Team Koenig

 Team Koenig is an elite special forces unit of the United States Military that specializes in assassination, sabotage, and special operations behind enemy lines. Team Koenig was disbanded in 2012 after a clean-up mission in Kandahar, Afghanistan after Technical Sergeant Michael Gordon was killed and the team leader, Captain Edward Koenig, was mortally wounded when Taliban insurgents overrun their positions, but the team eventually fought of the attackers.

Team Members:

Captain Edward James "Ed" Koenig= Team Leader

Lieutenant Morgan Carson "Sharp Eyes" Blanchard= Team Sniper

Master Sergeant Lawrence Alexander "Alex" Kelurdey = Team Machine Gunner

Technical Sergeant Michael Albert "Mike" Gordon= Team Navigator

Staff Sergeant Lewis Froude "Boom" McKittrick= Demolitions Expert

Sergeant First Class Andrew Oliver "Andy" Carleton= Team Humvee Driver

Sergeant Benjamin Theodore "Ben" Nelson= Team Automatic Rifleman

Corporal Nicholas Peter Flatts "Nick"  Carter= Team Rifleman

Specialist Patrick Richard "Paddy" O'Reilly= Team Machine-Gunner

Private First Class Francis Joseph "Frank" Sherman= Team Rifleman

Michael Gordon (soldier)

 Michael Albert "Mike" Gordon was a Canadian-American soldier and combat veteran who was ranked as the most highly trained operative in the United States Military after he infiltrated a Russian nuclear plant during World War III. Gordon was the nephew of Master Sergeant Gary Gordon, a Delta Force sniper who was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions in Mogadishu during the Civil War. Mike Gordon's father said that he was named after Mike Durant, the pilot who Gordon and his friend Shughart rescued. Gordon joined Delta Force in honor of his uncle, and was one of few American soldiers who one the Medal of Honor two times. He was killed in Kandahar, Afghanistan during a clean-up mission and he received the Medal of Honor posthumously like his uncle. He was the first American soldier to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor.

He was born Michael Albert Gordon on September 24, 1968 in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada to American Democratic politicians Richard and Bridget (nee O'Reilly) Gordon. He had three brothers and four sisters-Aidan, Patrick, Declan, Lachlan, Shannon, Caitlin, Fiona, and Bridget Jr. His father was a wealthy banker of Russian Jewish descent while his mother was a rich interior designer of Irish Catholic background. Richard Gordon was a former Green Beret and Navy SEAL, his two maternal uncles were Army Rangers, his cousin was a Marine, and his paternal uncle was the famed Delta Force sniper, Gary Gordon, who posthumously received the award of the Medal of Honor while rescuing pilot Mike Durant in Mogadishu during the Somali Civil War of 1993. He was named after Mike Durant, and Michael Gordon started to shoot guns when he was four years old. By age twelve, he had even shot a Barrett .50 cal sniper rifle. However, he hated hunting and loved animals. He was a vegetarian and a pacifist for his early life like his parents, and a devout Roman Catholic, a non-drinker, and a non-smoker. Michael Gordon was bullied in his class because of his Irish Catholic and Russian Jewish heritage in a primarily German and Dutch-American Lutheran school, St. Martin Luther's. His parents were both from Boston, but he transferred to New Orleans, and attended Lusher Charter School for middle school. He attended Abington Senior High School in Boston, went to NOCCA in New Orleans, and for college attended Manchester in England and became a Harvard graduate near Boston. He attended West Point Military School in Virginia, and started his military career after graduating.

In 1990, after four years of college, Michael Gordon joined the U.S. Army and fought in the Persian Gulf War with distinction. There, his colonel was critically wounded by an RPG-7 rocket launcher. Before he was overrun, Gordon narrowly saved him by sniping the enemies with his M14 rifle, and carrying his officer back to their position, standing alone in a 103 degree sun, for a whole mile. The colonel was saved, and Gordon was awarded the Medal of Honor by George H.W. Bush. Gordon, a fierce Democratic liberal, disliked Bush intensely and showed disgust at his speech. In 1992, Gordon joined the 75th Ranger Regiment and fought in Mogadishu during the Somali Civil War in 1993. He traveled with Staff Sergeant Matt Eversmann, and heard of his uncle being killed. Gordon was devastated, and joined Delta Force in 1996 in his uncle's honor. In Afghanistan in 2007, Gordon's Delta unit was pinned down by a heavy machine gun, but Gordon single-handedly destroyed the Taliban machine-gun nest with a fragmentation grenade, and engaged the crew with his fists. For these actions, Gordon received another Medal of Honor by George W. Bush, and he became the twentieth of nineteen men to receive the Medal of Honor twice. Gordon later gained fame when he infiltrated a Russian nuclear plant during World War III in 2012. He infiltrated a Russian nuclear plant  guarding by Spetsnaz operatives under Ivan Petrakov. His usual weapons are an M4 carbine and an M1911 pistol.


