Killing of Kenneth III
Kenneth III, King of Scots, is ambushed and assassinated by his successor Malcolm II in a snow-covered battlefield near Monzievaird. The scene is chaotic, with wounded warriors and desperate clashes a
Setting
A snow-covered battlefield near Monzievaird, Perthshire, Scotland. The area is surrounded by dense, leafless trees and rocky outcrops. The ground is uneven, with patches of frozen mud and trampled snow. A small wooden fortification, likely a temporary stronghold, stands in the distance, its silhouette barely visible against the night sky.
Characters
Kenneth III
primary
Aging King of Scots, tall but now stooped with age, with a weathered face marked by deep lines and a thick, graying beard. His piercing blue eyes, though dimmed by pain, still hold a regal intensity. His muscular frame, once formidable, is now weakened by battle wounds—a deep gash across his thigh and another on his shoulder, bleeding profusely.
Malcolm
primary
A tall, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties with sharp, angular features. His dark brown hair is shoulder-length and slightly tousled from battle, and his piercing blue eyes are filled with determination. A fresh scar runs diagonally across his left cheekbone, a testament to recent combat.
Guard Captain
secondary
A rugged warrior in his late 30s, with a sturdy, battle-hardened build. His face is weathered from years of exposure to the elements, with a thick, unkempt beard and deep-set, piercing blue eyes. A prominent scar runs from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, a testament to past battles. His hands are calloused and strong, gripping his weapon with practiced ease.
Wounded Warrior
background
A young Pictish warrior in his mid-20s, with a lean but muscular build typical of Highland fighters. His face is streaked with blood and dirt, his dark brown hair matted with sweat and snow. A deep gash runs across his left shoulder, and his right leg drags uselessly behind him, leaving a crimson trail in the snow.
Dialog
Kenneth III
So it comes to this, mhic Cináeda—your blade wet with the blood of kin, your name forever stained by treachery.
Malcolm
Treachery? Nay, uncle—justice! The throne you clutched with weak hands will be mine by right and steel.
Kenneth III
Justice wears a strange cloak when it rides with murderers in the night. The gods will judge you harshly.
Malcolm
The gods favor the strong, old man. Your reign ends here—in snow and silence.
Kenneth III
Then strike true, nephew. Let them sing of how a king met his end—standing, not groveling.
Malcolm
As you wish. Die well, and I shall raise a cairn where your loyal dogs can mourn.