There are three aspects of a person to consider: how others see them, how they see themselves, and how they really are.

I would first describe myself in social context, including basic personal information such as date of birth, family, race and locations of historical interest such as schools and colleges attended. A link to Facebook or a self-made biography page would suffice. Updates or a secondary site would be required if I used Facebook. It could always go the way of MySpace.

I tend to personify traits, issues, and personalities through drawing or short pieces of writing. Thus, to illustrate how I see myself, I would post images and documents of these, complete with written interpretations and explanations (if necessary.)

The last aspect is most difficult, but I would approach it by linking readers to my digital footprint. Frequented sites, screenshots, significant past user/nicknames, and posts would all be included. All favorite sites with large amounts of time logged, ranging from webcomics read or written to deviantart accounts would be included. In addition, I would include an archive of personally valued objects throughout my lifetime. Again, each would include a short description of the object along with its information and personal value.

To many of those in our present generation, America during the 1850’s would have been a harsh place to live. White land owners, Black slaves, and Native American Indians all shared their own set own set of challenges and difficulties.

The Native American way of life in this time period was a very simple one. It was a community based lifestyle that centered on hunting, fishing, farming, and trading for survival. Although Native American is a very collective term, the different tribes are very different from one another. The Apache tribe of the South and Southwest differed greatly from the Sioux Indians of the Dakotas. Some tribes were quite peaceful to outsiders, while others were went to great lengths to preserve their cultural way of life. Some tribes were more accustomed to trading and conversing to the settlers than others.

One thing that remained the same for everyone throughout the west was the common theme of limited supplies. The farther west you would travel, the scarcer the general stores and potential traders became. All of your supplies had to be hunted, grown, or found. The most valuable item that one could come across was a breed of cattle (buffalo and oxen included). Depending on whom you were out in the west changed how you would utilize it. For most European, and American settlers, cattle were meant two main things: food and labor. Cattle could help drive heavy wagons much easier than man could on just his two feet alone. If the cattle were to die, the average explorer would end up eating its flesh, often leaving behind carcasses. Native Americans were a little bit more creative when it came to such a versatile tool. Cattle could not only be used for labor and food, but many Indians removed the hide to use for clothing, especially in the colder months. Even the bones were used for either tools or weapons. In certain rituals, the heart of the animal was saved and then later buried. Nearly the whole animal was used.

The summer of 1854 seemed to have abnormal weather. It was much hotter in years passed, and as a result, the ecosystem in the Nebraska Territory was thrown for a loop. There was less rain, and this drought caused a lot of the vegetation to shrivel up. Many wild buffalo migrated to find better grazing areas. Two Native American siblings were surprised to find a lone cow wandering down by one of the last few flowing rivers. A thought popped into their head to bring this gift from the gods back to their village elders.

It was dark.

A harsh January winter was working at the soldiers’ toes and fingers, turning them blue and numb with frostbite as the men waited for their orders. The moon was barely a sliver in the black sky, providing as much light as it did warmth.

They had traveled for days through the largely unsettled west from their settlement at Fort Douglas to the Shoshone village they were set to attack. A small group had set out first and the rest had followed a few days after, led by calculated Col. Connor himself. They were split in this fashion in an attempt to prevent the elusive Shoshone from learning of the attack early and scattering themselves, foiling the entire expedition. But the first regiment had stumbled upon three natives as they got close to town earlier that evening, and many soldiers were unsure of what they’d find of the Shoshone village.

The soldiers waited to attack. Word had spread that the advance was to begin at 1:00, but the night advanced past that hour and the soldiers continued to shiver, huddled for warmth around small fires that were hard to maintain on the wintry earth. They placed their now-frozen canteens of whiskey near the flames in an attempt to liquify the contents, hoping for a sip to numb themselves inside as well as out.

At 3:00, the soldiers began to form ranks, an effort which required some time in the deep and tightly packed snow as the men continued to shiver and shake in the arctic cold. Many were rapidly losing strength from fatigue. But the men were eager to fight, ready to claim the land the natives had been nurturing for so many years, seeking retaliation for American lives lost at the hands of these indigenous people during an ongoing and bloody turf war that the natives never asked for.

Col. Connor paced up and down the lines, finalizing his strategy for attack upon the unwitting natives. At last, they were ready to set off. As the very first signs of early morning began to set in, the first troops set out for the quietly sleeping Shoshone village.

They feared they were on the brink of war. It had been three weeks since Chief Justice Kinney issued a warrant for chief Bear Hunter’s, Sanpitch’s, and Sagwitch’s arrests. The three chiefs were wanted for the murder of settler John Henry Smith and his horses. This was the most recent attack the settlers had discovered since they heard of the ten miners killed three days prior.

