The sun's last light was dancing along the shores of Loch Rannoch, causing each gentle ripple to shimmer a beautiful mandarin tone. Reflected in the water was a castle standing proud on the hill above. Dunalistair Castle emanated grandeur, with delicate cornice tastefully placed around each of its numerous windows and doors. The peaks and towers that sprouted from the castle bore a striking resemblance to the shadows cast by the mountains on the horizon, as the evening sun withdrew behind them.

A thick forest engulfed the castle on all sides except that of which faced the illuminated loch. It was July in Scotland, but the air felt sharp on the skin and the grass grew heavy with the evening dew.

From the balcony on the tallest tower in the centre of Dunalistair stood the Legendary Chief of Clan Donnachaidh, Duncan of the great Lynx folk.

His luminescent glare pierced the horizon as he surveyed his land deep in thought. He looked beyond Kinloch-the village of his clansmen-all the way to the bridge of Gaur, which led way to Rannoch Moor. Duncan had charged his men into battle countless times over the uneven cobbles of the bridge, bitter thoughts of past conflicts flooded into his mind as he gazed upon it.

The trees stood completely motionless, like soldiers in formation at the dawn of battle, paralysed with fear. Between them snaked a narrow cobbled path from the village, all the way up to the castle gate. Duncan's eyes averted from the sunset as he noticed the kindled flickering of torchlight dance up the path which led to his castle. His acute sense of hearing caused his ears to twitch in the direction of the village below as he heard the whisper of conversation follow the flames.

"Aye it is time," he muttered under his breath. Standing tall, Duncan pursed his lips and drained the last of the Whiskey in his chalice. Several drops of the amber liquid began to race down his ashen ruff, which sprawled from his face down to the bottom of his neck. His imposing figure cast a menacing shadow on the wall behind him as the sun began to disappear behind the horizon. Duncan turned and retreated indoors. One of his nineteen servants stood at the threshold of the door, ready to accept his empty chalice.

Descending a narrow staircase he made his way through the decorative hallways towards his bed-chamber. A Donnachaidh clan tartan carpet wondered the hallway floor, guiding the merry Chief and bringing warmth to the castle. As he strolled, his kilt swayed rhythmically with the power of his stride, the vibrant red of the Donnachaidh tartan matched his cheeks which were flared from the whiskey he had consumed.

Upon returning to his chamber, Duncan found his wife staring into a large decorative mirror in front of her. Noticing him enter, Cayla turned her head slightly. She cast a flirtatious smile in his direction as the maid continued to fasten her dress. Although a Chief of one of the three greatest clans in Scotland, Duncan's heart grew soft every time he laid eyes on Cayla. Her features were typical of the Scotious folk from Harris, yet none could rival her beauty. Long auburn hair flowed in perfect unison from her head to her waist, following the contours of her slender body. No one would have guessed that such a figure had given birth for the first time one month ago.

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"Leave us," Duncan boomed to the maid, subsequently taking place behind his wife. He fumbled with the delicate lace as he tried to secure the last remaining loops.

"Ach, am no use at this Cay," he spoke softly in his wife's ear. She giggled with the innocence of a child as she watched him struggle in the mirror. Duncan's hands were built for war, enormous thick spades that resembled the paws of the great Lynx he could transform into. Such intricate work was best left to the maids, but the fanged grin reflected in the mirror revealed his good humour this evening.

"And... Done... now far is my wee lad?" he said proudly admiring his handy work.

"He's in his cot in the Nursery." Cayla motioned with her eyes as she began to tie a royal purple ribbon in her flowing hair. Compared to Duncan, her graceful fingers made light work of the task. The bow perfectly complemented her silk dress which hugged her bust and waist, splaying out at her hips and falling elegantly to the floor.

Her eyes narrowed fondly as she watched her husband pick up their new-born baby Fionnghal. Even though he was only a month old, Finn already began to resemble his father. Patchy tufts of golden hair grew from his tiny head, browning at the tips. His ears came to a definitive point-also like Duncan-which was a defining feature of Donnachaidh Clansmen. Not forgetting his overall chubby appearance, baby Finn was already a heart-breaker like his Father before him.

"Ye better get wee Finn ready for the celebration," said Cayla with a smile. She went over to the dresser and picked up a small piece of clothing. "I even had the maid make him a kilt to match his daddy." She held up the tartan cloth which was no longer than two hand widths long.

Duncan walked up to Cayla, pulling her into his embrace and squeezing baby Finn tightly between them. He tenderly kissed her forehead before he announced, "Let's enjoy ourselves tonight aye?"

"Aye," she replied.

"I saw the torches rise from Kinloch, they'll no be lang before they're here." Duncan led his family out towards the great hall on the ground floor of Dunalistair Castle.

*****

In the underbelly of the castle, two shadowy characters sulked around in the darkness. Not a single ray of light could be found in the cellar, yet both men could see each other clearly.

Having eyesight of the Lynx proved invaluable in conducting shady business in private. "Did ye bring what I asked ye?" said Blair one of Duncan's servants, distinctly spotting the small bag in the cloaked figure's hand.

"Yesss it is here," hissed the mysterious voice. "And my payment?"

"Athelstan has promised payment on his arrival at the castle, be patient and you shall receive your gold serpent."

The man snapped his fingers causing him to disappear in an instant. The cloak that shrouded his identity ominously floated to the floor. Suddenly an adder the length of a man slid from underneath the pale garment. The deathly black painted along the length of the snake provided further camouflage as it slithered into the depths of the cellar.

Blair grunted affirmatively as he picked up the bag left in the remains of his conspirator. He undid the cloth tie that held the bag shut revealing a pure white crystalline powder. Walking over to the casks, he uncorked a few, pouring a small amount of the powder into each. Carefully disguising his sabotage, the servant meticulously replaced the cork stoppers, subsequently returning upstairs to help with the preparations.