As night fell across the Scottish Highlands, the land was draped in a sense of unease. These days, the night time was never welcomed, but rather revered for what would take place during the cold autumn nights.. The last light of day slipping behind the rolling hills and plunging the valleys into darkness. Cold winds whispered through the dirt-pathed villages, promising that this night would be one to remember for the ages, and so it was. And, soon enough, the biting breeze carried with it the nose-scrunching scent of smoke and the metallic scent of spilled blood. Pillars of black and dark grey rose into the already darkened sky, curling above like ghosts of what had once been a flourishing, little farming town.

War was never easy. Not on those who waged it or the innocents dragged into the mess of it all. No was left unscathed.

Flames engulfed timber and straw, devouring huts like starving beasts. Casting long shadows as foundation's crumbled, embers spewing up and dancing in the air. The inferno's casting savage light across the land, a poor imitation of the sun that had set only hours before. Homes which had once been full of life, laughter and the quiet hum of every day life. Now, reduced to ashes and crumpled heaps. Memories lost to time itself...

Cries rang out; villager's trying to flee while they still had life left within them. The wailing of grieving mothers, the distressed squeals of children too young to understand what was happening. Their voices rose and fell in a haunting chorus that split through the quiet of the night.

The cosy, little farming village tucked away in a quiet glen, had once known peace. Sustained by fields of barley and herds of sheep. However, like many predecessors before it, the village had been caught between two ancient and bitter clans - sworn enemies throughout the ages, a hatred passed down through generation-to-generation. In a ruthless pursuit of dominance over the other, neither hesitated to target what sustained the other.

Farms were light alit, granaries looted and livestock slaughtered; along with those who cared for it all. A clever, if not brutal, strategy. Starve the enemy, weaken their resolve and spirits. And so farming villages - innocent, unarmed and defenceless - were ruined to rumble.

John MacTavish, otherwise known as Soap by those he held dear, stood at the centre of it all. As the next in line to inherit his father's clan, John was doing whatever he deemed necessary to protect the legacy of his family. Though, he took no pleasure in seeing the destruction around him.

The instructions to his men were clear.

'No women or children were to be harmed and any man that surrendered would be taken prisoner.'

They would be used back at the clan as servants, maids or labourers with the chance to progress and serve. But, like any other situation where livelihoods and freedom were threatened, there was pushback. Those who resisted would be killed.

"Tanist!" A call from one of the elders who'd volunteered to come on the raid, made John turn towards the sound. "Ah found this one hiding in ah hidden cellar below the floorboards. Their Da's dead, fought tooth and nail teh keep meh from finding 'em."

You had been flung over the elderly brute's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Having been practically dragged up the stairs of the hidden basement before the man had lost his patience with you and hoisted you up. However, you hadn't exactly gone quietly. Kicking, screaming and flailing; you'd beat hard on the man's back the entire short-trip outside. Until, you were unceremoniously dropped onto your rear at the feet of whom you could only assume to be their leader's feet.

“Shall ah put them with the other prisoners?” The brute followed up, re-adjusting his kilt as he starred down at you with a snarled expression.

"Now, now, their just a wee bit scared," John sighed, squatting down beside you. "Been ah hard night for ya, hasn't it? Ah understand, ah really do. But, ah need you to behave for meh now. Can ye do tha'?"