Kinney had sought the military assistance of Col. Patrick Edward Connor and his men to execute the natives. The Shoshone faced immediate infiltration.

Two more days passed and they still had not seen Colonel Conner’s men.

It was just before dawn the one morning. Chief Bear Hunter stood at the head of the camp surrounded by his brethren.

“We must secure the camp,” he warned. “Our time is limited.”

“We have already made hiding places with these,” said one of his men, holding a long willow branch. “What more?

“Dig,” Bear Hunter responded. “Dig pits around the river banks for retreat. ”

“Can’t we just try to negotiate with them instead?” asked one feeble tribeswoman. “We cannot afford to keep fighting.”

“Silly woman, we have tried!” Chief Bear Hunter said in exasperation. “Chief Sandpitch is in the City of Salt Lake as we speak, trying to negotiate peace. But do you think they will have it? No, these white men don’t want our friendship. They have been taking our land, killing our game, and destroying our resources. And when we try just for one moment to retrieve what is rightfully ours, they retaliate. They shoot. They kill. These are not a peaceful people we are dealing with. So now we must prepare for battle.”

Chief Bear Hunter turned around to go back into his hut. He needed quiet. There was careful planning to be done if he wanted to keep his Shoshone people alive.

Then something off in the horizon caught his attention.

I can still recall pieces of memories of the tragedy that occurred four days ago. The weather was pleasant. There were no signs of a tornado, and sunlight sprinkled on my eyelashes like golden teardrops. It was such a nice day that I did not expect anything as unfortunate to happen.

Four days ago, I was living the normal, simple life, herding farm animals and traveling along the Oregon Trail with my family. Our final destination was the Salt Lake Valley, and following the path of Brigham Young, we were already miles away from our home in St. Louis. My wife Kailyn and I believed that a better future awaits us in the West, which was why we chose to bring our children with us on this long, long journey.

August 17 was like any other day. My family, as well as many other Mormon families, woke up in the early morning to continue our trek. Packing and setting up a tent were no longer difficult for me, since I had been repeating these processes numerous times along the way. Everything seemed repetitive, but at least everything went well—until the afternoon, when I noticed something different than usual.

At first I thought it was just me fighting against my ordinary life and wishing for a change in daily routines. You’re faking a dilemma just to satisfy your thirst for adventure. I told myself. However, I soon realized that that was a lie. Something was different; something was not right. The next minute I almost shouted my panic out loud: A cow is missing!

The beast’s piercing eyes stared straight into mine. It knew what was coming. I couldn’t do it..

It has only been a few minutes since I joined this realm, but it feels like a lifetime ago. The terrain was surrounded with trees and leaves, pink and green. I felt a cool tingling on my skin everytime the breeze swept by, causing goosebumps to form. The air was fresh. Everything was interconnected, the only sounds were of vines wisping in the winds, tree branches swinging with the movements of the creatures that inhabited them. The blue sky I was used to was nowhere to be seen. It was magical, surreal. Almost like an alternate reality.

I was ready to take on everything, fulfill my duties, bring peace to the world. My heart started pumping seeing the beasts roam, and the humans and goblins and other elves all training in one line of sight. Well, that excitement has since subsided.

My heart sank to my stomach as Ilthalaine brought my mind to reality. As a new priest I was under the impression that I would be keeping balance in the world. Just like in those in the legends, watching from afar, giving wise advice and such, occasionally displaying some miraculous healing abilities. Here I was, on a quest to hunt down six nightsabers. And I have yet to kill my first..

It was a struggle even sneaking up on this creature. My feet seemed unnaturally large everytime I took a step, involuntarily tripping on what seemed to be anything of substance. Tree roots, crackling leaves, etc. I slowly picked up my foot, repositioning myself to attack. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do.

“Focus and center all your energy,” I was told.

What does that even mean?

I took a deep breath, let my eyes close as I envisioned a yellow light forming, growing bigger and bigger as my breath calmed.. Wait. This is not in my head. I looked down and my heart flipped. There it was, a yellow ball of energy between the palms of my hands. Suddenly, I knew what to do. It was as if my body had known all along. I watched the light travel until it hit the beast in front of me.

It winced as it impacted with the wave I had just released. I exhaled with relief. I did it. I won’t fail after all. All the preparations have paid off. Even if it was not the way I expected. Now I just have to do this twelve more times. Great.

I created a narrative from the sandbox PC game Minecraft.

