broadsword_babe: (Miranda (right cheek))
Quinn stared out of the window, tapping the blunt end of the pen against her bottom lip. The last time she'd done something like this, she'd been trying to pass herself off as a mortal. Now, she realised she couldn't put this off any more.

She had found the pen and inkwell stashed away in the china pantry. Normally, that would seem an odd place, but from what she understood, that had acted as a dispensary when the house was used as a field hospital. Though the ink had turned to mostly sludge, a good douse of water and a hearty shake had brought it back to life. She had also found some paper in a nearby drawer.

Of course, she could always use her laptop. There were programmes designed for just such a document, but this was too important to put down in cold, heartless, ten point Arial. She sighed and began writing.

Last Will & Testament


I, Freyja Dagursdøttir, being of sound mind and body do hearby bequeath the following items in my possession this Ninth Day of May in the Year 2009.

To Cassandra, I leave the three horses I have on my estate in France. I have nothing on their dams and sires, but I'm sure you can find good homes for them.

To Titus Quintus Ferris, I leave my gold crested ring. The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen. You have served Us well, Our Champion, and We honour that by giving you the first thing We were given Our King, Arthur Pendragon.

To Natalie Ann Bruenner, I leave all my material wealth. I am sure you had no idea I was worth so much. The account is held in a Flourentine bank with the same measure of privacy you'd expect from the Swiss. Think of this as seed money. This is to get you through your next two thousand years. And lass? Mind you don't spend it all in one place. I am also leaving Bragloré and Brutæ to you. Care for them both as I have, and they will protect you as they have me.

To Methos, I leave my undying regret. I damaged our friendship beyond repair, and for that, I don't think apologies are enough. I am also leaving you my estate in France and the house on Orkney. Rennovate them. Sell them. Do with them as you wish. I want you to have my memories.

Last Wishes


In the event of my death, I wish to be cremated in keeping with the traditions long held by the Nordic people of Scandinavia. I also ask that my ashes be scattered in/around Osafjord, Norway. Though I have not journeyed back to my homeland in life, I find it fitting I return there in death.

This concludes my Last Will & Testament

Freyja Dagursdøttir


She stared down at the two sheets of paper, honestly thinking there would be more to her two thousand years than just that. Then again, it seemed fitting. After all, there wasn't much she could call her own since she preferred to keep memories rather than things.

After cleaning up the pen and paper towel she had used as a blotter, she then went down to the barn. A good dose of honest, hard labour was probably exactly what she needed after her fight with Methos.



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
559 words
Prompts:
[livejournal.com profile] theatrical_muse #282: Cremation or burial? Talk about funeral arrangements.
???: Write your muse's Last Will & Testament
Note: Backdated to coincide with this
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (sword 2))
When: 730 AD
Where: Somewhere in Western Europe
Alias: Unknown


Goatee or not, she knew who he was. She watched him from the shadows as he saddled his horse. Her grip tightened on her sword. He would pay for what he did to Cassandra. She would make sure of that.

"You can come out now," he said. "I know you're there."

The snide, arrogant tone of his voice grated on her. Holding the hand-and-a-half broadsword in front of her, she stepped into the light of a nearby torch. The movement caught his eye and he turned to face her.

"A woman," he smirked. "And a redhead at that."

Anger flickered in her eyes. "I know who you are."

"Oh?" he asked, mildly amused. "I wasn't aware of any introductions."

"My name is Freya, and I know who you are," she repeated, stepping closer to him. "Methos."

His spine stiffened a fraction. "Where, pray tell, did you hear that name?"

"I believe you knew my First Teacher, Cassandra," she replied tersely.

"And what does that make you? Her little errand girl?" he sneered. "Do you truly think you can challenge me? You're how old? How many heads have you taken?"

A part of her agreed that the whole encounter was folly. She would certainly die, but she was raised a warrior. She hadn't backed down against the Empire that had been Rome, and she wouldn't do so when faced with a solitary man.

