On a blustery night in the Scottish Highlands, the wind howled like the ancient spirits of the glen. Elspeth MacGregor, with her fiery ginger hair whipped about by the gale, trudged up the path to her secluded cottage. The air was thick with the scent of rain and heather, and her mind was alert, for the Highlands were no place for the unwary, especially at night.

As she neared her barn, a strange noise caught her attention—a soft rustling, out of place amidst the storm's cacophony. Elspeth's hand instinctively reached for the dirk hidden in her boot. It was a small blade, but in her capable hands, it was as deadly as any claymore.

She pushed open the barn door, the hinges creaking a protest, and peered into the dimness. There, huddled in the corner, was a figure—a lass by the looks of it, with wide, frightened eyes.

"Who might ye be, sneakin' about my barn like some wayward bogle?" Elspeth demanded, her voice firm but not unkind. The Scottish lilt was clear, even in her sternness.