Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was not a happy man. He turned the newspaper around hoping that maybe, just maybe, being upside down would somehow magically alter the contents of that particular note, or that it would come crashing down on to the floor, shattering on impact... but it wasn't happening, the words remained stubbornly unchanged.
He sighed as he dropped the damning paper on the table.
Sometimes he hated the current century. All that technology and a social conscience had resulted in way too many idle minds seeking effectively different paths. Paths such as archaeology... and right now he hated archaeologists.
It had gotten so bad that even Immortal memory was no longer enough. So he walked up to the map he kept well hidden within the barge, grabbed one of the pushpins he kept handy and placed it in the appropriate spot, confirming his worst fears... that particular spot contained an older mark of a different nature.
The rules of the Game did not account for this kind of situation, nor did they allow much room for a meeting of all the participants to solve a given problem.
He could recall every single word from that article. It hailed the discovery as one of the most important archaeological finds of the decade, a major neolithic burial site that preserved the remains of complex and forgotten funerary rites dating back to the dawn of civilization, and worst of all, what he dreaded the most was printed in black and white, the place was specifically described as Holy Ground. What was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to dust the centuries old head and go looking for its original owner, hoping that a heartfelt apology would be enough?