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Erik knew that the calm wasn't going to last.

You didn't spend most of your life on the water without knowing that the flat calm was only as sure as the next cloud on the horizon. Storms came and went, ebbed and flowed. There were some you could watch approach, others that turned a clear blue sky to the dark grey of impending doom. He wouldn't trade a moment of it.

For now, though, he was going to enjoy the stars overhead, the sound of water against the hull, and the memories of watching a MacDuff put the crown on Bruce's head. Between that and reuniting Chief with his bride? It hadn't been a bad month. It wouldn't always be like this and there wouldn't always be victories. They'd started a dangerous campaign and would be fighting major and minor battles along with the overall war to clear the damned English from their lands.

Erik MacSorley knew how to take advantage of every opportunity, even when the opportunity was for nothing at all to happen.

Chuckling to himself, he decided celebrations might just be in order. Meg, he knew, would welcome him and the rest of his crew with open arms...and possibly open legs. Cheered by that, he roused himself from the deck and went towards the hatch to let the lads know of his plan. His clansmen were always more likely to step lively when they knew what the payoff was.

He wasn't two steps below decks when he realized something had happened, something even Campbell couldn't see.

He was in a castle of some sort. It had to be that because no keep was as appointed as this. The floor felt strange under his boots, the air had lost the scent of the sea, and everything about where he stood fairly screamed out wrong.

Deftly, he pulled his sword from his sheath and kept his eyes out for whatever had caused this magic.

OOC: Erik is dressed like this but with Matt Barr's face.

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She gives him a strange look, rather confused and concerned about his reaction to her. She thinks she ought to feel insulted, but the truth is that she's not entirely sure how to feel. "Yes, I'm English," she agrees warily, blinking through the words. "It's not as if I've been there recently," she protests. "And it's not a bad thing. Is it?"

"That'd depend on whether or not ye have plans to slaughter me and take over m'country. If ye don't, then we can exist peaceably enough. Problem is, I've never met anyone English that didn't have designs on m'land, or m'people for his own gain."

Erik was smiling, but it didn't go near his eyes. War had been his life for too many years and he still didn't know just what this place was, or who was responsible for his being here.

Hand to her chest, she thinks she's never been so serious as she is now, ready to make her vow. "I would never," she insists, rather offended at the idea that she would. "I work with someone from Scotland every day and we co-exist peacefully," she says stubbornly. "And I have no design on your land or anything to do with it. I haven't even been there since I was eight."

"I don't mean t'cause offense, m'lady," Erik said with more an air of explanation that apology, "and I'm happy t'hear ye've no designs on runnin me through."

He took a minute and really looked at his surroundings. He'd been in some of the finest keeps in Scotland and Ireland, and he'd never seen the like. Even the floor beneath his feet felt odd, like someone had put a tapestry on the floor rather than the usual rushes. "I'm a bit out of place and that's not got m'temper on an even keel."

If she were going to run him through, she would most likely do it with something far more complex and easier to conceal than a sword, but she has no intention of telling him that, seeing as she thinks her days in creating weapons for secret agencies are done. "I'm Jemma Simmons," she introduces herself. "And you're in the Nexus Hotel, which is a fairly out of place place."

"I'm pleased t'meet ye, Jemma. Erik MacSorley," he responded, then frowned. "Nexus? Hotel? Those are English words?"

He wasn't anything like a scholar, but his ego was taking a little more of a knocking around this wisp of an English lass who seemed t'have all the information while he scrabbled after crumbs while trying to keep from sounding utterly simple-minded.

He really is unfairly attractive and so very Scottish. Simmons' fingers flutter at her cheek for a moment, trying to ignore the fact that he sounds similar to Fitz, because she really should be spending her time thinking about Fitz and not attractive newcomers. "They are, yes, though they only came into the dictionary in more recent times," she clarifies. "What year was it, for you?"

"Year?" Erik rubbed at the back of his neck. "I can't help ye on that one, but when Ieft, Wallace wasn't a year in his grave."

It took all the manners he had not to add the "after being tortured by the English devil Longshanks" at the end of that statement. Even then he had to bite his tongue to keep the words in.

She tries to remember her history as best as she can, but honestly, she's always had more of a head for facts and figures and what mathematics and science can teach her. History had fallen by the wayside. "It's 2014 here," she explains. "There's a calendar that keeps the date updated. I'm afraid we're likely in the future and there's a great deal for you to become used to."

"Twenty fourteen," Erik repeated, still trying to make sense of the number. He was nine and twenty but somehow he didn't think the two numbers were anything like the same. But he understood the concept of the future, he just couldn't quite wrap his head around being in rather than wondering what the future would bring.