On March 21, 2012, Michael Gordon was on a clean-up mission with a Delta Force sniper and his best friend Morgan Blanchard in Kandahar, Afghanistan. During the fight, a Taliban insurgent armed with a grenade charged Gordon. Gordon desperately tried to load his M4 carbine, but the terrorist through a grenade anyway. It exploded near Gordon, and Gordon drew his sidearm (a Colt .45 pistol), and started to fire, but the insurgent kicked him in the groin and attacked him with a bayonet, pushing the blade through Gordon's stomach. Blanchard shot the enemy soldier and withdrew the bayonet quickly, but Blanchard, not a medic, withdrew the knife too quickly and severely wounded him. Gordon continued to fire his sidearm, killing multiple enemies, and finally threw a grenade that, coincidentally, killed the enemy general. Gordon was evacuated by helicopter, but later died of his wounds. For his actions in sacrificing his life and killing the enemy general, Gordon was posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, and he became the first American soldier to receive the Medal of Honor three times. 

The Story of the Lone Sentry

 Hello. My name is Michael Francis Ellis, but my friends call me "Elsie." I am a British soldier and a combat veteran who fought in many British Wars. I have served in the British Special Air Service (SAS), and even the Parachute Regiment. I have been trained in feats of sniping, unarmed/hand-to-hand combat, knife fighting, and basic gunfiring. But this is when I was first a recruit who, out of almost none, made into into the SAS. I remember bayoneting a young Argentine soldier through the stomach, and crying after. I was fighting in the Falklands then, just my mates and I......

