3rd person POV (White Owl)
Year 8 of the SuaChie Calendar, Twelfth Month (February 1491)
Unknown Land, North Quyca
The sacred smoke of tobacco and dried herbs swirled slowly within the great ritual lodge of the Chitimacha territory. White Owl kept her eyes closed, kneeling upon the cold, packed earth, finishing her prayers to the Great Spirit.
To her, the rites were no mere repetition of ancient customs; they were the unbreakable bridge that bound her to the natural world. She fervently wished, like so many of the wisest among her people, to deepen that communion—to stand closer to the spirits that whispered in the marsh winds and to connect, in body and soul, with the nature surrounding them.
Her pleas to the unseen world held a single purpose: to ask for her tribe's resilience.
Life on the coast demanded a constant tribute of effort and sacrifice, and White Owl ached to see her father, Night Bird, burdened by the ceaseless hardships battering their people. The grief in her home was still an open wound; her mother had passed away not long ago, leaving a dense silence in the young woman's heart.
White Owl's people were governed by ancient matrilineal laws, a system that granted true power and influence to female leaders and priestesses. Her mother, as the undisputed leader of the tribe, had temporarily transferred the mantle of authority to Night Bird upon her deathbed.
Yet that mandate was only a provisional bridge; power would rest in her father's hands only until White Owl took a husband and reclaimed her rightful place.
Despite the political urgency, the young woman had rejected, one by one, the fiercest warriors and the noblest suitors, both from her own tribe and from neighboring settlements. Her steadfast refusal stemmed from a profound and mystical root.
In her final moments of lucidity, her breath as fragile as spun glass, her mother had imparted a prophecy: she would meet a man from the southern waters—a leader who would take their people by the hand and elevate them to frontiers of prosperity never dreamed of.
Trusting blindly in her mother's vision, White Owl had waited with unyielding patience, dedicating her hours to studying the obligations of her future station, guarding her heart for the destiny the south held in store for her.
It was on a clear day with a mild breeze that the stillness of the village was shattered.
A messenger from the allied coastal tribes came sprinting into the camp, seeking Night Bird with a heaving chest. The scout brought a tale that defied reason: he swore he had sighted a vessel of monstrous proportions out at sea.
By his account, the craft had great wooden "antlers" driven into its spine, from which hung enormous square and triangular skins that trapped the wind. Night Bird listened with a furrowed brow, skeptical of what he dismissed as the exaggerations of a lookout spooked by the tides.
But White Owl felt a lash of pure, electric certainty rush down her spine. She knew, with the conviction of one who had waited a lifetime, that her long-awaited connection had just arrived.
Without wasting a heartbeat, and without waiting for her father's blessing, she gathered her elite guard of warriors to escort her and set out on a swift march toward the coast, a couple of kilometers away.
Upon reaching the stretch of white sand, the sun shone at its zenith in the sky, illuminating a scene that stole her breath. White Owl stopped dead in her tracks and pressed both hands to her chest.
There, swaying with a ponderous, majestic grace to the rhythm of the ocean waves, rested an immense vessel—a veritable floating castle. To her eyes, it was the mother of all canoes, a structure that looked capable of taming the highest breakers.
Her initial awe sharpened into vigilance when she noticed that, from that colossal ship, several canoes of dimensions similar to those her people used had been lowered and were now rowing rapidly toward the shore.
When the men disembarked, the cultural clash was absolute.
The foreigners wore garments unimaginable to the northern peoples: tunics of fine cloth, long cloaks, and trousers adorned with intricate patterns and vibrant colors. Some among them wore accessories plumed with exotic, brightly colored feathers unlike any bird native to their lands.
What most stunned her own escorts were the southern warriors. They were unmistakable.
Their spears did not end in heads of obsidian or flint, but in edges of a grayish, smooth, and lethal material. Their torsos were protected by heavy body armor of gleaming metals; some pieces shared the cold gray hue of their iron spears, while others reflected the sun in a warm, resplendent bronze.
Beholding the imposing figures of those men, the peaceful yet lethal might they radiated, and the richness of their culture, White Owl's heart raced wildly.
