Brave, kilted warriors, standing tall at the crisp glare of morning sun imprint their image in elongated shadows retreating before them. Scotsmen, their clans represented in the intricate weave of plaid. In the background, it was not a drum which beat its rhythm – it was the bagpipes, whose high, sweet voice sang the sacred song of the soul.
Within the strong, heavily muscled breasts of the kilted warriors beat a heart which feared the battles and death lying ahead, but hungered for the bittersweet taste of victory. Visions of rich red life-blood which would water the green and rocky highlands drove sadness into every warrior’s spirit …
Theirs would be a portion of that life-blood …
“For what price, Victory? How many men must perish?” These are but whispers of the unexpressed questions echoed by tired minds and stamped into the ground with tired feet.
Hair the color of fire and that the color of night flew like banners on the morning air, snapping in the wind. Waves crashed heedlessly among the rocky crags at shore, ignorant and uncaring of the sacrifices being made above them. Nature need not notice what man does. Nature will continue, while man will perish.
And nowhere else was there a land so haughtily beautiful, so tirelessly wild, or so forbidding. Every man wore the stamp of this land on their face, and it rang through their blood, tying them forever together.
The bagpipes continued their song, kilted warriors enduring blows to finely muscled bodies with the anger and savageness that earned their victory …
Once again, the ragged, tired and torn kilted warriors started marching, never turning to see friends and fathers fallen behind.
And the bagpipes lead the proud, victorious men home.