"I think ye might be on t'somethin there, lass."

She tries to think of what might be able to help with such an abrupt transition and it occurs to her in a quick snap. "I know," she says. "What about a drink?" she suggests brightly. It's usually the best thing she knows to offer, but it's utterly not healthy in the least. She tries not to think very hard about that side of it.

"Now that, lass, is th'best idea I've heard yet," Erik responded, grinning wickedly now that there's finally something he understands. "Am I t'hope ye know where t'go to find wine in this keep, or are ye just toyin with me?"

"I know where the wine is, and I've even got enough money to treat you," she says, proud that she can do that and that it will be something to help get her mind off the whole situation with Fitz. "Maybe I can even help you get set up. There's a whole row of rooms available for people here, any that you like as long as you need."

"Rooms? I'll not be needin anything of the sort. I've never been one for sleepin indoors." Not the least of which it was easier to sneak up on someone, but being locked in to four walls gave you precious few options for escape if you need them. "I'll find m'self a place and bed down when the time comes. Now then, about that drink? And ye'll let me know how much silver is needed and I'll find a way t'repay the debt."

"Oh, no, it's fine," Simmons insists, gesturing towards the hallway in order to encourage him to walk onwards with her. She gives him a slightly suspicious look at the mention of bedding down outdoors, but she supposes it's not that strange. People camp all the time, it's hardly anything odd. Unless it's a situation like Ward, of course, who apparently was camping and learning to be evil. "I've more than enough money."

It helps when your room and board had been paid for by SHIELD, even if it's gone now. "What did you do? Back in Scotland?"

No matter what she said, Erik still had no intention of drinking on anyone's charity. It was one thing to be invited into another's hall, but this strange place didn't belong to the woman beside him, so he would not be beholden to her, even if all he could manage was a barter.

Her question, though, had him picking his words carefully. "A little of this, a little of that. Just recently I've been working around Ireland and the Islands west of Scotland, gallowglass mercenary."

She knows 'mercenary', but certainly not 'gallowglass', which has her furrowing her brow at the horrifying idea that there are words out there she's yet to master. "That sounds like quite the exciting life," she says, hoping that he's not about to murder her for being English or not buying him the right drink. "...does it pay well?"

"It kept me fed and taught me skills I'd come t'use later when war came t'my country, and Wallace called up the ranks of us t'fight for our independence. As I got better, m'skills were called upon by more than just landowners but clan chiefs and th'like. That made me a name for m'self and I had m'pick of where and what I wanted t'do."

And it made him top of the list when Fraser and Bruce decided to take up what William started.

She vaguely remembers her history, but she makes a mental note to start researching it more. She wants to think of her mind like a sponge, always willing to absorb more, even if it isn't science. She takes a seat at the bar, ordering glasses of wine for both of them. "That's very lucky," she comments. "And you like it? Mercenarying?"

"I don't mind a good fight," Erik replied after a moment's thought, "and I believe in the cause I'm fightin fer now. But truth told, I'd be just as content t' sailin the waters around m'island and seein t'the needs of m'clan as I was m'ancestors meant it t'be. If we're successful, I may just get that some day."

"Successful in fighting off the English?" Simmons makes a stab at guessing, not entirely sure that she'll be right, but she does intend to give it her best shot. "Is that it?"

"That's it exactly," Erik agreed, but the young woman hadn't shown any of the arrogance he'd come to expect from the English, so he didn't tar her with that brush. "I wouldn't mind if they'd stayed in their own country, but they came after ours, declared our lands forfeit and property of the crown. My clan's land, those of my friends, we became outlaws in our land because of one man's grab for power."

Simmons buries her face in the glass of wine, finding it far more comfortable to discuss such topics while drinking as much as she can. She's far more at ease the instant that the wine begins to take hold and her smile is a bit calmer. "Well, as I've said, the only grab of Scotland I've ever done is a souvenir or two. Well, and Fitz," she confesses. "I did commandeer him at the Academy, but he's the only one as smart as I am."

Erik raised his glass to her. "Ye recognize the superior quality of a Scot brain, ye might be an English worth knowin,"

He tossed back the drink in his glass then straightened and stared into it. "Ye said this was wine?"

"Oh, no, not superior," Simmons clarifies. "Almost equal," she says, putting a firm stress on the words, given that she and Fitz might be very intelligent, but she does edge him out only barely, mostly because she likes homework a little bit more. "Yes, it's red wine," she says brightly. "You don't like it?" she goes on, warily.