broadsword_babe: (Elsa)
When: September, 1939
Where: Berlin, Germany
Alias: Elsa Schneider


She stood on the platform overlooking the rally at the Institute of Aryan Culture. She was only steps away from some of the most dangerous men in Europe: Joseph Goebbels, Heinrich Himmler, and Hitler himself. If any of them knew what she truly was, it would not mean her death, but very probably years of torture to discover the source of her Immortality.

It wasn't only that fear that clogged her throat that night, but the smoke from a thousand burning books. The flames ate through the covers and pages like dried leaves. So much knowledge, so many ideas, reduced to ashes because they did not promote the German ideals.

The thought that she needed the Third Reich to find the Grail made her sick. Politely excusing herself from the platform, she decided to take a walk along the colonnade. She was so lost in thought that she did not hear the man behind her until he spoke.

"Fraulein Doctor," he growled. "Where is it?"

She turned in surprise to find none other than Indiana Jones in an SA uniform.

"How did you get here?" she asked, shocked.

"Where is it?" Indiana demanded again before pinning her to a column and rifling through her coat. "I want it!"

"You came back for the book? Why?" she asked.

She couldn't understand why he still needed it. After all, they'd given the map with no name to Marcus Brody, whom she had learned was in custody in Iskenderun. Why else would he need it?

"My father didn't want it incinerated," he responded gruffly.

"Is that what you think of me?" she asked, almost hurt.

She wanted to tell Indy about her Immortality, but she didn't dare. She couldn't risk anyone knowing her secrets. She was certain if they did, she would be on the next train to Dr. Mengele's laboratory.

"I believe in the Grail, not the Swastika."

That much was true. She believed in Arthur and his Knights. She wanted to tell Indy of the centuries she'd lived as a nun, but knew he wouldn't believe her. Though, if she were truly honest, her years in various convents had been for the benefit of sanctuary and holy ground, and not because of the Christian God.

"But you stood up to be counted with the enemy of everything the Grail stands for," Indy growled. "Who gives a damn what you think?"

Her mind raced. She still needed Indy and his father to help her find the Grail. More importantly, she wanted to know why he wanted the book. She couldn't stand there and just watch him leave.

"You do!" she argued, desperately.

He surprised her yet again by grabbing her throat. "All I have to do is squeeze."

Or so he thought.

"All I have to do is scream."

Indy hesitated for a second as he weighed her threat. Then, he nearly shoved her away as he let go of her neck. She hated betraying Indy and his father, but they were both a means to an end. And she couldn't not keep her promise to Arthur.

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Dr. Elsa Schneider
Highlander OC/Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade crossover
515 Words
Note: Italicized dialog is from Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade.


broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Freyja))
When: Early First Century AD
Where: Osafjord, Norway
Name: Freyja Gundersdøttir



The blanket of glittering white cast a spell across the forest, but it was a spell that was quickly broken by boisterous, joyous voices. Tomorrow was Winter Solstice, a time of celebration on the darkest night of the year, and the traditions of her village held that the fathers and eldest, unwed daughters of each family would go into the woods surrounding the settlement to fell a tree for their Yule log.

The tree would be felled and then dragged by a team of four sturdy fjord ponies back to the mead hall. Each father would cut branches and sections of the trunk to bring back to their own homes with the largest part of the trunk to burn in the meadhall. Celebrations would continue day and night until the last of the Yule log had turned to ash. And, aside from nominal chores, no one worked.

So, on that night, her strawberry-blonde hair hidden by a reindeer-pelt hat, thirteen-year-old Freyja followed her father and the others through the darkened forest. The light from the fathers' torches glimmered off the snow-covered boughs as the other, older girls whispered stories of snow spirits who would capture anyone who ventured too far from the torchlight. Underneath her fur-lined cloak, Freyja could feel the comforting weight of the antler-handled knife her father had given her for her thirteenth birthday. Usually, such a weapon was given to the son of the house, but since Freyja was Gunder and Sigrùn's only child, she was treated as both son and daughter. And she was proving to be an avid hunter much like her father as well as a skilled healer like her mother.

A chill wind pinched her cheeks and brought her back to the task at hand. It was tradition that the youngest to pick which tree to use for the Yule log. She looked at the expectant faces of the others before roaming quietly around the sacred clearing where past logs had been felled. She took her duty very seriously, and did not want to disappoint the others.

