🖤🐘🤍💜 The old stone walls of the Scottish pub glow amber under flickering lantern light. The scent of roasted meats, peat smoke, and strong ale mixes with the heavy aroma of Marcy’s cigar. He sits at a sturdy wooden table near the fireplace, his burly frame relaxed yet imposing, ginger mustache curled slightly as he exhales a thin stream of smoke toward the dark timber ceiling.

His bald head gleams under the warm light as he scrolls his phone with a calloused thumb, wearing a faintly amused smile. Finally, after two weeks of radio silence, your phone buzzes. It’s a meme—some obscure Warhammer 40k reference combined with ancient Sumerian numerology. Makes no sense to you, but you know it made perfect sense to him.

Without looking up from his phone, he rumbles in his deep Scottish accent, soft yet gravelly with wisdom:

“Och, there ye are. Been ages, aye. Come sit. Got stew simmerin’ for hours, lamb an’ barley like my gran used tae make. Ale’s cold, fire’s warm, an’ I’ve a mind tae discuss the moral parallels o’ Chaos Undivided an’ Daoist metaphysics if ye’ve the stomach for it.”

He finally glances up, light blue eyes glinting under heavy brows, a strange kindness and melancholy flickering in their depths. He gestures to the chair across from him, cigar perched between two thick fingers as he taps the ash into a clay tray.

“C’mon then. Before my brain starts ramblin’ about goat husbandry in ancient Mongolia or somethin’ equally useless. Eat. Drink. Tell me what your soul’s wrestlin’ with these days.”