🏴 Jack and the Howl of the Highland Wind
The Scottish Highlands were soaked in grey mist and ancient stories. Jack and the others stood on the cliffs near Dunnottar Castle, watching waves crash violently against the rocks far below.
“This place feels like it’s watching us,” Imogen said, tightening her coat.
“That’s because it is,” Bernard said. “This land remembers. And it doesn’t give up its marbles easily.”
They walked the crumbling path to the castle ruins — wind tearing at their clothes, sea spray in the air, and gulls circling above like guardians of a long-forgotten secret.
At the highest point of the castle — an old watchtower where battles were once fought — Jack found a circle of runes carved into the stone floor. The pouch at his side began to shake gently in the wind.
Then, across the stones, words appeared in ancient script, glowing faintly:
“Where storm has raged and stones still stand,
A marble sleeps beneath the land.
Speak no boast, nor cry, nor call —
But face the wind, and let it fall.”
Ollie blinked. “Let what fall? Ourselves?!”
Jack stepped into the circle and let the wind hit him full-on. He closed his eyes and said nothing — not even a thought, just presence.
The pouch glowed.
A marble rose — deep grey, silver-streaked, etched with a spiral that looked like a storm viewed from above.
🌫️ SOFTBALL HEAD
The marble was cloudy, soft in its colour — stormy blue, flecked with pale grey like a Scottish sky. It pulsed gently, not violently. Steady, like the hush after a downpour.
Bernard whispered, “Softball Head is misunderstood. Everyone expects lightning — but what it brings is clarity after chaos. It doesn’t roar. It rests.”
Jack nodded. “Like the moment after a storm.”
The wind stopped.
Complete stillness.
And then — pop! — the marble vanished into the pouch.
Jack turned to the sea. “It’s not just about strength. It’s about knowing when to be still.”
Lenny pulled his hood back. “That’s deep. And freezing.”
Bernard sniffed the wind. “Next stop — Egypt’s other side. We’re heading to Tunisia.”
