Page 38 of The Highland Game

“Right then,” I mutter under my breath. “Let’s do this.”

LochNLoad’s blade slices clean through the first creature, its body giving way like week-old jelly, and that’s the signal for the rest to charge. They swarm me but I’m ready for them. I hack and slash at them, timing my dodges perfectly, claws swiping inches from my face but finding nothing but air. One by one they collapse into filthy heaps at my feet, splattering mud everywhere.

There’s a strange satisfaction in the madness of it all—sidestepping claws and striking with precision—but no matter how many bogborn fall, the guilt remains, a constant hum beneath the clamour of the skirmish.

Focus, Jamie! Lose yourself in the fight!

I take a couple of hits and my health bar dips—it wouldn’t be fun if there weren’t some stakes—but it shoots back to full after I chug one of those violently purple potions every fantasy RPG seems to think counts as medicine.

Eventually—after what feels like twenty minutes but is probably closer to seven—the last bogborn dissolves into a sticky pile of sludge. A triumphant note blares through my headphones and bold text flashes across the screen: Quest complete! Return for your reward.

The victory music fades and . . . it doesn’t leave behind the satisfaction I’d hoped for. The thing about games is how simple they make everything—clear quests, claim rewards. Real life just isn’t like that. There’s no objective marker guiding you to fix the stupid mistakes you’ve made.

Before I can decide whether or not to bother collecting the bounty (spoiler alert: it’ll probably be disappointing), a notification appears in the top-left corner of my screen: SassyLassie has logged in.

I can’t help but remember Maisie’s comment earlier about Big Davie in his vest and boxers, but I know I can trust Sass. She’s been my partner-in-crime in Highland Legacy these past few months, always ready with a cheeky quip or a daring strategy. I type out a quick message.

LochNLoad

The monsters wail, they’re out of luck—Sass is back to run amok!

There’s a longer pause than usual before her reply appears.

SassyLassie

Hey.

Just hey? Well, that’s a bit disappointing. Maybe she’s just warming up. She usually riffs off my greeting with something equally ridiculous.

LochNLoad

Up for slaying some beasties together? We never did do the Dun Speir quest. How about it?

She pauses again before replying.

SassyLassie

That’s the keep on the clifftop above Loch Dread, right?

LochNLoad

That’s the one. Word is the boss is a nightmare, and I’ve not fancied going in solo without your spells to back me up.

SassyLassie

Fine. But no chatting tonight. I just want to play.

LochNLoad

Oh . . . okay. Sure.

No chatting? That’s unusual. Sass is usually the queen of banter, and her playful quips are a big part of the reason I enjoy playing with her. Well, that, and the fact she’s saved my arse from certain doom more times than I can count. Without her spells, I’d just be a reckless idiot charging into battle like a kilt-wearing kamikaze. No chatting feels . . . off, like putting a shoe on the wrong foot.

Still, if that’s what she needs tonight, fine. I fast travel to Dun Speir, appearing just beyond the shadow of the crumbling fortress. Moments later Sass materialises beside me, her scarlet mage robes fluttering in the wind. I would ask if she’s ready, but . . . no chatting . . . so I just head towards the entrance, and she follows.

As we approach the rusted portcullis, it creaks open, seemingly of its own accord. Sass and I go through it and into the courtyard beyond, where cracked flagstones are scattered with bones and weeds, while ivy snakes up walls that seem ready to topple under their own weight.

It doesn’t take long for dark shapes to emerge, lurching into sight from behind chunks of fallen masonry and overturned carts. Wretchlings: gaunt, skeletal figures draped in shrivelled strips of flesh that flap around them like tattered sails in a storm. I’ve fought these guys before. Their right forearms are grotesquely warped into jagged blades that they swing in sweeping, vicious arcs. They’ve also got a very nasty habit of snapping off fragments of bone from their own bodies to hurl as improvised projectiles.