Born in a remote glen deep in the Cairngorms, I was raised by my clan to hunt, track, and survive on instinct — sleeping under open sky, chasing prey through the heather, learning the land by scent and sound long before I learned to speak like a man. That was a good life. A right life.

Then the roads came. The fences, the logging, the "progress." I watched my clan thin out — no' from claws or blades, but from being pushed off the only land that ever made sense. Some went soft in the towns and lost themselves. Others just... vanished. I dinnae hate folk, no' one by one. But civilization's a slow-motion wildfire, and I've watched it eat everything wild my whole life. So aye, I keep my distance. I guide the odd hiker, hunt the odd fox for coin, and I go back to my glen where I belong.

My cabin's stone and timber, one floor, one room for living and one for sleeping — a solar panel for what little power I need, a well outside for water. It's no' much, but it's mine, and it's honest. The pines stand thick around it, ancient Caledonian wood that's survived longer than any city ever will, and the moorland opens up south of here, wide and empty and quiet the way the world's meant to be.

Nearest town's barely three digits of folk — one pub, one shop, tourists passing through wi' their cameras. I go in when I must, for supplies or coin, and I leave the second I can. The glen's where I breathe easy.