I felt the wind cold on my back and my neck, a cool breeze just drifting away, blowing from across the seas. Rifle and machine-gun fire ripped through the air, causing numerous British casualties but not serious damage to the soldiers' morale or the boats we were in. My family is half-Jewish, my maternal grandparents coming from the Ukraine and Poland to the United Kingdom to escape the Russian Empire, while my father was a native Englishman of Irish, Scottish, and German descent. I kissed my necklace, the one that my girlfriend Maggie Lewis gave to me. I was the squad machine-gunner at the time, carrying my own weapons- an M1919 Browning machine-gun I bought at an auction, nine or ten German stick grenades my father captured from Waffen-SS soldiers in the Second World War, and a HK P7 pistol that I specially modified and chambered to shoot .44 Magnum, .45 ACP, and .50 BMG rounds, huge-caliber rounds that could blow a man's head off clean with one shot. I used .45 ACP, the round that goes in a Tommy Gun or Colt .45 pistol, for this mission, since it was toughest in the water, while my huge Browning shot .30-06 Springfield rounds that could mow the enemy down. I was thinking about how I would fight when an Argentine shell hit our ship and I flew out. I was smoking a cigarette at the time, and I said "Holy shit. Blast it- I've ruined me perfectly nice fag." I came from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, a rough neighborhood in northern England with many Irish immigrants, and I said "Let's show these big-shot East London boys how it's done!". I cocked my machine-gun and let loose on the enemy. I sprayed the hilltop rounds, killing or seriously wounding many Argentine soldiers, the recoil slightly juddering against my shoulder. Damn, that was a good gun. My commander, Lt. Col. Daniel Walker, said "Ellis- spray those hills up there. That damned sniper's kissin' our men goodnight!" I ran over to the hills, pretty hard with a gun like the Browning, and let fly. The sniper got shot right in the arm, making him drop his sniper rifle off the cliff. I picked up a dead British soldier's rifle, an SA80 assault rifle, which could fire up to 800 rounds per minute, twice what my Browning could fire, just with less powerful ammunition. I fixed a bayonet, a rare occasion in 1980's British colonial wars. I then charged at the sniper, and in the mist of the gunfire, saw it was a 14-year-old boy, just about eight years younger than me. I shouldered my rifle and looked back, like "Damn." As I turned back, I saw the young sniper had his sidearm aimed, cocked, and ready at my head. I ducked hard, but rolled back down the cliff over rocks. Boy, did it hurt. I heard the sniper coming, so I hid below an earthen mound just under the cliff. I could see through a peephole, and saw that the young soldier holstered his weapon, a semi-automatic pistol. I made sure my bayonet was on tight, and I screamed "Got 'em, lads!" He drew his pistol and fired nine shots at me, but ran out of ammo. I charged and thrust my bayonet through his belly. I saw his stomach wound, and though "Shit- I can't believe I just did that." I quickly pulled my bayonet out, and the young militia soldier slumped to the ground. Artillery shells were exploding, men tangled in webbing and parachutes and caught in uncut barbed wire, charging forward directly into Argentine machine-gun fire. Through this fiery hell of pain and torture, I screamed "MEDIC!!!!!" Sergeant Dawson, the squad medic, was a professional, as only highly trained medical officers could work in the SAS. Dawson was working as hard as he could for five straight minutes on the poor soldier while I stared blankly at the soldier. He finally stopped breathing. I threw Dawson aside and looked at him. I tried CPR, but Dawson said "I tried everything." I tackled Dawson, and I said "That's all you can do?!?!!" Shepherd and Fletcher, two other of our squad's soldiers, came up with rifles pointed at said "Ellis-Dawson...that's enough of this rubbish!" I let go of Dawson, and I literally, even though I was a grown man, seriously wanted to cry. Finally, a tear streamed down my cheek, and I got down on my knees as Shepherd and Fletcher left. Dawson looked back, took off his rosary, and placed it on the chest of the dead enemy soldier. I cried and cried, and was begging the dead body for forgiveness, asking it for just one last word. But it said nothing. I saw his dog tag, and I picked it up out of the ground. It said "Private First Class Ramon Blanco Dominguez, 17th Argentine Rifle Brigade, Date of Birth: 9/24/1968." I then shed one last tear before wiping my face with a my handkerchief. I took the body in my arms, threw down my rifle, and shed my heavy equipment, wearing only my uniform with nothing else. I took off my shirt, since it the heat was excruciating. I wrapped my shirt around my waist like a sash. I took my entrenching shovel and carried the body up the soft, woven fields, feeling like cotton on my feet. I finally took the body all the way up the hill at twilight. I cut down a tree and built a coffin, and by the time I was done, the British had moved into the forest nine miles ahead of me. I spent all night digging, and just before the dawn, a beautiful time when the moon is already down and the sun is coming up. I finally placed the body in the coffin and rested it at the bottom of my ditch. I threw my rosary, his dog tags, and his picture of his family in with him. I finally covered it up, and took the spare wood to build a cross. I took some dirt and made paint, then taking a large twig and painting his name, roughly, on the cross. I planted the cross down and put my uniform back on. I picked up my gear, weapons, and equipment, and saluted the grave as the sun just arrived. I took the soldier's rifle and helmet. Planted the muzzle into the ground, and rested his helmet on top. I then carried on down the hill, and trekked all the way back. As I finally saw my men, Dawson shouted "Colonel Walker- that's Elsie!" Men greeted me, and Walker said "Good work, Ellis. With fighting like that we could win this war within months. We then continued on, and the enemy were now counter-attacking. We entrenched ourselves in, and Shepherd and Fletcher, as well as Dawson, Walker, and Parker were with us. Just as we finished loading up our weaponry, the enemy finally counter-attacked us. Walker, with his roaring voice and ferocious sense of courage, bravery, and leadership, said "FFIIIRRREEE!!!!! Machine-guns, heavy and light artillery, assault rifle, bolt-action sniper weapons, and grenades opened fire and mowed the enemy down in their reckless charges. Right then Walker was shot square through the forehead by an enemy sniper. Parker, Shepherd, and Fletcher, furious as ever, opened fire with heavy machine-guns and inflicted heavy devastating losses on the soldiers. Shepherd went out under heavy fire with a grenade, but was shot and it exploded in his hand, killing him. We called for Dawson, but found him shot through the chest. Finally Fletcher went out, but was shot in the upper thigh, passing through his groin. I called for Shepherd, and he and I went out with a stretcher. We carried Fletcher back while the assistant surgeon, Dr. Kleiber, operated on him. We came back and found a bullet in my arm. Finally the enemy was at close-quarters, and I saw the most fearful sight. Right then, Shepherd was gunned  down and killed with a combination of flamethrower and submachine gun fire, bursting into flames. I then saw the bloodiest and most spine-tingling, unflinching fighting in my whole life. Savage close-quarters fighting with crude weapons like bayonets, axes, spiked clubs, knives, revolvers, and even hammers made me shiver. As I though, standing up against fire, a soldier came at me from behind and slashed at my belly with his knife, and hitting me with a spiked club on the legs, crippling me permanently. As he closed in for the kill, a soldier named Hemingway shot him three times in the chest with his rifle. He helped me up, but my legs were weak. He put me on a stretcher, and I blacked out into shock and a coma for a whole week. Hemingway and the other soldiers though that I was dead. But a week later I slowly woke up in a hospital bed in Germany. The nurse said "Hello. Soldier. Or should I say, hero".........

