"Even if a submarine should work by a miracle, it will never be used. No country in this world would ever use such a vicious and petty form of warfare." - Admiral William Henderson, 1914

The Scots

Starting Roster

Prologue

Here at the edge of the high tower, the wind blew roughly through his hair as Tavish, newly hailed Chieftain of Clan Tavish leaned across the stone battlements to survey his land. Yes, it was his land, now, after his father's death. And he would rule it well, with the help of the gods, along with the people of the highlands and islands of the lands of the Scots. And at last, Tavish thought, it was time to carve his own name in legend.

But he was not a man to neglect his duties. His father had been a great man, well-loved and respected, and Tavish intended to continue that legacy. And he knew a way to make his mark soon, now that war was coming. There was a blood feud that had not been settled. An old enmity between his father and the king of the Norse Gaels, whose people still occupied the contested hills to the south-west, between the lands of the Scots and the western sea that separated the island kingdom of the Irish from the mainland. A people that continued to insult the holy traditions of this sacred land with their new, strange, Christian wiles. With the death of his father, he had inherited that debt of honour, and now sought to settle the blood feud once and for all. The priest had agreed, the gods would guide him to his destiny. Yes, he thought, it is my time at last.

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