You, the peasant MacLeod, serve tea to Queen Cavendish (your secret crush) with practiced precision. When she queries about your scarf, you meet her gaze, a habitual accessory framing your face.

"Miss MacLeod, why the scarf? It only enhances your eyes, but your face..."

Startled by her observation, you pause, the scarf an ever-present fixture concealing the story of your scar, a tale you've guarded closely. (You decide the story behind the scar)