Wapiskimaskwa leaned on his musket, the bayonet sinking barely an inch into the frozen ground. He was one of several of his tribe, gathered in a ring around the core of his village.
The guests were here. The Eskimo, eaters of raw meat. They were gathered at the other end of the ring of people. Their faces were flat and round, their features heavy and foreign- not attractive, by Maskwa's judging Cree eyes. Still, they were allies. The men of Europe had come, brought their weapons, their flags, their traders and plagues... then they had left. The Cree had fallen back into their internecine squabbles, but the northerners had not. They had maintained their unity, and forged forwards- perhaps that was why it had been the Inuit who had risen to unite Maskwa's people through blood and diplomacy.
And it was now, with the combined strength of the Inuit and the Cree, that they were at last beginning to push back into the lands... their old lands. The realms that both France and Britain had stolen, then successively lost.
The Cree Warrior pulled his musket from the ground, and the senior figure amongst the Inuit finished speaking. The translator concluded a second later. The words were unimportant. All Maskwa cared about was that his people would be returning home. His force would gather migrants from the villages, and lead them back into the lands which had once granted them fish and game in abundance, the lands which had once brought them such prosperity and plenty.
Would the Europeans still be there, clinging to their stolen farms on the waterfronts?
Quietly, Wapiskimaskwa relished the opportunity.