"Cuimhnich air na daoine o'n d'thàinig thu"
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Conor Patrick Fraser
A dashing, tartan-clad legend disguised by midnight...
resplendent in Highland regalia, his shoulder-length,
raven-hued mane mussed by the wind,he cut a fine figure,
as striking mahogany orbs shined with roguish charm
and danced with perpetual interest. A perfectly pleated
woolen kilt adorned those well-muscled legs; ivory linen
shirt hinting at the subtle curves of decidedly sinewy arms
and stalwart torso: a look of lean, rippled power...a mien
of danger. Conor had a sheen of health about him, coupled
with a semblance of sensuality that hinted at the inbred
demeanor of ingenuity. Straight nose and magnificent
high cheekbones spoke of centuries of Scottish nobility,
yet emitted an aura of acquiescent calm. Though garbed
in sublime finery, his hands bore nick and sundry scars
about the knuckles - unequivocal attributes of a seasoned
warrior. Upon his tartan plaid gleamed a silver-cast clan
brooch, a graceful harp; its noble stem bodly reaching upward.
He smelled of lush green forests, unexplored and precious in
their isolation; a dark visage offering a haven of light. His
strong hands, made for wielding a sword instead of cleaning
feathers, were perfect for tickling a child into giggles or stroking
a woman's flesh. In unhurried, powerful strides, the Highland
Laird appeared a liquid shadow, his cape billowing around
the phantom warrior. Tasting of unrestrained lust, his
magnificent frame held the promise of the sweet fullfillment
of a thousand nights of maidenly dreams.
