Beneath this civilized world is buried the world of old.

Tracks made by copper-skinned tribes, moving from home to home.

Tracks made by deer and the once much plentiful antelope.

Unbelievable treacheries and friendships, tales of love, and tales of lust are hidden by civilization day by day.

Slowly wearing away and becoming nothing more than memories, half-remembered dreams.

But we are not like our ancient copper-toned brothers.

We do not run as or with the antelope.

No, we are more like the clear headed assassin, waiting patiently for their prey, waiting to make their single, cruel strike.

One arrow to fell a deer, one arrow to feed your tribe.

One bullet to fell a deer, one bullet to change the world.