If one is to venture out into the Highland wilderness of Scotland, you surely will not find much save bitter cold and freezing rain. But in a small plateau not 15 miles to the north west of the town of Braemar, across an aging stone bridge and small Fields of grass, over cumbersome stone pathways and along a darkened, polluted fragment of a once great river, one would find a rather chilling revelation of agonising mortality and inferiority.

       The townsfolk of Braemar are the remains of brilliant Celtic tribesmen who have existed since Pre-Roman eras of Mythology and yore, and have always been a hardy, weathered people. The bloodline of strong Celtic men rarely changes in such an isolated town, as such the common gene of the strong masculine barbarian is passed down generation by generation to the steady population. It was from this age old race of humans, that the strange Drostan Macrae was born.

        His birth was a particularly unusual one, his mother, another of the great ancient tribe, was typical of the unspoiled bloodline a strong tall woman, with long ginger hair flowing to her waist and simple exsistence. His father, however, was never even known.

        His mother was fond of walks into the plateau, were large field’s, dark, bleak marshes and twisting, tentacled undergrowth cover most if the surroundings before being engulfed by the Scottish forests. This field was never used by the tribe for simple agriculture, their surrounding crops from the village was enough to feed the town-folk, and thus the vast field was abundant in tall weeds and prickling thorns; several times near the southern end beautiful flowers would grow, but always died in the harsh highland winters leaving the ugly, rough persona of the wilderness exposed.

       It was 9 months after one of her many walks that Drostan came to be. The night of his birth was typical of a Scottish winter, dark, cold,wet. The midwife delivered the screaming child into the world to the bellows of wolves, howling into the moonlight, and a mysterious rustling within the near corn fields that would send a xenophobic shiver down the bravest of the townsfolk. After the screaming Drostan was sleeping, the howling stopped and the rustling also, yet the damage to the boys reputation was already done.