He had just turned back to his horse when he felt the cold steel at his neck. She couldn't be that ignorant! Unless Cassandra had taught her for this very purpose... The idea didn't surprise him. Slowly, he turned to face her.

"Put that thing away before you hurt yourself," he patronized her.

Her only answer was to step closer to him, bringing the blade just under his chin. He glared at her, a look that at one time had even Cassandra in fear of him. But this impudent brat simply glared back at him.

"Think, Freyja," he growled. "Is this truly worth your head?"

"I once led a hundred thousand against Rome," she retorted. "Killing one man shouldn't be nearly as difficult."

"If that's meant to impress me, it doesn't," he replied.

Her fingers tensed on the grip of the sword. Obviously, the chit wasn't going to listen to reason. At least Cassandra had taught her that much.

"Defend yourself," she demanded.

"If you insist," he replied, evenly.

Rather than go for his own sword, he lashed out with a foot, hitting her squarely in the stomach. The blow knocked the wind out of her lungs, causing her to loosen her grip on her sword. He easily plucked it from her hands, and turned her own weapon against her. An opponent was an opponent after all. Whether they were a man or woman made no difference to him.

She was still gasping for breath when the cold steel sliced through skin and sinew. She instinctively clapped a hand to her neck, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Her jaw was slack with shock. She wasn't so old that the wound healed immediately. In fact, blood continued to spurt from between her fingers as he tossed her sword to the ground.

"You're not worth the time and effort. Remember that," he sneered.

No, he hadn't taken her head. The simple fact of the matter was, if he had, Cassandra would make it a point to hunt him. He couldn't afford that. Were he an honest man, he'd have to admit that didn't want to prove her right. But he wasn't honest, at least not on a regular basis.

"Oh, and next time you want to start something, Freyja," he advised angrily, just before her vision dimmed. "Make sure you can finish it."


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
628 Words
[livejournal.com profile] iris_angel used with permission
References to Cassandra aren't binding to any specific muses.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Freyja))
For years they had tried to have a child, but remained barren. Everyone in the small village took pity on Gunder and Sigrún. Most had known the pair since the two were children themselves, and all thought they were well matched. He was one of their best hunters and trackers and she was a gifted healer and midwife. All could see the joyful sadness in her eyes each time one of the other village women gave birth. All knew she wanted a child of her own.

It was her twenty-third springtide when she, along with healers and midwives of other villages, made their annual pilgrimage to a holy site dedicated to the goddess Freyja. As always, Sigrún felt an outcast. She was the only one of the women who had no child of her own. Nightly, she prayed that the goddess would favor her, bless her with a bairn.

On the last night of the pilgrimage, each woman entered the small, wooden temple alone to commune with the goddess. Some reported visions of Ragnarok while others said that the Freyja had appeared to them. For herself, Sigrún simply hoped that the goddess had heard her pleas.

The shrine was lit only by a small brazier of coals and incense, and she knelt in the flickering light, hoping to feel the presence of the goddess. She quieted her mind, and let her thoughts take her where they would. She was ultimately disappointed when no visions appeared, nothing of the goddess touched her. With a leaden heart, she stood to leave.

But something caught her attention. It was a sound so soft, it was easily lost in the rustle of her skirts. She paused a moment, waiting to hear the noise again. When she did, Sigrún looked around for the source. Placed just inside the door to the shrine was a small bundle. At first glance, it appeared to be a simple bundle of clothes, perhaps something left as an offering to the goddess. But when Sigrún picked up the bundle, she heard another soft noise. Instinctively, the midwife knew just what the bundle contained.

With hope in her heart, she carefully carried it closer to the light and eagerly peered inside. Swaddled in the cloth was an infant girl. Sigrún knew the child couldn't be more than a few days old, and none of the others had brought any of their bairns with them, much less one so young. This truly was an answer to her prayers.

