The grim grey stones of Castledoom rose like a monolith from the rocky crag, its walls weathered to a moss-covered sheen. The castle's imposing presence seemed to absorb the sunlight, casting a perpetual shadow over the brief, flat plain beneath. The grass there was richly lush, and the folk of Glenballoch whispered with a mix of awe and dread that it was fertilized by the blood of those who had dared to storm the castle.
Generations of marauding clansmen had tested Castledoom's defenses, but the MacGlennies remained unyielding. Their chieftain, Rory MacGlennie, was a figure of terror, his flaming red hair and beard a harbinger of doom. His pale green eyes seemed to bore into the souls of those who crossed him, and his very presence was worth an extra fifty claymores on the battlefield.
Rumors of MacGlennie's demonic possession spread like wildfire, and many believed that he had sold his soul to the Devil. His invulnerability in battle, the way blades glanced harmlessly from his skin, of arrows that swerved in the air and missed him and the uncanny way he seemed to divine the future only fueled the whispers, but tales like this were to the good of the clan, weakening their enemies' resolve, creating indecision in their ranks. The pre- sence of Macglennie was worth an extra fifty claymores. But there was no love for Macglennie in the broad vale of Glenballoch. For there were other tales told of the chieftain, tales of terror, tales of ultimate horror that seemed to confirm everything that had been said of his demoniac possession. But there was more to MacGlennie than mere mortal men. A dark aura surrounded him, an aura that seemed to draw strength from the very land itself.
As the clan reivers roistered in the great hall, their laughter and shouts echoing off the stone walls, MacGlennie sat apart, his eyes fixed on the silver cup in his hand. The cup, said to be a chalice taken from a looted church, seemed to gleam with an otherworldly light, and the clan members avoided looking directly at it.
He was a fearsome, an awesome figure. More than six feet tall, his shaggy red hair hung about his shoulders, mingled with his equally shaggy beard. The stains of blood from the half raw beef mixed with the whisky in the texture of the beard. From under his shaggy eyebrows eyes of uncannily pale green stared their challenge round the room. It was a challenge that was never met. Awesome as was Macglennie, his closest companion excited almost as much dread as did he
Perched on his shoulder was a raven, an old bird to judge from the bald patches on head and breast.
"Well, then, Clootie, and what's been happening while the laird's away?"
There was a shiver of horror as it seemed to the rest of the clan the bird was whispering into the chieftain's ear. Clootie the raven had appeared one morning on the battlement sorry fifteen years before. An injured wing allowed it to fly a few fluttering yards but that was all.
Since then, it was his constant companion in Castledoom hopping at his side or fluttering up to his shoulder.
Clootie never went on raids. He would have been a hamper to the swift, savage mobility of the reivers. In the castle, though, they believed that he was left behind for another purpose. They believed the raven was the chieftain's confidant, his familiar. They believed he was left behind to spy on them. Not that there was any shortage of spies in Castledoom.