All she yearned for in that instant of absolute silence on the beach was that her late mother had been right—and that her ultimate destiny was stepping toward her across the sand.
Three Months Later.
Year 9 of the SuaChie Calendar, Second Month (April 1491).
Great River Town (New Orleans, Louisiana), North Quyca.
Following that landing, which rewrote the history of the region, the world of the Chitimacha had expanded far beyond their marshes.
White Owl sat inside a sturdy; innovative wooden house erected by the foreigners in the coastal settlement they had christened Great River Town.
Her eyes curiously traced strange symbols drawn on paper, while her lips moved slowly, patiently echoing the sounds and learning the language of her newly settled southern neighbors.
Since the wondrous arrival of the Suaza people, White Owl had absorbed every scrap of information as parched earth drinks the first rain.
She had learned that this mighty kingdom, sprawling beyond the unfathomable southern waters, was ruled by a young boy of barely nine quiet suns of age. As recounted with profound reverence by both the clean-robed scholars and the gleaming-armored warriors of the expedition, that child was no ordinary leader; he was a being blessed by the gods themselves with a wisdom that defied human understanding.
At first, White Owl harbored doubts. Her pragmatic mind, forged in the harsh, demanding life of the marshes and coast, resisted the belief that a boy could govern such formidable men.
Yet her skepticism crumbled whenever they mentioned that this very boy had conceived the design of those colossal ships the Suaza called Tequendama—titanic vessels built to master both coastlines and open sea—when he was merely four or five quiet suns old.
Before the majesty of the "mother of all canoes" she had once seen anchored in her bay, there remained little room for argument.
Another revelation that had sunk deep into the spirit of the young priestess was the peaceful nature of the strangers.
She had learned that the Suaza were a realm forged from the unification of countless peoples, large and small, yet surprisingly, they had never drawn their deadly weapons to subjugate others out of ambition or conquest; their military might be reserved strictly for the defense and protection of their own.
More comforting still was their spirituality. Though they worshipped deities foreign to her—the Sun and the Moon, across different natures—much of their rich culture also paid deep respect to the spirits of the natural world.
Knowing that the foreigners shared a veneration for the Great Spirit was the ultimate bridge linking her faith with the prophecy her mother had spoken on her deathbed.
As she listened to the rhythmic, patient voice of the Suaza scholar, who pointed to the inked characters on the paper to teach her the phonetics of new words, White Owl let her mind drift back to the tense days following the landing.
She vividly recalled how hard it had been to convince her father, Night Bird, to allow her to reside in that newly risen timber settlement.
Upon making landfall, the foreigners' first act was not to plant banners or demand tributes, but to strive to learn the local tongue and formally request an audience with the Chitimacha leaders.
Their intention was to "buy" an unoccupied stretch of coastline and kindly ask that their people be welcomed upon those lands.
White Owl had feared that the protective pride of the chieftains would move them to reject the newcomers. And so, it would have been, were it not for the overwhelming, persuasive diplomacy of the Suaza.
The southern visitors had laid out before the chieftains riches truly beyond imagining.
They presented tools forged from a metal they called bronze, infinitely stronger, sharper, and more enduring than the soft copper or brittle stone her tribe customarily traded with inland peoples.
They dazzled the elders with immaculately cut gemstones: emeralds that captured the vibrant green of the jungle, and amber pieces that looked like droplets of solidified sunshine.
They brought exotic shells from distant seas, crystal spheres that refracted light into primary colors, and heavy bales of cotton fabric woven with an unreal fineness.
They displayed shields coated in the tough hides of great reptiles, tanned leathers of unprecedented softness, breathtaking goldsmithing and silversmithing, and baskets overflowing with vibrant crops the cold northern soil had never tasted.
All of that treasure—offered not as an imposition, but as a peace offering, coupled with absolute respect for local customs—had dismantled Night Bird's defenses and persuaded the Chitimacha leaders to bestow their blessing upon the settlement.
The soft creak of wood behind her brought White Owl back to the present.