———————-

The Great Library of Goodhearth, the 3^rd Moon of autumn, 1312

It has been near a fortnight since the night terrors have destroyed the Snow Golem watching over the fields. I journey today to New Piedmont to ask of the wizard new materials to build another. I’ve made blank books to trade, for there’s no one in any settlement that binds as fine a book as can be found in our library. The townspeople bid me not to go; they say that the Iron Golem that patrols the town is protection enough, and that the overland journey is too long. When I put forth that I might use the portals, there was a great murmur of shock and mistrust amongst them. Truthfully, we have thought of destroying our portal, as there have been whispers from other settlements of creatures from the Nether crossing into our world, which hath horrors enough for anyone. I argued that I had seen no creatures in the Nether for nigh on a moon, and in the end they saw I had the right of it. We needed another Golem to protect the fields, and with the portals I could complete a full day’s journey in under an hour.

Our portal was built in a large, empty house near the end of our southernmost street, directly across from the church. Some have worried their close quarters might constitute sacrilege; still others feel it might help ward the demons away. As I prepared to make my crossing today I prayed for the latter. The portal house has a high ceiling and an empty floor, and although our meager township is placed amidst the wilderness I know of no place more lonely or ominous for miles around. Gods would be my only company now, and it would be better if they looked kindly on me.

After a quick trek through the hot, rocky landscape of the Nether I emerged at last in New Piedmont. The town has a way of seeming both smaller and much larger than Goodhearth, and as soon as I was there I was anxious to be home again. First, however, I had to make my way to the Custom House, a large building filled with ledgers and chests of goods from the half-dozen settlements that must travel here to trade for necessities. The old Custom Officer who lodges there is cantankerous, but his dog has a sweet disposition, a brother to one of my own hounds at home. He was slow in finding the materials I need, and for a brief minute I feared that he would make me to climb the mountain and ask the wizard himself for the Golem. The fear proved unfounded, and in a few minutes I traded my goods and was sent on my way. As I made my way back to the portal I wondered at the fact that I only ever traveled here to trade; need we be shackled to New Piedmont’s high prices? I recalled then the words of a man from the Desert Forge I met here once: “Cold custom is the only kind you’ll ever get from New Piedmont!”

I cannot stop staring. He is too attractive.

I do not know his name yet, but this guy who just moved in next door is making me drool. He is tall, dark, and handsome. He has a chiseled face and the most sexy five-o’clock shadow I have ever seen. It is as if his body has been computer programmed.

I clamber to the window to watch him as he pulls more and more furniture into his new place. He is carrying in a refrigerator. Now a couch.

The muscles. Oh, the muscles.

I was suddenly hit with the urge to do the unthinkable. I am going to go talk to him.

I have to make sure I am ready first! I walk to the bathroom and take a shower. It is exactly five minutes long. And now I need to put more make-up on. No, and a new hair style! A new color, too?

Yes, yes. This looks good. Luckily it only took me about 30 seconds to completely alter my physical appearance.

It is now time to make my way over. I’m a very quick walker, so getting there will take not time at— Oh, look, I’m here!

Knock, knock.

Well, the door is open. I may as well just let myself in.

Time to say hello.

I am not quite sure what is happening. As I open my mouth to speak, the sounds that are flowing out are not English. It must be his overbearing sexiness that is causing my mind to go numb and for these sounds to come out. I’m making a fool of myself!

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Feliciano Cumming.”

He understands me?! I can hardly believe it! Apparently he speaks the same kind of gibberish that I do. Man, am  I turned on.

I am trying to make small talk but I soon realize the fate of our relationship lays on my next move. I can either be funny for 30 seconds, or be nice for one minute.

What to do, what to do. I have to think fast!

What if I tell a joke and he does not laugh? But on the other hand, what if I am too nice and he gets bored and disinterested?

The clock is ticking. It’s now or never.

I tell a joke.

…

We are now acquaintances.