Hearty firs could not be burned. Their soft needles stayed green throughout the long winter and were better used as decoration rather than fuel. Though birches made for good carving, they wouldn't provide enough wood to last two days, much less the hoped for week. Oaks were sacred, and no one wanted to encur Thor's wrath. Finally, she paused at the trunk of a great ash.

She remembered climbing through its branches during the bygone summers and was sad to discover that its outer branches were slowly dying. It was an old tree, and one that had spawned many offspring during its long years. It was one of her favourites in the forest and she would miss it come summer, but it was time the old ash served another purpose.

"This one, Fader," she said finally.

Gunder, a great golden bear of a man, approached the tree and ran his enormous bare hands across the rough bark. A faint smile played on his lips as he looked at the strange girl the goddess Freyja had chosen for his daughter thirteen springtides ago.

"I once played in its branches, too," he said softly, remembering his own childhood. "He was a grandfather even then. He has given many years to this forest and I do not think he should wither away like an old man."

Gunder rested a paw on Freyja's slender shoulder, and turned towards the rest of the group. The mindless twittering of the other girls as well as the gruff undertone of the men slowly died into silence.

"Freyja has made her choice," he started. "And it is a good one. Most of us have enjoyed this tree. It was here that Sigrùn and I met, and he has weathered many a storm as much a warrior as any of us. He should not be condemned to die an old man's death, but should have a hero's pyre."

The other fathers nodded in agreement and everyone moved to stand in a solemn ring around the trunk of the great tree as they all intoned the hero's prayer. Then, the daughters would all stand with the ponies to ensure they wouldn't spook as the tree crashed to the ground. As the men worked with their axes, they sang not the songs of Yule and the coming of warmer, brighter days, but warrior songs of battle and glory.

Finally, with a groan that almost sounded to Freyja like a sigh of relief, the great ash tumbled to the ground. They all then began to reduce the felled giant to smaller, more managable pieces. It would take them, all told, ten trips through the dark and bitterly cold night to bring the old ash to the village.

Each time they returned, more villagers ventured forth to watch them bring home boughs and branches for their individual homes. Everyone knew which tree Freyja had chosen, and all had fond memories of the ash, and knew it was time to celebrate the tree's great life.

Dawn was nearly breaking when they at last reached the village with the enormous trunk in tow. The fathers, the daughters and especially the ponies were exhausted from the long night trekking back and forth through the snow. A grand breakfast was prepared for the loggers, and after which, they all went to their respective homes to sleep until evening set in.

As the sun set on the longest night of the year, everyone gathered in the darkened meadhall where the families would bring a spark from their own home fires to light the great Yule log. Only after the log was fully aflame could the celebrations begin. This was Freyja's true test. If the log failed to catch fire, not only was it a bad omen for her and her family, but it didn't bode well for the rest of the village.

But she was soon rewarded as the wood began to smoke and then flames began to gnaw at the bark. Before long, the meadhall was awash in firelight and warmth representing the waxing days of sunlight to come. Everyone cheered as mugs of mulled mead were passed from table to table and the roast haunches of venison were brought forth.

To everyone's amazement, the log continued to burn for an unprecedented two weeks. Those who had been against Gunder and Sigrùn adopting this strange girl of unknown parentage, began to think differently. Some even wondered if she just might even be a child of the gods. But all agreed that there was something special about Freyja Gundersdóttir.



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Freyja Gundersdøttir
Highlander OC
1105 Words

Mun Commentary: This was one of those times when the muse takes the idea and runs with it. I have no idea if the actual traditions mentioned are true, but I'd like to think so. This is also one of the few times that Quinn Freyja has talked about her life before her First Death.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (looking down profile))
The hallway is dark and quiet, much like the rest of the world. She stands there, staring at the dark, polished wood of the door, aching to reach for the knob, knowing she won't. The past few days have been surreal, and she doesn't want it to end, she doesn't want him to leave. Not without...

Her hand reaches forward, fingertips against the fine grain of the door jamb. Not for the first time, she wonders what it would be like... with him. She can't remember all the names of every man she's given herself to, but he was never one of them. She's always told herself he never could be.

But still... She wonders.

Standing there, she can feel him; the buzzing tingle at the back of her neck. Can he feel her? Does he know that all he has to do is open that door? Is he awake? Does he care? What if she were the one to open that door? After all, she's the one who's kept it closed all this time.

But she's a coward. She can't open it. She's afraid of what's on the other side. She's afraid that's all he wants from her. She's afraid of being wrong.

