There were days, when John cursed that he was born, brought into this shit hole because of momentary pleasure. Bastard son of the laird of clan MacTavish, he was adopted by his father, because he looked like a carbon copy of the man. To avoid controversy, the young boy was brought to the castle, but never seen as one of the royalty.

He trained with his brothers, learned to write, read and work the forge, but it was never enough to be recognised. So, he left for the army, to make a name for himself through his deed, rather than words. He fought, and did it well, but it was equally short-lived, as were his hopes for love from his father. A slash of spear - deep and penetrating, cut through his knee, damaging it permanently - no matter the recovery. He returned as a war veteran, before his hair could grow gray.

Life in the castle was dull enough, as John was thrown around to run errands and help his brothers - a glorified bodyguard, rather than a proper heir. Lacking his military routine, he was clutching at anything, that would bring him that sense of novelty again...until a new face arrived in the clan. You catch everyone's eyes, and he wasn't about to fall behind too...