I never feel quite so alone as in the lifts. I close my eyes, taking in the sensation as I plummet deep below the surface, and to the Blackreach beyond. Outside my gated cage, the millennia fly past, encased in earth and stone and ash, the sky a distant memory. The darkness presses closer, the air thick and heavy, yet at the same time, somehow fresh, new, undiscovered. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back here… Maybe –

The lift stops as the cavern bottoms out, only the faintest of creaks announcing its arrival. Dropping into a crouch, I reach out with my mind, unbinding, as I’ve done so many times before, some small part of the deep magic. Reflections, light, that which gives us vision. Optics the sages call it, and free from its laws, I pass from visibility, stalking out into the eternal shadow of Fal Zhardum, or the Blackreach, as it is known now. Silent as the grave, I slip to a nearby alcove, pulling out my working notes, and checking my maps one last time, dropping the enchantment only enough to see the pages on pages of blood spattered parchment. An account I found tells of a rare species of magical plant found here beneath the lands of the living. A plant so rare, its very leaves were said to echo with the voices of its many seekers. With skill, perseverance, and dare I say it, perhaps even a little luck, I plan to bring one of these specimen back to the surface for study. I can only hope the trial will not take too many – wait… is that? Hey look, that’s one over there. Well that was easy. Maybe the fates really do have an eye out for me today. What do you know, hardly a foot off the lift and I already have a sampl- oh hey look, another one…

Huh.

I leapt.

It was a twenty foot drop from the turret gunner’s seat of the UNSC Falcon to the concrete below, but I barely stumbled upon landing, even though the weight of my steel-plated armor caused the surface of the floor to crack.

“We’re under fire, Six”, came Noble Two’s voice over the radio. “Move it.”

“On the way”, I said as I flipped the safety on my assault rifle to the off position.

I surveyed the scene in front of us as the Falcon I rode in on set down behind me in the middle of the hexagonal courtyard to drop off the support troopers. It was a straight shot to the entrance of the excavation site we had been called in to defend; we were not going there. Our orders were to head due east of its position, following the downhill concrete driveway that hooked in that same direction. From there we would proceed into a hanger and rendezvous with Noble Two and the squad of troops that had been assigned to her command.

We had two objectives: disable the communications jammer that the Covenant had set up just outside the research facility and reactivate the automatic anti-aircraft guns that protected the facility. If we could do that, then maybe, just maybe we could buy the crews stationed here enough time to evacuate before the incoming Covenant armada overran the place. Otherwise, the entire workforce, tens of thousands of archaeologists, scientists and engineers, would be exterminated, and all their research would fall into the hands of the most dangerous enemy humankind he encountered to date. After all, “the great journey” central to the Covenant religion could only come about through the activation of the Halo rings, mechanisms meant to destroy all life in the galaxy.

Fools.

 I thought to myself.

Very powerful fools.

“What are you doing Six?”

I began to run.

Lieutenant Commander Catherine-B320, also known as Kat or Noble Two, had a zero tolerance policy for tardiness; this stemmed from an incident from before I had been reassigned to Noble Team that cost Kat her right arm. I had no desire to get on her bad side on the ride home from a mission, much less the beginning of one; I pressed on hoping to make up for lost time. I reached my full stride as I turned the corner and proceeded downhill, at which point the hanger came into view. From behind my black visor, I smiled.

Elites.

Two of the humanoid beasts stood with their backs facing me as I picked up speed going down the hill. Despite their immense size advantage, the limited training that most were afforded before being forced into service left elites at a disadvantage when in hand to hand combat with a fully-trained Spartan; these two had armor configurations characteristic of the Minor class, the first rank an elite was awarded upon enlisting in the Covenant fleet.

Too bad they won’t live long enough to really learn to fight.

I slung my rifle over my shoulder and unsheathed my knife with my right hand as I closed the gap between myself and the unsuspecting warriors. Once I got within range, I vaulted into the air.

The first elite never saw it coming.

Mid-air, I thrust my left elbow into the back of his neck, knocking the weapon out of his hand and sending him face first onto the ground; I landed smoothly on the ground beside him. Before he could react I leapt into the air again and brought my massive boots down on the rear of his skull. The force of the impact coupled with the weight of my suit crushed the mandibles that comprised the mouth of an elite and caved in his skull. His body went limp. Before I could even look down to admire my work, several wild shots of plasma energy shot past me. The second elite had broken off his attack on Kat’s position and charged towards me.

I reached for my rifle, but wheeled around too late.

Before I could bring the weapon around, the elite kicked it out of my hand and punched me in the gut, knocking me down. I turned back around in time to see him stomped on the weapon and crush it beneath his bare heel.

Not a big deal, at least I still have my knife.

He turned to face me, and reached for a cylindrical handle around his waist. I recognized it instantly, and a sharp chill bolted up my spine.

Big deal.

He coiled his long fingers around the handle, and tightened his grip; the plasma sword expanded to its full size.

Very big deal.

The elite glanced at his fallen comrade, and furrowed his brow as he took in the traumatic scene of his friend bathing in a swelling, crimson pool of his own blood. As he reverted his gaze to me, a single tear ran down the side of his face.

The elite let out a passionate howl and charged.