantasy X's music plays a pivotal role in the game and fittingly is genuinely beautiful. Feeling like a mixture of sci-fi, Religious and Tropical. The Soundtrack features many amazing beats worth remembering and listening to. I often get lost in the songs. That said not all are album worth and so it's not what I choose as Perfect. But damn is it so close it might as well be.

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Auron being the (in my opinion) Best character in the game, if not series, naturally his song is my favorite. He's a man who epitomizes the themes of letting go of the traditions that hold us back and hurt us, and embracing a future where we work towards true happiness. He's the kind of character who I love to cheer and cry about. His music fits him so well that by itself I cry a bit

Of Course I was going to add a fighting game soundtrack. Killer instinct is an amazing special case in fighting game soundtracks. All the songs feel like genuine songs out of an AMAZING album. Each song having a unique feel that explains the character perfectly in every way. Now many love the soundtrack, but why Killer Instinct? Because while I love Guilty Gear's soundtrack as a Silver medal, the soundtrack is poorly mixed in game. Baiken's theme being the best example. I'd show you but it's hard to show via article. But KI does things differently. The soundtrack is dynamic and flows with the flow of combat, making it perfect on that regard alone. On top of that there is the in game mix and the Album mix. Both being great, but the thought to make an album mix makes it all the better. Here's My favorite:

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This song is often considered the best in the game. I'm Back to Rise is such a well made song. It's intense and epic while simultaneously tells the story of who TJ Combo is. You get to know him JUST FROM THE SONG ALONE, but you don't sacrifice gameplay. Honestly, I love this OST so much it was the first game soundtrack I actually BOUGHT.

Finally the one that surprises people the most when I tell people: The Sims. The Sims has this great relaxing atmosphere designed to fit in with the retro 60s aesthetic of the game itself. The music is jazzy but in like a GOOD smooth jazz sorta way, while including appropriate other songs when necessary. I often listen to it when I'm out, blending in well with my day to day, while not hindering me like louder soundtracks. Here's my favorite:

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Now to me, this shit is so fucking relaxing. I get lost in the beautiful piano solo. I just want to lay down and relax and read a good book, maybe grab a cup of tea with honey and just... relax... Which is perfect for the game. It wants you to feel like that for the fun doll house aesthetic. Building a house in late stage capitalism has never been more fun.

I hope this has been a fun look into my mind and hopefully helped prove my point on what I think makes a perfect soundtrack. If not I hope you at least had fun. Do you have games YOU think have perfect soundtracks? Tell me! I'd love to hear your opinions on what is the BEST Gaming soundtrack!

#video games #silent hill #chrono cross #final fantasy series #bloodborne #the sims #killer instinct #music #video game music #Youtube

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