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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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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.

"I'm not sure," Erik said, looking into the glass. "It's like nothing I've ever tasted before. Different. Richer somehow, yet not as potent. Is nothin the same in this place I've landed?" he asked, more of himself than her.

"I doubt it, given the discrepancies between your time and ours," she says matter-of-factly, always turning back towards science when she had the chance. "After all, it's hardly as if the same tastes and cultures and countries could last, not with years of degradation and mutation into something new..." This is all a very long-winded way of admitting that things have changed. "Maybe we should get you a Scotch."

"What is Scotch?" Erik asked, confused again but hiding his discomfort with a hint of a smile. "Though I'll admit, I like the sound of the name."

"Scotch whisky," she clarifies. "And don't worry, I'll make sure not to order anything made in Ireland," she adds, turning to the bartender to raise her fingers and order two glasses. She might not enjoy the pungent taste of peat, but she'll sip at it. "It's a Scottish drink. In fact, it's rather renowned," she says proudly. "I think you'll like it. Or maybe not, it is a bit aggressive."

Erik picked up the glass dubiously and sniffed at it, not at all sure what concoction she'd ordered them this time. Then the scent of it his his nostrils and he gasped. Once sip and he tossed the rest down after it. "U*isge beatha*," he repeated, almost on a soft whisper. "I've heard others talk about monks brewin something that was earthier than or and ale. A few lucky sods had even tasted th'brew and took t'callin it the water of life, but I've never had chance to s'much as sniff a barrel cork. Now I know those I'd heard it mentioned from weren't having me on fer a jest."

Simmons watches him curiously, anticipating him trying it as she holds her breath. She can almost distract herself from thinking about Fitz right now, if she does this, and it's a hell of a wonderful thing, letting herself have this break. "I take it you like it, then?"

"Aye, and most likely too much," Erik responded, lifting the glass to smell the remainder of the liquid in the glass. "Too much of this and I'll end up a useless sod, ramblin on about m'war days and barely able t'lift m'sword."

"Well, it's hardly as if you'll be the first person in history to do that," she points out. "Still, when you're trying to figure out aspects of the future, it might be best if you weren't completely and utterly drunk, so maybe we ought to place some limits and say you can only have the one."

Erik looked from her to the glass. "With this wee amount and yer only allowin me one? That's just cruel, lass. It'd take more than this t'turn me sodden, I assure you. but I think I can muster up enough restraint on m'own t'not need such limits. Especially on days I find I've been tossed forward into a future that confuses me t'the point of madness." He added a wink at the end, because future or not, he was who he was.

"Well, I'd like to think that I allowed you to be sober," she explains. "I'd hardly want you to think that I didn't give you a fair chance in the future because I'd gotten you good and plenty drunk the instant you got here," she feels inclined to point out. "Maybe after the tour, we'll come back for another." She's hoping it's both incentive to explore and cause to go willingly.

"I can get used t'the wine for meals and save the Scotch for special occasions," Erik reasoned. "After all, ye've got t'drink somethin with meals, right? Given some of the dry meat I've had in m'life, somethin's got t'help it wash down."

"Well, I'd advise that you don't drink this at all hours of the day," Simmons feels compelled to do her due diligence and point out, seeing as it's hardly something that should be done in general. "You might end up with a reputation for being a bit of a drinker, is all I'm saying."

"What else would I be drinkin?" Erik asked. He was starting to think his head might just split open from the ache building behind his eyes.

"Well, there's water," Simmons feels compelled to point out. "And all sorts of juices and sodas," she explains, giving him an encouraging smile. "Lots of non-alcoholic beverages!"

"Water?" Erik said, aghast. "I've tasted the foul sludge that comes from inhabited areas and seen the madness that comes from drinkin of the sea. Unless you've got a Highland spring, I won't be goin near that. Wine's done me fine with meals m'whole life. I see no need t'be changin that now."