An unusually different story (I hope) that will hopefully encourage a collaborative effort. Please contribute!
Maku sat like a statue, listening to the tent flaps stirring fretfully in the breeze.
It was a hot day on the Sioux plains. Flies swarmed at people's eyes, desperate for moisture, while the horses flicked their tails agitatedly and the women busied themselves with the food. The conical tepees of the tribe jarred out of the middle of the plain like buffalo horns thrust through the chest of an enemy.
Maku shared the tent with his father, the great Garamun, one of the most high-ranking chiefs of their tribe. Soaring Eagle they called him, but Maku knew him simply as dad.
He had an explosive personality, determined, purposeful and rather overbearing. Everybody respected him, even if some of the tribe didn't particularly like him. Garamun knew exactly how to get the best out of people.
Maku was now fifteen, on the cusp of his manhood. He was determined to follow in his father's footsteps, to be as respected and as skilful a leader as he had been.
Pity that was now impossible.
The great Garamun was sprawled on the floor of the tent, the horn of a buffalo through his chest.
Maku's eyes were fixed on his father's glassy stare. Blood was pooling slowly over the floor. Maku could smell it - sweet, metallic and gut-wrenching.
Silent tears collected at the corner of his eyes. One fell bleakly onto his father's blank face.
And as the tribesmen came in, feathers and jewellery flashing urgently, Maku didn't even try to resist as they hauled him to his feet.
Horns suddenly blared out all over the camp to announce the chief's death as the man nearest him began to chunter frantically.
"Who did this to the Eagle? Which way did they go, son, quickly, so we can pursue them!"
"You don't - need to - pursue anyone," panted Maku between sobs. "It was me."