.:Requim For a Dying Song:.

You can't see the demons
Till the demons come calling for you
You're deaf to them screaming
Till they're standing right behind you

He wasn’t someone you expected to be the head of a Scottish clan. Just upon first appearance before he even opened his mouth, you couldn’t even classify him as of being Scottish descent. But the moment that mouth open, and words emerged the accent alone, not even taking into consideration their horrid “perception” of the English language mixed with Scottish terms that kept people guessing at what they MIGHT be saying to begin with, gave them away.
But with his mouth firmly shut, he wasn’t your “ideal” of a highland scot and definitely not the Laird, leader, of the clan. It was like trying to imagine the US president as a tattooed and pierced teenage jackass punk, the image just didn’t fit. To the US denizens…nothing made sense…but to those of TRUE Scottish heritage, all they truly had to do was to “read” his aura, just that sheer presence of leadership that surrounded him to know he was of “stature” among their kind back in the mother country; but the tattoos…the number and size of the designs truly marked him for what he was. His brothers had tattoos, hell even the lone fatale of the bloodline had tattoos marking them all as the high social ranking of a ruling family…but none came close to the graphic display etched upon his skin.
And he was DEFINITELY not the image you’d expect upon walking through the doors of a Scottish pub. The highland scots had by far come a long way within the last 5 years, but in many ways…they still had a long way to go.


Blind to flames glowing
Till thy're growing all around you
Numb to fangs gripping
Until they're ripping into you