Rivers of water from the melting snow trickled down the rock formations of Gave Rights Reservation. The sun glistened through the streams as they fell to the soggy ground below. It was scene being repeated all around the east coast of the United States.
To some, the rivulets of cascading water were soothing; the rythym of nature, the returning of resources to themselves. But to some, the sight and sound reminded them of something far more retched and haunting.
The man known only as the Chief cupped the running water with hands. Oh, those hands...leathery and gnarled, bloodied by sinners blood and washed so many times. To a stranger's eyes, the washing has made them clean, but The Chief cannot ever see them without crimson. The prints on the pads of his fingers, the creases on the knuckles...he sees the blood still in its small crevices. He prays for a great many things, but he knows not to pray that his eyes be relieved of the blood on his hands. For he knows it is the Great Spirit that has called for these hands, and this man to render a swift and ultimate justice on anyone of the Spirit's will, and that just as a man's skin will darken from the mighty sun for all to see, so shall his hands be forever stained crimson, even if only to his own weary eyes.
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