Diary of My Captivity With the Undermoon Sioux

Day twenty eight. I am cold. I am hungry. I have been given the pelt of an everbeast to keep me warm, yet it scratches, and the roughness of the hide is almost as unpleasant as the piercing wind. But I can see: these people are having a hard winter. The amulet they worship has been ebbing in its glow. One of the young men road out yesterday afternoon, and came back with only a sack full of sunberries to feed the tribe. As far as I can tell, we’re lost somewhere south of the Overman pass. To the east, according to my calculations, lies Harrow cliff. I’ve been making slow progress with the tribe wise man, a formidable fellow by the name of Windharness. He wears a belt made of noorhawk feathers, and if I am to understand the pictographs correctly, many moons ago he caught the soul of a whale, and now keeps it in a leather satchel. Yesterday, through a series of hand motions, we were able to communicate a little. He pointed to my bag as if to see what was inside. In my haste to show my cooperation, I pulled out a tampon. We both looked at it, and then looked at each other. I slowly put it back. I think he left more confused than he was when he came to visit me. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned it is that sometimes in order to take a step forward, you must take two steps back. I close with this: the moon is red tonight, and a chill rises from the east.