She lifted her gaze from the inked paper to find the figure of Chesua, a young man of sixteen quiet suns—the exact same age as her.
He was the son of Chewa, the vigorous Suaza maritime merchant who commanded that momentous overseas expedition. Chesua, clad in a colorful, immaculate tunic, his posture betraying both the nobility of his rank and a genuine curiosity, came to a halt beside her study table.
"You… learn… already… tongue mine?" Chesua asked, visibly straining to articulate the words in the Chitimacha language.
His pronunciation was rough, dragging out the vowels and striking the consonants with a southern drawl so pronounced it was almost endearing.
White Owl could not contain herself; a crystalline, genuine laugh escaped her lips, echoing warmly against the cabin's wooden walls. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand for an instant, her eyes sparkling with amusement, and then, looking straight at him, answered with a fluency that left him frozen.
"Yes, I have learned it quite well," White Owl enunciated in flawless Suaza, her diction clear and deeply musical. "There is no need for you to twist your tongue trying to speak in my language."
A sudden, intense flush crept up Chesua's neck, coloring his cheeks with embarrassment. He seemed momentarily thrown off by his own clumsiness, lowering his gaze for a split second.
But far from retreating in defeat, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. When he spoke again—this time flowing in his native tongue—his voice had lost all its previous awkwardness and was charged with an overwhelming sincerity.
"You have an impressive command of it, White Owl," Chesua admitted, stepping closer to the table and locking his resolute gaze with hers. "But even if you already master my language, I need to learn yours. I must do so to know your people firsthand… to truly understand them."
White Owl watched him in silence, allowing the echo of his words to settle in the quiet space they shared.
The flickering light cast warm shadows across the foreigner's face, accentuating the firmness of his jaw and the unwavering gleam in his eyes. She tilted her head slightly, weighing the depth of his sincerity.
"Your scholars have already studied our language and culture extensively, Chesua," she remarked in a soft yet probing tone, gauging his every reaction. "Your wise men have unraveled the threads of our customs. You have interpreters. Why do you feel that you, personally, must shoulder this burden?"
Chesua exhaled slowly, as if the question had struck a chord deep within him. His posture softened, shedding its defensive rigidity to reveal the frankness of a man carrying a heavy weight.
"Because my father has entrusted me with a responsibility that goes beyond merely surviving," he explained, his gaze lost for a moment in the hearth fire before fixing upon her once more. "He sent me to establish great settlements here, in what we call North Quyca. And I do not wish to be a deaf conqueror or a blind ruler. I want to do this the best way possible. If I myself am incapable of understanding the people I aspire to connect with—if I do not comprehend what they love, what they fear, and how they pray to the earth—then I will not be doing a good job. I will be nothing more than a stranger occupying space."
Far from perceiving weakness or doubt in his confession, White Owl felt a warm respect blossom in her chest. There was no arrogance there—only raw, genuine leadership in the making. It was the will of a strong man who understood that true power lay in mutual understanding, not imposition.
"You said settlements," she noted, changing the subject with a sharp ear, catching the plural word that hung in the air. "Tell me, man of the sea, how exactly did you reach our lands? Is this your first attempt to take root?"
A small, nostalgic smile curved Chesua's lips.
"No, it is not the first. Before arriving here, we sailed and dropped anchor at two other great rivers. Yet it was only at the first that we truly made contact with the local people. They were kind, open-spirited. Some seven moons ago, we founded a town there. We named it Pensacola Town in their honor—for the people who received us with open arms and taught us we would not be alone in this vast land."
White Owl narrowed her eyes, searching the vast mental archive of stories the matriarchs sang around the fire. Pensacola. The name resonated in her mind, locking into place with ancient oral records.
"Coast people…" she murmured, almost to herself, her eyes brightening as she connected the pieces of her world's invisible map. "Dwellers of deep rivers. They are the people of the eastern brother-rivers."
The revelation seemed to weave an unseen thread between them, bridging the distances between east and west, between Chesua's people and her own.
