They can take our tin cans, but they can never take our freedom
Ewan MacGoat stood with hooves on the bluff's edge, his long winter coat blowing Eastward, toward the lowlands. There a cloud of dust approached as the army marched nearer -- toward his homeland.
For time immemorial their clans had clashed -- the highland MacGoats and lowland McGoats -- forever warring over the barren Totes Strip that separated their territories. And for what? The land itself was useless but they fought over something else … was it honor? Or honor's cousin, pride?
Ewan heard the first notes of the approaching army's pipes and saw the swish of McGoat kilt against hooved leg as they crossed the rill that marked the edge of the Totes. He nodded at the aide-de-camp at his side and the archers notched their arrows.
It had begun.