 I received the Victoria Cross, Britain's highest military award and decoration, two weeks later. I was haled as a national hero, but, unknown to the rest of Britain, I visited the hill were I buried the young Argentine soldier, Ramon Dominguez, and planted both the Argentine flag and the Union Jack. I then laid down my medal there, and did a final salute. I now have Cameron Ellis, who was born in Germany several years after. I am in a wheelchair now because of my close-quarters encounter with a veteran enemy soldier. Ellis and I later immigrated back to the U.K., where I live in a small cottage in Cheddar, England, picking strawberries and smelling the cool, fresh air and wet dew every bright morning. I still remember the fellows who died alongside me, and, even decades after, I still remember the proud boy soldier Ramon Dominguez. Ellis is now a lieutenant in the 79th British Infantry Regiment, comprised of almost entirely Irish and Scots immigrants under British officers. It also known as the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders, or, as I call it- Cammy-Scots. I later named the hill Ramon Hill, after the proud soldier who felt more like a friend than an enemy, and overlooking the graves of over 750 combined British and Argentine soldiers who were killed or mortally wounded in combat, defending their native country at Ramon Hill. It was a story- of a flying eagle who flies into blazing glory as he defends his friends, a hero and brave man- the story of a lone sentry. 

Horace Kane Vs. Polish Special Forces

 Horace Kane Vs. Polish Special Forces is the final episode of Deadliest Warrior.

 Horace Kane= Born Harry Campbell-Cline, this highly trained British operative and former British Army officer formed a specialized group of elite mercenaries who led daring special missions and raids of assassination, striking fear into the hearts of the Russian Spetsnaz.

VS.

 Polish Special Forces= Poland's elite rifleman who spearheaded many offensives and are still known for their reckless charges, charging with bayonets directly into the machine-gun fire of the Taliban. These aggressive tactics make Poland a major European power today.

 Weapons:

 Horace Kane=
 Long-Range: Barrett .50 (High-Caliber Anti-Materiel Rifle)
 Mid-Range: Mini-Uzi (Submachine Gun)
 Short-Range: Walter PPK (Semi-Automatic Pistol)
 Blade Weapons: Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife
 Machine Guns: Browning M2 .50 (High-Caliber Heavy Machine Gun)
 Explosive Weapons: Model 24 Grenade (Stick Grenade)


 Polish Special Forces=
 Long-Range: Walther WA2000 (High-Caliber Anti-Personnel Rifle)
 Mid-Range: Kbs wz. 1996 Beryl (Assault Rifle/Mounted Carbine)/ HK MP5 (Submachine-Gun)
 Short-Range: Heckler and Koch USP (Semi-Automatic Pistol)
 Blade Weapons: WA2000 (Fighting/Combat Boot Knife)
 Machine Guns: PKP Pecheneg (Portable Light Machine Gun)
 Explosive Weapons: RPG-76 Komar (Anti-Tank/Rocket Launcher)

 Battle:

The battle starts out when Horace Kane is leading his mercenaries through a devastated city square. Meanwhile, PSP operatives see Kane himself. They move both a sniper and a machine-gun team forward. The sniper team picks off one of the mercenaries with his WA2000, and the MG team opens fire. A mercenary sniper sets up his Dragunov sniper rifle and counter-shoots the PSP sniper. The MG then opens fire, killing the mercenary counter-sniper. Kane then orders his men forward as the PSP members take up defensive positions. A mercenary throws two stick grenades, killing a PSP, but is shot with an operative's Beryl rifle. The .50 caliber machine-gun opens fire on the PSP operatives, but an operative blows it up with a rocket launcher, and is shot with a Mini-UZI. Kane and his man are now the only mercenaries, and the PSP leader and two riflemen are left as operatives. Suddenly, Kane hears the PSP leader coming with his riflemen. Kane's rifleman shoots the machine-gunner, and then shoots the PSP rifleman before being shot with a USP by the PSP leader. Kane then jumps out with a knife, and a fistfight occurs. Both Kane and the PSP leader engage in a nasty CQB, but Kane finds his pistol and opens fire, as the PSP leader responds by opening fire with his pistol. The PSP leader apparently shoots Kane with a bullet. He goes to find Kane's body, and yells a victory cry. However, Kane, faking his death, jumps up with a knife and stabs the PSP leader in the neck with his knife as blood spurts out. Kane then washes his knife, adjusts his scarf and cleans himself. He then lights a cigarette and bows in respect saying: "Sorry, I don't have enough time", and walks away smiling.

Winner: Horace Kane

Are English People Actually German?

 A debate has been held for many years if most English people (English-English) are actually German. English is a Germanic language, and the Anglo-Saxons and Jutes were from northern parts of Germany like Schleswig-Holstein in Denmark. There were Viking-Norse settlers in northern England, and the Normans who conquered the British (English) were in fact descended from Germanic-stock Vikings who settled in Normandy and mixed with the native French peoples. Vikings originally came from Poland into Scandinavia. So the early stages of English history was Polish conquering Scandinavians, Vikings conquering French, French conquering Germans, and Germans conquering English people. But what about the original Celts? But, you see, the Celts from the "truly Celtic" parts of the United Kingdom (e.g. Northern Ireland, Scotland, or Wales), were Britons, descended either from Austrian or Swiss Celts, another Germanic people, or the fishing tribes from Spain who conquered Ireland. So the Spanish defeated the Irish and Scottish. The Bretons in the King Arthur Legends were from Wales, different the Irish or Scottish Celts (Gaels, Picts, Hebrideans, Dalriadans, etc.), and came as native French people- from Brittany. It is confusing as the Brittany people conquered Wales, yet the Welsh Britons/Celts conquered Brittany. The native French people, however, not Brittany people or Normans or Vikings, were still Germanic, as were the Spanish: Once France was only inhabited by- you said it- Italians, such as the names Leon, etc. These Italians were conquered by literally German people, a French-Germanic tribe called the Franks, originally from Asia and descended from the Huns, a marauding Asian tribe who conquered Germany and the Saxons, Bavarians, and Prussians. So, in fact, English people can be Celtic, Pictish, Viking, Norman, Frankish, French, Polish, Gaelic, or even Asian (Huns.) It is confusing, but it is the truth.

Halbritter's Journal

Lander's Journal, the Story of  Siegfried Halbritter, a WWII German sniper and his courage on the Front Line. 

In 2012, archaeologists were excavating the scene of a brutal WWII battle in Poland. They found the blood-stained war journal of Feldwebel Siegfried Halbritter, a German sergeant in the Blitzgewehrs (meaning "lightning rifles"), a specialized unit of the Wehrmacht during the Second World War. The unit specialized in desert and jungle warfare, and Lander was a silent but deadly soldier, trained to be as stealthy and lethal as a panther. Together, with ruthless sniper and fanatical Nazi Feldwebel Kurt Lander, a handsome, charming, and extremely polite, yet cold-blooded Bavarian woodsman, Halbritter, a softened but fair-fighting and battle-hardened WWI veteran, will not only fight the combined might of the Allies, but also the creeping evil of the brutal Waffen-SS shock troops and their merciless officers. Fully grown men still shudder and cower in fear when they picture a sinister figure, Lander, sitting in his hideout near the German trench in Nazi uniform with a scoped bolt-action rifle, picking off individuals while looking like a terror with his gas/welding mask over his face, and Halbritter with a Luger pistol with his signature chestnut brown mustache and auburn hair. This is his story.

