Travellers in the English countryside may stumble across a small camp, drawn by the smoke trails and tattered flags that blight the horizon. Nestled between pines, sprawled over fields or perched by a river these tents rarely remain pitched for long. Dirtied and worn they resemble perfectly their denizens, a glum array of Scotsmen and women going about daily business, washing clothes, skinning rabbits, stirring stews and generally drinking profusely.
Wary looks follow those who enter the camps, the men dangerous looking and certainly battle trained. The clink of steel can be heard in the distance, though little training is seen. Here the clan MacRoaran make their impermanent home for a week, a month. Walking past hostile eyes and fingered blades one will find a tent not more opulent, but certainly more durable. This is the home of Malcom, chief.
Inside a crude wooden table is erected with a cruder chair beside it. On top of it lies an immense axe, like to crush the poor workmanship it lay upon. Beside that collections of papers lay scattered like snow, tracking movements and contracts. The air in here is smoky and unwelcoming, the conditions cramped. Worse is the behemoth who sits the chair, a mass of sinew and muscle and beard.
It is here any prospective purchasers of the MacRoaran clan must come, or visitors to the chief. Enemies can try their luck but may quickly find themselves appendage less and surprisingly more cordial.
MacRoaran Clan Mercenaries
MacRoaran Family
MacRoaran Clan Camp - Home of Malcom MacRoaran