When she emerged from the shrine with the child, the other women were wholeheartedly in agreement. Sigrún had indeed been blessed by the goddess. All hailed it as miraculous, and when asked the child's name, she answered "Freyja." It was the only name appropriate.

In time, the child grew into a young girl, and was both both her father's son and her mother's daughter. She would spend days with Gunder in the woods, learning to hunt and track. From Sigrún she learned small medicines and poultices. Though the villagers had been skeptical of the girl at first, they quickly embraced her as one of their own, and all knew that the strange, blessed child, named of the goddess, had a destiny all her own.

Freyja Gundersdøttir
Highlander OC
540 Words
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (listening red))
There were few other runners in Riverside Park that time of morning. Dawn was barely breaking as the two women jogged alongside the Hudson.

"So, what's the deal with these Watchers anyway?" Natalie asked.

"Oh, they're a bit of a secret society," Quinn answered. "Been around since Methuselah or some such."

"And they're just supposed to watch us?"

"Watch but not interfere, at least not according to Adam."

"Whoa, wait. Adam? Your boyfriend Adam? He's a Watcher? I thought he was one of us."

"Long story that," Quinn hedged. "But yeah."

"Okay, obvious question. Who's watching the Watchers?"

"What d'yeh mean?"

"I mean, who's watching them? Who's making sure they just watch?" Natalie responded.

Quinn thought for a moment as they continued to jog. Granted, she hadn't been caught up in all the hullabaloo that Horton stirred up, and was glad that whole thing hadn't boiled over.

"Alright, I'll give y'that one, but I'll go you one better," she replied. "Who's making sure that the FBI, CIA and that lot aren't doing more than they should?"

"There are Senate Oversight Committees, the President is briefed every morning," Natalie answered.

"Alright, so who's watching them?" Quinn countered. "Who's making sure they don't step outta line?"

"The media, mostly," she replied. "Any time some politician forgets to cross a 't,' it's all over the news."

"And then that gets flogged t'death before we hear th'end of it," Quinn groaned. "Y'know, this instant communications shite isn't all it's cracked up t'be. Folks need t'learn t'think for themselves. One of th'main arguments Martin Luther had against th'Church."

"So, you're compairing the media to the Catholic Church?"

"In a way, yeah," Quinn answered. "Think about it. Th'Church, back in th'day, was th'main source of information. If they said th'world was flat, then it was. If they th'earth was th'center of th'universe, no one argued. Well, except for a few brave souls."

"Remind me again, how'd we get from the Watchers to the Church?"

"Think about it, lass," Quinn answered. "Th'same folks who hold th'media, th'Church and th'government in check are th'same folks who watch th'Watchers."

"Oh, yeah, who's that?"

"Th'one or two who have enough backbone t'stand up t'them."


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
365 Words
Prompt: [livejournal.com profile] theatrical_muse "273 - "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" (Who watches the watchmen Watchers?)
Natalie is [livejournal.com profile] jurisimmortalis & Quinn's headmate
Adam is [livejournal.com profile] iris_angel & reference with love and respect.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Freyja fearless))
When: Early First Century, AD
Where: Nærøyfjorden, Norway
Alias: Freyja Gundersdøttir



It isn't the birds or the spring sunshine that awaken her that morning, but the stench and incessant buzzing of flies. Her back is still to the unyielding granite escarpment, her legs tucked underneath her awkwardly. Slowly, she breathes, feeling life flow back into her veins. Her mind can't comprehend what's happened.

She should be dead. She had been dead. She doesn't remember anything of Valhal, only cold, all-consuming darkness. The gods had sent her to Hel. They had tested her, and she had been found wanting. She wants to scream at the unfairness. She had fought against at least six others. Hadn't that been enough for Oden?

She opens her eyes and pain rips through her. The bright sunlight is harsh against the small glen. Smoke rises up through the trees. A few paces away, she sees someone laying amongst the leaves. She stands slowly, the front of her dress is stiff with dried blood. Her blood. Her stomach clenches.

