Earlier this morning, Jonas and several of the more experienced hunters set out with me to track a small herd of elk. We had been tracking them along the brook nearby, really lost in the stalk, when Homer Goodfellow called out above us.

Climbing the slope, we came to a small clearing with native relics of some sort. Jonas, ever the curious student, excitedly rushed forward to examine more closely. The huts nearby blended in with the forest and remained hidden from our eyes until natives spilled out. Cherokee, from the looks of them.

Anger spewed from their lips and tears from their eyes. We were unfamiliar with the language, but we seemed to be trespassing. Jonas was the focal point of their attention. He quickly rose from his crouching examination, absentmindedly hefting his musket in the process.

One of them pointed an arrow at Jonas, one of us fired a shot, and bloody chaos followed. Smoking powder ignited grass huts which burned to the ground.

“What have we done?” I asked among blackened wreckage.