No Bravery
He licked his lips and tasted blood. Smoke, acrid and as black as the pulsing tattoo on his arm, choked the tight cobblestone streets and mixed with the fog of a Scottish dawn to wipe clear even the memory of day break. Screams of victory, of pain, of rage, of terror – of defeat – poured over his senses like tinkling notes of some ancient battle symphony and even the mask couldn't dare hide the gentle way his eyes gleamed in the beauty that once was Hogsmeade. High above, dancing rays of green formed a jester's grin in welcome; Macnair was home.