One Year Later
Year 10 of the SuaChie Calendar, Second Month (April 1492)
Great River City (New Orleans, Louisiana), North Quyca
The river wind carried the scent of damp earth, hickory woodsmoke, and the unmistakable, salted tang of progress. White Owl walked with a steady stride along the packed earth streets, now so hardened by constant traffic that they resounded almost like stone beneath her moccasins.
The city that had once been a modest encampment of hundreds of souls was now the "modernized" Great River City.
All around her, the bustle was deafening and full of life. More than three thousand permanent residents now called this place home, to say nothing of the ceaseless flow of merchants, hunters, and travelers crowding the marketplaces. Chesua's vision had not only taken shape; it had blossomed in a way that defied the spirits themselves.
As she walked, White Owl observed the multicolored tapestry of cultures that now lived side by side.
Migrants from the west, the east, and the cold northern lands had raised their tents and cabins nearby. Chesua's strategic alliances had secured trade upriver, integrating even the proud Natchez people further north.
Yet what amazed the young woman most was the amalgamation of tribes now pulsing at the heart of the city: the Ouacha and Chaouacha traded salted fish with the Bayougoula, while the Mugulasha offered their pottery. Together, they made up nearly half the population.
Even her own people, the Chitimacha, had converged in droves near the city, drawn by its prosperity. White Owl looked toward the great timber wharves where the immense, strange Suaza ships docked without end.
Their wooden bellies disgorged exotic wares and tools, and departed heavily laden with golden grain, cured pelts, dried meats, and the dazzling copper that—thanks to the "investment" of Suaza technology—was now mined from the earth with astonishing efficiency.
"An-na! Teacher!" a piping voice called out.
White Owl lowered her gaze, drawn from her thoughts.
A dozen children from various tribes scurried around her, tugging at the fringes of her decorated deerskin tunic. She had become the official teacher of the Suaza language—the living bridge between the old world of the tribes and the new world arriving from the sea.
It was then, over the dark little heads and children's laughter, that she saw him.
Chesua was walking toward her, parting the crowd. His bearing was undeniable.
He was no longer just the son of a distant ruler attempting to prove his worth; he was a natural leader—a man of the sea whose skin had been weathered by ocean suns, deeply respected by both Suaza and Chitimacha alike.
A warm smile, laden with deep, quiet affection, lit up White Owl's face. When Chesua's eyes found hers, the market's clamor seemed to fade away. He returned her gaze with a passionate intensity that made the young woman's heart skip a beat.
Their bond, cultivated amidst language lessons, council gatherings, and walks beside the rushing waters, had grown strong roots—just as her mother had foreseen in her visions. Chesua had granted her and her people a non-negotiable place of honor in this new world.
The Suaza leader came to a halt right before her. The children, sensing the gravity of the moment, fell suddenly silent, watching with wide eyes.
Chesua drew a deep breath, his gaze locked onto White Owl's, and when he spoke, he did not use his father's tongue, nor did he speak through an interpreter. The words flowed in flawless, deep, and resonant Chitimacha, caressing the syllables she herself had taught him with such patience.
"White Owl…" he began, and the world seemed to hold its breath. "Will you join yourself to me until the spirits decide we must return to nature?"
The weight of his words, of a tradition so perfectly honored, struck White Owl, leaving her utterly stunned.
Her lips parted in a gasp of surprise; eyes wide, unable to immediately process that the man who was building a great territory was offering her his soul under the laws of her own ancestors.
A second of absolute silence ruled the space, broken almost immediately by the jubilant squeals of the children, who began to jump and clap, dancing in a frantic circle around them.
Her astonishment dissolved, replaced by a sweeping warmth that rose from her chest to her cheeks.
Her eyes shining with unshed tears of pure happiness, White Owl took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and let all the love she had harbored over the past year overflow in her answer.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you for your support.
First, I hope you're all doing well.
Second, I'll take the lack of interaction with the images as meaning you didn't find them good, so I'll improve them.
Third, as always, everything is well-researched, but I must say that the names are things I made up. Since there's no clear record of what the language was like, I just went with what I thought was most acceptable.]