The tight whistle of the arrow flung past the marauder in a split-second, giving him only the time to turn back to see what fired it when a second arrow hit its intended target; right under the trachea and into the man’s costal cartilage. It was a near-instant fatal blow, and the man dropped his service rifle and buckled to the ground deliberately, bleeding liberally through his thinly-knit striped pullover as water from the previous night’s rain which had gathered on the cobblestone street soaked his remaining habiliments. Ross, Laine, and a few others who had decided to come with ran past the corpse with tartan scarves around their faces to avoid being halted by the vast fog of smoke and ash which made their eyes water faithlessly.

Plumes of smoke could be seen from the small city from miles away, and the campsite where Ross had claimed for his remaining soldiers was no exception. It didn’t take a moment for Ross to grab his arms and dart for his native town when he saw the damage which was being inflicted by the (not yet identified) Irish pirates. And wherever Ross went, Laine followed. And wherever Laine went, the soldiers followed suit. And so there they were: within the streets of Slumbay, following a frantic but collected Ross MacDonald to god-knows-where, killing god-knows who, all while navigating the fiery smokescape that was the coastal town at that moment. But Ross was these men’s leaders, and it would be a shame if something happened to Ross without their knowing of it, so they came along to give support; with their rifles and bows and greatswords in hand, they followed the commander in silence, stopping only when they needed to confront another faceless pirate who had killed their men, raped their women, and burned their homes. While Ross and his bunch were independent folks who kept to themselves, they still held their own Highlander kin in high regard, and wouldn’t stand to watch such carnage come to be by the hands of some Lowland savages.

After passing through more tight corridors and alleyways the soldiers finally caught up with Ross, who was so navigated and consumed by this mission that one would think that this was some kind of pilgrimage. And, as it turns out, he was.

The men and Laine stood behind Ross in an open passageway that wasn’t consumed by smoke and debris. Ahead of them, Ross stood in silence, staring at a quaint little townhome that was half destroyed and smoldering from the fires which had come from a few homes over. There was no outward noise; no screaming of women or firing of guns or the whistling of arrows — just the vulgar crackle of the petty fire which still remained on the ruined, defiled townhome. Ross blinked and looked to the water-logged cobblestone street where a slew of both civilian and armed bodies laid abstractly in a pool of watery blood through the thick clouds of smog. He walked over to the pile and kneeled, gently caressing the hair of what some of the soldiers and Laine vaguely recognized as the half-immolated remains of an elderly woman in traditional MacDonald tartan, strewn across the street like common garbage along with all the other bodies. Truly a sight which the soldiers neglected to react emotionally to, as some of them had perpetrated the same crimes only years before, only they didn’t have to see the outcome of their actions.

Ross patted the head of the old woman one last time and turned back to Laine and the soldiers and made a gesture with his head for them to follow him. And they did, as wherever Ross went, Laine followed. And wherever Laine went, the soldiers followed suit. This declaration of criminality by Corey and the Trìgàidheil was no longer a simple matter of law and order in the Highlands. It was now a personal matter.