He rode with the spirit of the buffalo—the strength, the endurance, the silence before thunder. The fur cap with its split horns was not a decoration but a declaration. It marked him as one who had faced death and returned with power.
His shield bore the red thunderbird, its wings spread wide as if echoing the scream of battle and the cry of the sky. Black tears painted beneath his eyes were not of sorrow, but remembrance—for brothers gone and vows made.
He charged not for conquest, but for legacy. To ride with him was to feel the weight of generations. To stand against him was to face the storm.