Her legs are unsteady as she stumbles over to prone form. She touches an arm, but the flesh is already cold. Flies feast on the exposed meat. The sound makes her cringe. She continues through the trees towards home. She is ill prepared for the carnage that greets her.

The feasting table has been toppled and chopped to splinters. The remains of the food litter the ground. Bodies lay nearby, cleaved and bloodied. She finds aunts, uncles, cousins. The Chieftain and his family are little more than charred remains buried under the soot and ash of the meadhall. She wanders among the wreckage of her life, numb and cold.

Her foot catches on something and she stumbles. It takes her eyes a few moments to see what lays upon the ground. A child, a girl, her eyes plucked from their sockets by a carrion-bird. Brynhildr was the first child she had helped from her mother's womb. This should have been her fifth summer, yet here she lay, broken and cleaved. Her stomach could not contain its horror any longer, but it has nothing to give. Dry retches wrack her body as she collapses to the ground.

She doesn't know how long she lays there, but she knows she cannot stay. She doesn't know where she'll go, but she can feel the pull of the sea. She gathers what supplies she can and even finds a reasonably clean change of clothes. After washing her face and mouth in the frigid waters of the fjord, she says one final prayer for the fallen, and begins her journey.

She never returns.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
429 Words
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (b/w tear))
If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the colour of the evening sun
Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay
Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetime's argument
That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could
For all those born beneath an angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are


She runs towards the sound of swords shrieking in the night, but can't seem to find them. She can feel the duel raging in her blood. She knows that someone will die tonight. Her stomach clenches thinking the worst.

She rounds the side of the warehouse, and the movement is just enough to distract one of the combatants. She watches, horrified, as a blade arcs toward the distracted Immortal's neck. She screams in warning, but it's too late.

"ADAM!!" she yells, hoping her eyes are wrong.

She doesn't remember running, but all of a sudden, she feels his still-warm, yet lifeless body in her arms. The other Immortal laughs as lightning fills the air. She grabs the sword from her love's hand and swings. The dark, hideous laughter is cut short as another body falls to the ground with a thud.

The Quickening is the worst she's ever had. She tries to cling to Adam's memories but five thousand years' worth of experiences leaves her gasping for breath. Tears are streaming down her face as the last current of electricity flickers and fades.

Months go by. She hasn't left his flat. Friends have called, all worried about her, but she doesn't call them back. She can't face them. She can't imagine knowing he isn't out there for her to find anymore.

She looks down at the platinum-and-diamond ring. They had promised to always find each other. Now he's gone. He'll never pitch up at some odd moment. They'll never cross paths again. She'll never see that cheeky-assed smirk anymore. Her life is empty, meaningless.

A year goes by, two. She's on a different continent surrounded by sand and dust. Memories that aren't hers flicker through her mind, showing her what the land had looked like eons ago: the great delta and the city that had been swallowed by the sea. But it isn't good enough. She doesn't want his memories. She wants him.

She has wandered the Earth these past ten years. His memories have taken her to places she had never been. She often finds herself having conversations with someone that isn't there. She knows people look at her oddly, but doesn't care. They say she's gone mad, and perhaps that's true.

The house is cold, empty, when she returns. The dented fridge stands testament to their passion. Though she had planned on the house being hers, she can still feel him there. The island had been her sanctuary once, and would be again.

She stares down at the granite marker, weathered by time. It has been nearly a century since it was carved with his last alias. It has taken her this long to return to the city she so hates. It's still as busy and noisy as ever, and the crush of people makes her long for the quiet solitude of her island.

The platinum ring still adorns her finger. Only the wear and tear of the metal is testament to that long-ago promise. His memories still linger within her, but they are never enough.

She doesn't know she's kneeling until she feels the grass under her. She doesn't know she's crying until her cheeks are wet with tears. She doesn't know she's dreaming, until she opens her eyes...


