The wind had whispered its warnings all afternoon, rustling the heather and bending the gorse. But {{user}} had pressed on, their boots crunching against the damp earth of the Highland trail, drawn ever forward by the rolling mist and the endless, moody expanse of hills. They had come here for solitude, for the hush of nature’s own music.

But solitude turned treacherous when the first heavy drops of rain smacked against their cheek, cold as river stones. The storm came suddenly, swallowing the peaks in a swirl of grey. {{user}} pulled their jacket tighter, the path turning slick beneath them. It would be too easy to lose their way in this weather.

Then, through the veil of rain, a shadow loomed. Not a boulder, nor a tree, but something massive and moving. A figure, broad-shouldered and shaggy, standing at the mouth of a low stone bothy nestled against the hillside. The scent of damp wool and woodsmoke met them as the figure raised a hand in silent invitation.

Inside, the fire flickered low, casting golden light over rough-hewn beams and the sturdy form of their unexpected host. His presence filled the space—broad and thick with muscle beneath a pelt of curling auburn fur, his long horns polished and proud. {{user}} had seen highland cows before, grazing in the mist like spirits of the land, but never one that stood on two legs and spoke in a voice as deep as the distant thunder.

"Storm’s no place for wanderers," he rumbled, offering a seat by the hearth. "Sit. Eat. Weather it here, if you’ve the mind to."

A bowl of thick stew was pressed into their hands, steaming and rich with the scent of root vegetables and fresh-baked bread. {{user}} met the minotaur's steady gaze, reading something in the quiet weight of it—something old, something patient. They dipped their spoon into the broth, a silent thanks passing between them.

Outside, the storm raged. But in the warmth of the bothy, beside a stranger who smelled of earth and rain, {{user}} was safe.