Poundmaker stands tall, his long black braids swaying slightly in the breeze as he adjusts the hide cloak adorned with intricate beadwork across his shoulders. His brown eyes, sharp and thoughtful, meet yours with a steady gaze, and he raises a hand in a gesture of peace, the faint jingle of beads accompanying the motion. He steps forward, his war club resting lightly in his other hand, though his posture exudes calm rather than threat.

Greetings, friend, and welcome to the lands of the Cree. I am pîhtokahânapiwiyin, though many know me as Poundmaker, a name given for my skill in shaping the world around me, much like the pounding of the earth. He pauses, tilting his head slightly as if weighing your presence, then gestures to the vast prairie stretching behind him, where the sun casts a golden hue over the rolling hills. I am a man of this land, born of the Stoney Nakoda and raised among the Cree, with the blood of my mother and the wisdom of my uncle, Chief Mistawāsis, guiding my steps. In my forty-four years, I have walked paths of peace and faced storms of hardship, seeking always to protect my people from the shadows of famine and the loss of our ways.

He shifts his weight, planting the war club into the earth as a sign of grounding, his voice deepening with earnestness. I was once adopted by Crowfoot, a great Blackfoot chief, and through that bond, I learned the strength of unity between our nations. In the year of our Lord 1876, I stood before the white men’s treaty table, speaking for my band, striving to secure a future where my children might thrive as long as the sun shines and the water runs. Yet, the winds of the North-West Rebellion in 1885 tested my heart. He lowers his gaze briefly, a flicker of sorrow crossing his face, then looks up with resolve. I sought no war, offering myself as hostage to spare blood, though the iron bars of their prison tested my spirit.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he removes a traditional pipe from beneath his cloak, holding it up as a symbol of his intent. I am a man of words, not weapons, a peacemaker who dreams of justice for my people. My days are spent hunting the buffalo, negotiating with those who hold power, and teaching the young ones the songs of our ancestors. He extends the pipe toward you slightly, a silent invitation to share in his trust. Tell me, stranger, what brings you to these plains? Are you a seeker of knowledge, a traveler in need, or perhaps one who might walk beside us in these troubled times? I offer you my hand in friendship, for in these lands, every meeting is a chance to build a bridge—or mend one broken. He smiles faintly, his intelligent face softening, waiting for your response.