Christ, his suit was tight. He hadn’t been measured in years — if not decades —, and it was starting to dawn on him how much his body had changed since he was in his youthful years. Sure, he was healthy and strong, but lord was he bigger than he used to be. He straightened his yellow-and-red tie and took a deep breath before hiking into the meeting room with heavy steps. As he opened the hulking hardwood door he was immediately blasted with white light; something seldom seen in the Highlands these days, as most of the people he knew — Corey included — preferred the homely, inviting nature of warm light. This kind of feeling was alien to him. Stepping into the room he spotted the long wooden dining table, draped in tartan, which was meant to act as the table where great men would act. Professional enough, he figured; all these people knew each other close enough, so there was no need to make it extravagant like the Christmas feasts which were hosted by the MacDonald’s that he rarely attended.

Several men, and a few women, sat at the table before him, all dressed in equally un-MacDonald attire that made them shift uncomfortably in their cushioned wooden seats. Ross recognized almost everybody in the room, including those who he had worked with closely in formalizing the Northern Expeditionary Force all those years ago. Many clever minds sat in this room, but these clever minds likely had different ideas. He found a seat near the entrance and placed his large frame on the little wooden seat. These chairs weren’t meant for giants such as himself.

After engaging in some small talk with his neighbors — a notable statesman from Tioram and his close friend, Commander Alex MacDonald of Bun Loyne —, the man of the hour finally crept into the meeting hall, which was at this point almost completely filled with people; perhaps twenty or thirty of the most elite members of the MacDonald Clan. At that moment Ross almost felt honored to be there, but quickly recalled the atrocities committed under the Clanranald regime, and how he had enabled them to happen to a certain degree due to his inability to act. He may have been important enough to participate in Clan Council, but he was very secretly — subconsciously — in opposition to the entire idea.

Corey MacDonald of Clanranald was an old man with who Ross frequented visits with every year, often taking treks from the northern holdings to Achnacarry to brief Corey of the recent happenings with the expedition’s progress. It was mundane most of the time; Corey glanced at the records that Ross provided and respectfully shooed him out, to which Ross politely walked out the door of Achnacarry Keep without any fuss. Ross didn’t know whether Corey cared — or even knew — about his subtle animosity towards the MacDonald philosophy of rule, and he wasn’t prepared to find out any time soon. All Ross knew was that Corey had a firm grasp over his peers, and finding yourself far out of line from his pure vision of MacDonald supremacy over the Highlands was a bad idea. Corey MacDonald of Clanranald made his way down the meeting room and found his seat at the head of the long table, slowly lowering himself into the deep brown leather chair which seemed to be made to conform to his small, skinny proportions perfectly. Corey rested a large folder organizer on the table but didn’t open it; he simply sat there, perfectly still, waiting for somebody to act. Ross glanced at Hardin MacDonald; a man two years his senior and who held a prominent role in the MacDonald’s elaborate shipping system which dominated Highland trade. Hardin raised himself from his seat slightly and began to speak.

“So, what’re we here for Corey? I didn’t lug my ass all the way from Slumbay to have you sit here like a deaf-blind man.”

Corey MacDonald of Clanranald shifted his eyes to Hardin slowly and said in an old yet loud voice:

“We don’t have these get-togethers too often anymore. We’ve had no reason to. The Estate is in good health, the army is functional, and the people are fed… We must recognize the accomplishments of our family and celebrate them happily. We… I… Went through Hell and high water to get this family off the ground and out of Tioram and into Achnacarry… That wasn’t feckin’ easy, mind all of you.”

The group looked around at each other and agreed vaguely. Ross knew what Corey had sacrificed to turn the MacDonald’s into something more than a local clan. The man had no close relatives of his own; both of his sons had died, his daughters and wife in Ireland to avoid assassination by the Campbell’s. All Corey had left was a grandson who was off at some English academy in Jerusalem, being groomed into statesmanhood by some perky English professor. He looked back to Corey, who continued on with his speech.

“We — the MacDonald’s — face another issue which will be hard to tide like the Campbell’s or Munroe’s, in that we can’t just kill the damned bastards who are causing us trouble. We have to solve this issue professionally and respectfully, which is just…”

Corey made a harsh grunting noise and took a sip of water that had been provided to him by a non-MacDonald servant who stood close by.

“I’ll cut to the point here, lads: These Moranians across Ness are threatening us with their organized democratic system and their fair-and-equal values which threaten our own policy, and therefore our treasury. Even though the Lowlanders pussyfooted back to Elgin after we crossed Ness, that doesn’t mean they’ll be on our asses later… It’s something we’ve got to be prepared for in the future.”

The talks afterward were long and drawn-out. Ross didn’t pay much attention past when a server asked if he wanted anything stronger than water to drink. He sipped lightly on the finest whisky the MacDonald’s could buy and listened to the nonsense that these MacDonald politicians and generals had to spew. He talked little, usually interjecting when someone mentioned the successes of the Northern Expedition to clarify and inflate a certain number of casualties or number of things that had gone missing from MacDonald's hands into the arms of the greedy, bloodthirsty troops. The talks had gone late into the night, and by the end, everyone was drained of energy except for Ross, who had decided to bar hop in Achnacarry for a couple more hours until retiring to his hotel near Achnacarry Keep.

Ross did not care for whatever this Moranian situation brought or took away from the MacDonald’s. Ross just wanted to be out in the forest somewhere with his close lads, hunting for sport.

[10 DP into military categories]