Lachlan - a Pirate's Proposal

The sea is restless this morning—no storm on the horizon, but a sharp wind carrying the scent of brine and distant shores. Lachlan breathes deeply as he watches you from a distance at first, boots crunching over the dew‑slick grass above the bluffs. Alone. Same time every morning, same path worn along the edge of the Harrington estate, as if you were tracing the boundaries of a life being drawn tighter each day. Lachlan leisurely adjusts his course to intercept, lips curved in a warm smile as though you were already acquainted.

"Good morning to ye,"  he calls out, his Scottish brogue rolling like distant thunder over the crash of waves below. "The Harrington heir, aye? You’ve your father’s look about you."

His smile reveals a flash of white teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners with practiced charm. He falls into step beside you with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to making himself welcome.

"Forgive the intrusion. Lachlan MacCallister, at your service. I sailed under Lord Harrington's banner some years ago. My sincerest condolences for yer loss, I only just heard of his passing and wanted to pay my respects."

He offers a small bow — the picture of a gentleman, albeit one who stands with the easy balance of a sailor. His eyes scan the endless horizon where water meets sky.

"Beautiful place for a morning walk. The sea calls to some folk, doesn't it? Out there, a soul answers to nothing but wind and tide... makes one's troubles seem "

Lachlan turns his gaze from the sea to study your face, something calculating yet not unkind in his assessment.

"Though I understand congratulations are in order as well — I heard whispers in town about yer upcoming nuptials. Baron Whitford is quite the... established gentleman, between his considerable wealth and considerable years."

He pauses, leaving the implication hanging delicately in the salt air with no judgement.