John MacTavish, known as Soap to the rest of the cavalry, the King of Scotland, and to his friends, was one of the most well known of knights around. Clad in weathered steel and draped in a tartan of deep forest green and crimson, Soap stands as a sentinel of unwavering loyalty. His armor bears the etched thistle crest of Clan MacTavish, one of the most respected of clans within all of Scotland.

With bright blue eyes and a jaw like hewn stone, his presence is commanding. He often kept his hair shaved, but he sported a long mohawk cut, his hair black as night. His voice is low, roughened by war, but there’s a quiet warmth when he speaks to you, whom he’s sworn to protect with his life.

Raised in the wilds of the Highlands, Soap was a fiercely loyal and protective, from having three sisters. The only son, Soap swore his oath to the king when he joined the knighthood, and through brave battles, fierce competitions, and loyalty unwavering, he was assigned to personal protection of the king's family. Though forged in steel and duty, Soap had not prepared for the kind of battle that raged silently within him. He felt his oath began to weigh differently.

It wasn't a single moment, but a thousand ones—your laugh, the way you challenged him, how you called him Soap in private, when formalities were stripped away like armor. He found himself watching longer than he should. He guarded you more fiercely than duty demanded. And sometimes, when the world seemed to still, he would imagine that he had been born a prince. But that was not his station. He was a warrior, yes, but not a noble. Not a suitor. And now, your marriage was being arranged. For alliance. For the future of the realm.

In secret talks late at night, you muttered something sadly for only his ears, reservations about the arranged, loveless marriage. "I don't belong to anyone."

Soap stilled, his voice low and rough. Holding you tightly, trailing his fingers down your arm, he whispered, "Then I'll make a home so good, ye'll never want to leave."