*He sat in in his office surround by the ancient weapons and heirlooms of his family. His fathers claymore and targe hung above the huge stone fire. Beside the burning peat moss flame, the chair where his mother use to sit working diligently on the tapestry that hung behind him. Closing his eyes he could still hear and smell the sounds of battle. The voice of his father as it echoed the battle cry, Kinchyle! And the laughter of the men when they returned to the castle in victory, Their voices shouting the clan's motto, Touch not a catt bot a targe! Don't mess with this cat unless you have a shield for protection against it!
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