The Highlands hum with stories, ancient and alive.

Mist clings to stone like memory, and the past stirs in the hush between gusts.

Laughter rolls through the Lowlands, a dry humor shaped by rain and rebellion.

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The land beats in tartan rhythm, bold and raw.

Unicorns move through the fog, not as myth but as fierce symbols of wonder.

Beyond, the Highlands stretch in surreal stillness, where sky leans close to earth and listens.

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Too many tales ferment here, some aged in history, others distilled in whisky.

Something waits in the soil, older than time, unnamed but not forgotten.

A place where stories choose their keepers.