there are tales of the pale-ones who came out of the sea. Great warriors they were, like demons. Their canoes were made of wood, and they wore skins of metal all about them, that our arrows could not pierce. The father of my mother's father was in the war band that came upon them in their long houses at dawn.
The demon men were torpid with great feasting and merry-making from the night before. Our war band fell upon the demon men from stealth. They did not hear our footfalls on the forest floor, did not see our shadows slip into their camp. One of the demon men saw our band and let out a cry before a warrior smashed his skull with his war-club. Out of the long houses came two handfulls of the demon men. They did not have time to put on their magic metal skins. Our warriors overcame them all.
But the demon men put a curse upon our warriors. Within one moon, the father of my mother's father was the only one of our war band that lived. All the rest were felled by a strange sickness that the demon men cast upon them. The people drove off the warriors and the warband camped beside the river, where they all died but one, who returned to the people after 3 moons, to tell this tale.

By Zit-kala-sa