Descriptive Practice

Tim Finnegan was a tall brutish sort. His tangled red hair hung down to his drawers, and his beard down to his boots. His kilt was a plaid, green as the grass, his pipes hung about his chest, colored to match. His face was wrinkled with age and time, and his scars bore the weight of his youthful shine. A voice that was loud, and a stature that was proud, Tim Finnegan would fight any about. He walked with a cane through the streets where he was born, always muttering about the modern day, object of his scorn. A hat would sit atop his head, as he would walk back to his stead. He slammed the door shut and turned out the lights, for Tim Finnegan would not see through the night.