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
536 Words (not incl. lyrics)
Prompt 1: [livejournal.com profile] theatrical_muse #265 "What did you dream last night?"
Prompt 2: [livejournal.com profile] theatrical_muse #268: "The End"
Prompt 3: [livejournal.com profile] just_muse_me #14.2.5 "What is one thing in your life that would completely shatter you if you lost?"
Based on RP with [livejournal.com profile] iris_angel
Author's Notes
broadsword_babe: (Other (no man))
When: Summer, 61 AD
Where: SE Briton
Alias: Boudica, Iceni Queen



"My lady, what you are proposing is to go to war against Rome itself!"

She glared at the man standing across the war table.

"What would you have me do, Irial? Pretend they didn't desecrate our holy sites with shines to their Cæsars? Forget they brutalised my daughters? Dismiss the fact they publicly humiliated me?"

The air in the tent was charged with her fury. Ever since her husband died, the provincial Roman government had treated Iceni lands as their own. The Romans had disregarded their customs, and had raped their lands just as they had raped the heirs to Prasutagus' crown.

"It's a fight we can't possibly win!" her General argued. "Going against better trained, better armed soldiers is suicide!"

"By all means, Conmael! Roll over like a dog to be whipped!" she shouted. "You're welcome to tend your gardens and live in cowardice! I, however, will not!

"I may be a woman, but the gods also know me as a warrior!" she raged. "I refuse to let these conquering brutes bully their way onto Iceni lands! If you want to be their slaves, so be it! Go! Throw yourselves on their mercies! But as you are offering them your arse, know that I, a woman, fought while you decided to live in bondage!"

The men all exchanged looks. She had struck at their most vulnerable point: their pride. And well she knew it.

"What do you suggest, my lady?" her Chief Councillor, Irial, asked.

"We must take back what is rightfully ours," she stated. "We take Camulodunon."

The rest of the evening and into the night, they planned. Strategies were planned and routes were plotted. By morning, all had heard that Boudica would revolt against Rome.

Within two years, three outposts were sacked, over seventy thousand were killed, a Legion was annihilated, and even an Emperor feared her. Her!

A woman.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
313 words
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (curls up))
When: May, 1827
Where: Vienna, Austria
Alias: Elsa Dreher


You take the footman's hand as he helps you down from the carriage. Tonight is a ball in honour of a late composer, and you are dressed in your finest gown and gloves. Diamonds sparkle at your throat. Your long, red hair has been pinned up in intricate braids and curls. The emerald green silk suits you to perfection.

You walk through the doors and pin a smile to your lips. No one here knows you. No one here could ever guess what you were beneath all the finery. No one knows how many you've killed. No one expects the stiletto hidden in the bodice of the gown. No one knows you're older than you seem.

You spend the evening dancing, laughing, flirting, all the while conscious of your deadly nature. You can never forget what you truly are, but you are an expert at making people see what you want them to.

"May I have this dance?" a gentleman asks.

You don't know his name. You don't bother to ask. Though he may be young and handsome now, in a few years, decades perhaps, he will be dust, and you will be just as you've always been: alone.

You agree to the dance, hoping to forget, for a moment, that you are anything but mortal. He proves to be one of the better partners you've had that evening. His cologne isn't overpowering nor is he a clod. His eyes don't quite meet yours, perhaps there is something he sees in them that makes him uncomfortable. Maybe he knows that underneath all your specious finery, you are a warrior who wouldn't hesitate to snap his neck, if necessary.


Muse: Quinnleigh Kincaid
Fandom: Highlander OC
Words: 278
Prompt: [livejournal.com profile] theatrical_muse #257: Specious
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (embarrassed/shy))
[visible only to [livejournal.com profile] iris_angel, mun info for all others]

Wet t-shirt contest and, no, I don't have any pictures/videos, Adam. :P


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
12 Words
Prompt: [livejournal.com profile] theatrical_muse #251 - What's the Most Embarrassing Thing You've Ever Done While Sober?
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Guinevere))
"His treachery runs deeper than you know."

