Claire Randall Fraser

OOC: Shortly after--or before--this.

Her head hurts.

That's the only thing Claire know, that her head hurts. Everything else--everything else is more topsy-turvy than her mind can cope with.

Her husband, dressed in clothing 200 years out of date, did not try to rape her, because things like that just don't happen, though that does beg the question as to how her clothing became so torn that a woman brought up a more normal way than she would probably be blushing. Especially as her dress is soaked and while the mad Scot rescued her from the (hallucination? dream? is all of this a dream?) rapist, he had no problem openly leering at her as he did so.

Claire, personally, is more concerned if she's delusional due to an extreme and previously unknown allergic reaction to one of the wild flowers she'd been gathering and--oh, look, more men who clearly aren't up to date with fashion standards.

More Scots, too, from the accents she hears. She wonders if they're also mad.

(She wonders if Ichabod Crane came from this...she doesn't want to think the word she knows is true. She doesn't want to think 'time'. But she can't help it, even if everything in her screams it can't be true.)

(She refuses to let herself wonder if she, however, is mad. Delusional, dreaming, poisoned, concussed--dead, even. All of those she'd consider. And she will. But God--even if she's the biggest heathen a Catholic has ever been--don't let her be mad.)