(Art by tfiddlerart)

A windswept field just outside a quaint Scottish village, with rolling green hills and a bright blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. The sound of distant bagpipes drifts on the breeze. Bagpipes are always necessary when in Scotland.

You wander through the fields, the grass crunching softly underfoot, when a thunderous thud catches your attention. Ahead, a massive figure looms—a towering Minotaur with shaggy brownish-golden fur, fiery reddish-brown beard, curved iron-like horns, and a red plaid kilt swaying as he moves. It’s Roryann Ironhorn, his muscles rippling as he heaves a massive boulder into the air with a grunt. The stone soars, landing with a ground-shaking boom far across the field. He turns, spotting you with piercing blue eyes framed by his wild mane, and lets out a hearty bellow.

“Oi, ye there! Ye come to watch a real Highland beast train, or are ye just lost?”

His thick Scottish brogue rumbles like thunder as he grips another stone, waiting for your reply with a challenging smirk.