Merlin's warnings were never idle, that much she knew from the old wizard. What surprised her was the adamant tone of his voice. Even the brown owl perched on the back of a chair fluffed his feathers in surprise.

"Mordred has always wanted the Crown for himself, and will do anything to succeed in his obsession," he added. "He will use any means at his disposal. Already, his lies have caused discord among Arthur's knights, and he will use your friendship with Lancelot to his advantage, Guinevere."

At the sound of her name, she turned from the massive stone fireplace that occupied one wall of the tower room. "Do you truly think Mordred that devious?"

Merlin nodded gravely. She crossed her arms defiantly. She refused to let that sot push her around, no matter how subtle his methods. If she quit her friendship with Lancelot, Mordred would think her easily manipulated. Should she continue said friendship, Mordred would very well use that against her to boot. It was a situation that would have to be handled with panache and grace.

"Is Arthur aware of Mordred's schemes?" she asked.

"I think not," Merlin replied, running a hand over his flowing white beard.

"His own son and he doesn't realize the lengths he'll go to. And, again, my hands are tied. Arthur refuses to believe me instead of his bastard son."

"Men are often blinded by their offspring," Merlin replied sagely.

"And the only heir to the throne to boot," Guinevere grumbled. "Oh, how I hate politics!"


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Guinevere Pendragon
Highlander OC/Historical Legend crossover
262 Words
Merlin is [livejournal.com profile] wizard_primoris & Quinn's headmate
This is not binding to any Arthur or Mordred muses.
broadsword_babe: (Elsa)
"Are you sure zis vill verk?" Oberst asked.

"Positive," I answered confidently. "Henry might be zeh vun viz zeh Medieval History knowledge, but Indy's zeh vun who haz zeh soft spot for damzels. Threaten me, and I'm sure he vill hand over zeh Diary."

Gunfire from out in the hallway interruped whatever Oberst was about to say. I quickly mussed my hair so it looked like I'd gotten the rough end of things.

Elsa? Elsa! )



Muse: Quinnleigh Kincaid Dr. Elsa Schneider
Fandom: Highlander OC/Indiana Jones Crossover
Words: 731 (Italicized quotes are directly from the movie "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" and are not binding on any other muses.)
Prompt: Would you make a good spy? Why or why not?
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Guinevere))
respect |riˈspekt| noun
• a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements
• the state of being admired in such a way
• due regard for the feelings, wishes, rights, or traditions of others


honor |ˈänər| ( Brit. honour) noun
• adherence to what is right or to a conventional standard of conduct
verb [ trans. ]
1 regard with great respect
2 fulfill (an obligation) or keep (an agreement)


loyalty |ˈloiəltē| noun ( pl. -ties)
• the quality of being loyal to someone or something
• (often loyalties) a strong feeling of support or allegiance
loyal |ˈloiəl| adjective
• giving or showing firm and constant support or allegiance to a person or institution


integrity |inˈtegritē| noun
• the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness


trust |trəst| noun
• firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of someone or something
verb [ trans. ]
• believe in the reliability, truth, ability, or strength of (a person or institution)
• (trust someone with) allow someone to have, use, or look after (someone or something of importance or value) with confidence


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
5 Words (not incl. definitions from New Oxford American Dictionary)
Prompt: What principles are sacrosanct in your opinion?


broadsword_babe: (Elsa)
When: March, 1940
Where: Paris, France
Alias: Jacqueline Valmont


Morning in Paris and the swirling fog had turned the city into a monochromatic world of blacks, whites, and grays. She stood on the bridge, feeling the chill damp soak into her skin through her stylish skirt suit and long gloves. It had only been a week since she'd returned to the city after her ordeal in the desert, and the cool mist was a welcome relief from the glaring heat.

She wasn't proud of what she had done in order to keep a promise that had haunted her for fourteen centuries. But it was over now. The Grail was safely entombed with Arthur on Avalon. Now, it was up to her to get her godson out of Paris.