July 1, 1942 in El Alamein, Egypt, North Africa=

Hello. My name is Siegfried Halbritter. Feldwebel Siegfried Halbritter. I am writing this journal to describe my adventures in fighting on the German side. I am a battle-hardened, highly decorated, and well-disciplined WW1 veteran. I can still picture the onslaught, the stalemate, and the deadlock of those dirty, muddy trenches. Good German and British soldiers being thrown away in pointless counter-offensives, charging forward with bayonets attached to rifles, ready for a brutal melee. But this war is even dirtier, especially with- the Waffen-SS. The SS are stuck-up, snooty, and ruthless officers and their elite shock troops, originally formed to be Hitler's elite bodyguard, but grew to over 10,000. This morning, there was news of an SS shooting of over 90 French men, women, and children in Paris, including harmless, unarmed civilians and badly wounded French Resistance members. It is disgusting, and I have developed actually a hate for Hitler and the SS. Then there is the Gestapo, Nazi thugs and battle police, even more disgusting in behavior. They run the extermination camps in Austria, Germany, Poland, and France, mass-murdering and killing Jews, homosexuals, Gypsies, and other people deemed "unfit" by our disgusting little bitch of a leader, Adolf Hitler. He believes that Germans are the master-race, superior to everyone else. Those who are truly "Aryan" (blonde-haired, blue-eyed and Teutonic), are praised by Hitler, like my "friend" Kurt. Kurt Lander is a ruthless SS sniper now serving in the Afrika Korps. He can hit a deck of cards nine times out of ten at 200 yards with his deadly and extremely accurate weapon, a scoped bolt-action rifle, and so his nickname is "Crackshot." He is extremely polite, handsome, charming, and womanizing, a truly Aryan man with bleach-white pale skin, strawberry blonde hair, and watery, flowing blue eyes, but brutal, cold-blooded, and merciless. We met in Berlin, but while I am a Bavarian secretly coming from an Austrian Jewish family, Lander was born in Strasbourg, Alsace-Lorraine in France, now part of Nazi Germany. He is pure-blooded, German man coming from a wealthy and filthy rich Aryan family with roots in Prussia and Poland. Whenever Lander gets a confirmed sniper kill, with his razor-sharp combat knife, named "Blood-Drinker", he carves a straight line onto the butt of his rifle. His rifle is named "Johanna" after his amazingly sweet and pretty wife, a true Danish beauty. Lander's father was a highly decorated WW1 veteran who received the Iron Cross, but was killed at Vimy Ridge. He was in my stormtrooper unit. 

Nominees for Highland Clans

 The Scottish Highlands clans have always been the stuff of legend. Dashing and daring, romanticized, Victorian portraits of brave men who came from Gaelic, Celtic, and/or Norse origins, wearing a beautiful, patterned kilt with a handsome face and a long, sharp sword, ready to strike English soldiers who cower in fear, literally running into musket fire. Some are originated Pictish-Scottish clans like MacDonald, some are originally Irish clans from Dal Riada like MacLachlan or Matheson, and some of Norse or Viking origin like Gunn or MacLeod. The rose-red, blushy cheeks, fiery red hair, sparkling, watery blue eyes, and feathered hats make these men look sweet and handsome, but in fact waged awful, bloody civil wars against each other in territories. Using romanticized, Victorian-era paintings by famed 19th-century Scottish painter and artist, R.R. McIan, we will determine these brave men and women, how they fought, and how they became the beautiful clans in popular culture today.


 Most Dashing Clan Nominee: MacBain
 
 Above: A very handsome but dashing MacBain warrior charging into action against English troops, striking fear and terror in the enemy's heart as he prepares to slice them with his deadly sword.

Most Daring Clan Nominee: MacMillan

 Above: The shirtless MacMillan warrior charges at English soldiers with a war face on, preparing to send this Englishmen's tiny little head into orbit and out of Scotland.


 Most Poetic Clan Nominee: MacDonald of Glencoe 
 
 Above: This handsome yet philosophical, sophisticated, and poetic MacDonald man slumps near a large rock engraved in Scots Gaelic, thinking about what the world seems like, and how it never ends.

 Most Warlike Clan Nominee: MacLachlan 
 
 Above: This member of an originally Irish clan descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages, but yet extremely in Scottish garb, this MacLachlan warrior wants to fight the English and nothing else.

 Most Handsome Clan Nominee: MacKinnon 
 
 Above: Yet another Scottish warrior descended from Irish settlers, this MacKinnon, most likely from the Hebrides Islands, seems to look on in the valley, gazing at the sunset.

 Most Womanizing Clan Nominee: Forbes
 
 Above: This Lowland Scottish but Highland-looking warrior thinks of the English as his ancestors but yet now his enemies, as women sigh and look on as he walks through the town.

 Most Fierce: Tie (MacKenzie and MacFarlane)

Above: A Mackenzie warrior scrambles for his weapons as an English skull flies by, hoping to attack.

 Above: An experienced, wise, yet extremely fierce MacFarlane warrior waits to raid an English settlement.