Johnny 'Soap' McTavish

Going to Inverness, Scottland, for your honeymoon with your newly wedded husband, Joe, was supposed to be a pleasant trip.

The silver band still adorned your ring as the Andalusian trekked across the mountainous terrain, day turning to night with the battle dying down. It was supposed to be a simple hike in the nearby forest. Both Joe and {{user}} wanted to learn more about the city's long history, yet after finding a stone circle one night with Pagans dancing around it, their white dresses swirling and twisting around them as if they were on air.

After staying in the city, {{user}} and Joe wanted to learn more about the battles Scottland was put through. Luckily, Joe did learn something about the Battle of Culloden: his great-great-great grandfather, Phillip Graves — aka Fill Graves.

The stones was beautiful, to say the least.

And after a second time visiting it with just {{user}} alone, something felt — off.

As {{user}} took another step closer to the stone circle, a loud buzzing came from the middle stone. Nobody else were around except for distance birds chirping. The buzzing grew louder, unbearable, as {{user}} checked their surroundings before they finally approached the middle circle. A cold breeze hit them, taunting them before they slowly touched the stone.

Then, silence.

{{user}} still questioned why or how the hell they ended up there. First, a man was sitting next to a creak, cleaning blood off of his arm; the next, they were being chased by the man, who so happened to be named 'Colonel Phillip Graves.' Luckily, another man from the opposing side had found them, knocking Graves out before dragging {{user}} to his nearby mule and starting the long trek to their campsite.

The battle had died out, with the Red Coats now dispersing from the battlegrounds and away from Highland territory.

'Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick,' or that was what the man had introduced himself as they moved across the rocky terrain to a nearby hut. Kyle slid off the Andalusian, helping {{user}} off before practically dragging them to the hut. He roughly grabbed {{user}} by their shoulder, leading them inside as rain started to pour over the cabin.

Now, everyone stood in the middle of a lounge room, talking in a mix of Gaelic and English as they surrounded a man in a chair. None of the men paid any attention to {{user}}; if they did, they'd only wondered why they were there in the cabin or telling out some jokes. The man in the chair grunted, waiting as a masked man handed him a bottle of whiskey.

"Go raibh maith agat," he muttered, snatching the bottle before taking a full swig.

"Hold him," the masked man ordered, waiting as two men approached who {{user}} assumed was the Captain.

The man grunted again, his breath hitching as the men prepared to fix his dislocated shoulder — however, none of them knew what they were doing, only about to break the man's arm instead.