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC

1,000 Words
Charles is [profile] a_ghosts_son and Quinn's headmate.
[profile] iris_angel mentioned vaguely with permission.
Prompts:
[profile] of_the_universe:
10.1 It is a rainy morning. At the periphery of vision, surrounded by fog, something emerges.
10.2.A Write a fic where you are standing in the middle of a bridge.
[community profile] theatrical_muse:
#242
Write about a time that you were the bearer of bad news.
broadsword_babe: (Stock (cowgirl))
Where: Cripple Creek, Colorado
When: October, 1994
Alias: Elaine Jameson


"Who's Methos?"

I nearly choked on my coffee and stared at Wade over the brim of the mug. Just where the hell'd he heard about him?

"Who?" I asked blankly, but all the while my mind raced trying to come up with a cover.

"Methos," Wade answered bluntly. "You mumbled something about him in your sleep. Sounded like you two were hot and heavy."

I tried keeping my best poker face on, but I could still feel a tinge of hot embarrassment climb up my neck. In two thousand years, I still hadn't been able to break myself of talking in my sleep. Problem was, I couldn't remember dreaming about him. I made myself another cup of coffee both as a stall tactic and to try and compose myself.

"Elaine...?" Wade prompted. "Who is he? And what kind of name is Methos? Sounds Greek or something."

Bless him for coming up with that!

"He was," I answered, stirring my cup of coffee. "He was a Greek exchange student when I was in high school. I was a junior, he was a senior. Guess I kinda had a crush on him. Haven't thought about him in years though."

"Methos... what? Didn't the guy have a last name?" Wade asked.

I sipped my coffee as my mind worked on trying to come up with an appropriate Greek surname. "Kanakaredes. Methos Kanakaredes."

Wade frowned. "And you two never...?"

"No, never," I answered. That, at least, was the truth.

"And that dream...?" he asked.

"Wasn't it Freud who said, 'sometimes a dream is just a dream'?"


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
263 Words
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (sepia smile))
Once nice thing about having a rather large, flat back lawn was that it gave Quinn a chance to practice her archery. Oh, she was no Robin of Loxley, but she preferred the simple nature of a bow to that of a modern-day firearm.

Guns were noisy, messy and required minimal skill to point and shoot, at least for the average user. An English longbow, on the other hand, needed finesse and no small amount of brute strength. There was just something about the hum of the bowstring when it was pulled taught that didn't exist in the modern compound bows with all their wheels and pulleys.

She sighted the straw target down the length of her arm, keeping the arrow nocked firmly against the string. She drew back just a tinge more, feeling the buzz of tension in the string and the wooden bow. Finally, after adjusting a bit for the wind, she let fly.

The bowstring twanged, sending the arrow hurtling towards the target. She watched as it hit the straw with a brittle "thwap." Not nearly a bullseye, but not too shabby either for someone who'd been out of practice for decades.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
195 Words
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (looking down blue))
Discuss an individual who has scared you.

Let's see, there's everyone who's ever tried to take my head. They've all scared me at one point or another. Charles certainly scared the hell out of me when he went missing during WWI. Not to mention the things mankind can do to itself is damn frightening: wars, weapons, crusades, inquisitions. But this is about individuals, and I suppose the one that scares me the most is Adam.

Oh, not in a "he could take my head" kinda way. He could have, but didn't. Besides, I'd like to think we've moved past that after all this time; stupidity of youth and all that. But, knowing him, there'll be hell to pay when I finally tell him that Cass knows about us, and I was the one who told her.

Thing is, they have a bit of a past together. Back when he went by the name "Methos," he kept Cassandra as a slave. That, in and amongst itself, was reason enough for me to try and take his head. And we can all see how well that worked. So, naturally, I told Cass out of respect, and things between us haven't quite been the same since.

So, yeah, not only will I have to face the powder keg that is Methos' temper, I might just have to make the most difficult choice of my life: save the friendship with the woman who taught me how to survive, or choose the only man who could ever understand me. And I'm scared I'll make the wrong decision. I'm scared I'll lose Adam. I'm scared I'll lose them both.

