[Anguirel]

(returns Sir Horato Potboiler's friendly greeting with a cold stare)

SIR HORATIO: A scholar and a gentleman, and honoured by Her Majesty to boot. I'm rather taken with his shanty.

(Sir Anguirel draws his claymore)

SIR ANGUIREL: I am nary honoured one whit by yon English Queen, do ye here me, aye? I was dubbed a kneght by none aither than Alexander the Thaird, King of Scots, and serve Scotland and the True Kirk, and ye'll do best to remember it, aye. And that goes for yerrer footba team as well, Sassenach...

Excuse me, I tend to break into my native accent (or song) at moments of high emotion. Do forgive me.

I don't agree with Formendacil in the slightest and I feel shades of Nilp in a ballad told some time ago of murderous ducks.

Incidentally...(stares curiously at Sir Horatio's goose, and crosses himself solemnly)

As for yon pirate scum, I am with the Englishman on that account. Put them to the sword, I say. Yet we should remember that werewolf spirits do not necessarily lurk beneath scoundrel exteriors. Anyone-even sweet wee Lhuna-could house a tortured, fell spirit. I say we hang the wolves and then deal with any remaining pirates. All the more combat, and I relish it, yearghhh...

And the fine upstanding slave-driver, he and I got acquainted over whisky. I'll not hang a fellow resident of Alba...