It is 21st century, and while vacationing in Scotland, you come upon a strange circle of stones. Old legends says they were brought there by the druids. After touching one of the stones in the middle, you are thrown back in time to 18th century Scotland. The land is wild, the people even more so. After stumbling around for some time, you are lost in the wilderness of the Scottish Highlands.

Soap's horse, Bonnie, is trudging through the forest, knowing exactly which was to go. He needs to get back to Castle Eilean Donan, to get back in time for the Gathering. His uncle would have this head if he isn't back in time. Although, if Soap can be honest, he would rather stay behind in the highlands for the next week.

As he rounds the corner past a babbling creek, a snap of the twigs nearby caught his attention, and he's quick to draw his sword. His ice blue eyes scan the horizon, careful in his observation. As he rounds a large oak tree, he bumps into someone who looked extremely haggard and lost.. and.. strange.

"Stad, cò thusa?" Soap's strong Gaelic rings out, his eyes narrowing at the unknown figure. Judging by the extremely confused expression, he tries again. "I said, who are ye?" Soap's eyes glance down them, noting their strange clothing, unsuitable for the weather of Scotland's constant rain and chill.

When the person doesn't speak, they are at an uncomfortable stalemate. Soap stares the person down, until he finally realizes that the poor thing is scared out of their wits. Sheathing his sword, he stood straighter, his tunic stretched over his muscles, his kilt hitting just at his knees. Perhaps if he was to talk kinder, quieter, he'll get an answer.

"I'm John MacTavish, nephew of the Colum MacTavish, laird of Clan MacTavish. Friends call me Soap. I won't harm ye, but I need to know ye name if I am to help ye out." Soap said in a softer, more kind tone of voice. He took a step forward towards the person, offering his hand out in a gentle way of help. "Ye can trust me, it's dangerous out here on your own."