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
266 Words

Yeah, I know. It's not exactly what the prompt had in mind, but getting her to admit she's scared of anything is huge.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (sword 1))
Surprise! Your mother/a priest/an arch nemesis/the tax man/dinosaurs/your ex/a famous talk show host is at the door -- and at a most inopportune moment! Now what?!

It wasn't often that I indulged in making a batch of fudge, but it was definitely one of those days when I needed a bit of chocolate. Luckily, I already had everything on hand and wouldn't need to go to the market for anything. So, into the pot on the stove went the sugar, chocolate, condensed milk, and other ingredients. Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I'm a right grouch when I'm cooking. I can be a bit of a perfectionist about food, as with a lot of other things, and I don't tolerate interruptions very well. And, wouldn't you know, that's exactly what happened.




Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
1530 Words
Natalie, [personal profile] jurisimmortalis, & Lance, [personal profile] her_champion, are Quinn's headmates.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (right cheek))
New York City
August, 1972


She sat in the chair, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were still bloodshot from the weeks of crying, but she couldn't think about that now. She couldn't stand to remember the past ninety-something years. This was the first time she'd allowed herself in public since leaving the hospital with all its glaring lights and beeping machines. The sheer clinically sterile environment had left her cold. Next week, she would fly back to Paris to bury her godson's remains next to his mother's, father's and grandmother's. But she couldn't think about that now.
cut for length )

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
1276 Words
Inspired by this post!
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Freyja))
I've long since stopped keeping track of birthdays.



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
8 Words
broadsword_babe: (Stock (castle))
The gray stone house had been built in 1853, and whoever RB & NH were, they had started their lives together that year in that house. That had been one of the smaller details Quinn had come to love about the old farmhouse. She had truly thought it too big for just her and Brutæ, but the semi-seclusion of the property, as well as being right on the sea, was ideal. There weren't any neighbors who would question her about any odd goings on, such as unexpected guests, freak lightning storms, and burned patches of lawn. Oh, she could toss any previous opponents into the sea, but didn't think the seals would much care for her polluting their fishing grounds. Besides, if the body resurfaced later, there would always be questions.

The kitchen was one of her favourite rooms, besides the study and conservatory. The traditional stove was the heart of the house, and for someone who loved to cook, it was perfect. Even though she may not have anyone to cook for, Quinn still enjoyed puttering around the kitchen making all kinds of homemade treats from fudge to pies to hearty stews.

One of the garages she had turned into a gym/dojo. Quinn didn't see the need for lots of fancy equipment when free weights, still rings, a ballet bar, and a couple of punching bags were really all she needed. She'd renovated another part of the garage into an equipment room complete with swords, bows, staves, throwing knives, but no guns. They were messy, noisy and too easy to use. Though, there were times when she would set up straw targets for archery and crossbow practice.

With six bedrooms and four bathrooms, Quinn had plenty of room for guests, of the invited variety. She knew Orkney was pretty far off the beaten path for most, but Kirkwall boasted flights to and from the Island daily. She also had to admit, the ferry ride from Stromness to Thurso was an adventure amongst itself, and though she didn't mind flying, the sea would always be home to a Norsewoman.

There were also a few details Quinn added herself, such as a wooden plaque carved with the saying "Ceud mìle fàilte" hanging just over the front door. In Scottish Gaelic, the sign translated to "a hundred thousand welcomes." Hanging over the mantle in her study was Bragloré, ready for battle at a moment's notice. She'd also had an endless hot tub delivered and set up in a secluded area of the back garden. It was perfect for both training and relaxing, and definitely one of her favourite purchases for the property.

In the short time since she'd moved in just before December, Quinn had come to love the house. Perhaps, in time, she might buy back some of the original 880 acres and possibly raise and breed horses. Or, at least, keep a few to ride herself.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander/OC
487 Words
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