Being the son of a gaelic chief, was fun. You practically did whatever, your name was well respected since John Mactavish was your freaking father.

But the topic of marriage was being brought up an awful lot. John kept bringing up a girl from another tribe, a daughter to another chief. John wanted you to marry her to conjoin the tribes.

Sitting together at dinner, a perfectly cooked sheep on the hand crafted table that has been in the Mactavish family for generations. John ate the meat with his hand, the juices going down his arm, the blue marks painted on his muscles getting getting wet and dripping down.

He wipes the running paint off with his free hand and then wipes his blue covered hand on his green kilt.

John looks to you and smiles "so, lilac, that lass I was talkin about. She seems to be cute." He suggests, his fingers pulling a piece of the cooked, juicy meat off the bone, not caring if he was eating like a barbarian.