But what if he opens the door...

Would it be over? Would she ever see him again? Was she wrong about him? What if she was right?

She wanted him to open that door. She needed him to open that door. But part of her prayed he wouldn't. She's kept him out for so long, she doesn't know if she could let him in. She knows she shouldn't.

It's torture standing there. Exquisite. Sadistic. Torture.




Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
279 Words
Based on RP with [livejournal.com profile] iris_angel
Prompt: "A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist. - Stewart Alsop"
Setting: Night before this.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (thoughtful))
Resisting had a certain appeal. There was an illusion of control, that I was the one calling the shots, that I could hold out longer than he could. So, I kept resisting him. Trying to prove that I was the one with the control and the power, that he could never make me his slave.

Time drifted from one era to the next. The world changed. We changed. But the resistance was still there, lurking in the shadows. I wouldn't give in. I couldn't let him win.

Then, with a single, almost shy look, it was gone. The resistance I'd clung to for so long to shield me from pain vanished. It had never been about winning or losing, slave or master. It was about us, who we were together. And he just fit! Everything I'd wanted, he had: knowledge, understanding, acceptance. And I'd been so wrong to keep him at arm's length for all that time!

Resistance was all well and good, but giving in was even better.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
170 Words
Based on RP with [livejournal.com profile] iris_angel
Prompt: "A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist. - Stewart Alsop"
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (amused))
Keys: on the foyer table or the kitchen counter (depending on which door she came through)

Last Will and Testament: amended for the umpteenth-thousandth time: lock-box at a Florentine bank

Favorite pair of underwear: wearing, in her unmentionables drawer or in the laundry hamper

Writing device: modern roller-ball pens, old fashioned ink well & nib pens: desk

Hairbrush: dresser

Jewelry: one ring, gold, with Camelot crest: right ring finger

Medicine: ibuprofen for the odd headache, bandages & such: in the linen closet

Toys: collection of various swords, knives, crossbows, longbows, etc: room above the gym

Money: Florentine bank account

Weapons: see toys

Photographs: lock-box

Address book: on her laptop & mobile phone

Soap: Lavender scented bar soap from Marseilles

Perfume/Cologne: a blend of lavender, honeysuckle and jasmine

Dirty socks: hamper

Identification: Quinnleigh Kincaid's drivers' license, passport, credit cards, etc: in purse. Other IDs: in lock-box

Scissors: pencil cup on her desk

Snacks: chocolate chip cookie dough: fridge. Crisps, pretzels, tea, nuts, biscuits: pantry

Music: Coldplay, U2, various playlists: on iPod & laptop

Evidence: burned, ashes added to garden compost pile

Pets: Brutæ: asleep by fireplace, or on the couch

Books: first editions of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Burns, Byron, Austen, etc: barristers' bookshelf in study, taken out of long-term storage

Controller: half-eaten by Brutæ, but still functional: on arm of sofa, tea table or end table if not under said furniture or buried in the back garden

Sunglasses: on passenger seat of car

Horse: Snowdancer: back in Colorado

Childhood security lovey: lost to time

Condoms: unnecessary

Sexual aids: night table drawer

Umbrella: doesn't carry one, wears a bright blue slicker instead

Vehicle: 2007 Toyota FJ Cruiser, bright yellow: parked behind house
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Guinevere))
“Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind toward some resolution which it may never find.” I Never Sang For My Father


I didn't want to see him. I couldn't see him. I wanted to remember him as hale, healthy and whole, not laying on his deathbed suffering a mortal wound. It was because of me he was wounded. Mordred, damn him, had called my honour into account and Arthur could not stand idle any longer. Lancelot offered to take his place, but Arthur wouldn't hear of it. Later, Lance had told me that Arthur knew of his Immortality, and that trait would be seen as an unfair advantage. Arthur, himself, being an honourable man would not let another fight for him, especially when his wife's fidelity was called into question. It was a conflict of interest of monumental proportions should Lance fight in his stead. The guilt rested squarely on my shoulders. In my logic, twisted by grief, Arthur would only recover if I never entered his rooms. I counted myself a thousand times a fool for not listening to Merlin's warning.

"Gwen." Only when we were well and truly alone would Lance ever unbend as to use my nickname. "Guinevere, you must go see him."

I stopped my pacing in the torchlit corridor to face my protector, my champion and my best friend.

"Do not ask that of me," I answered softly. "You know I cannot."

"Guinevere," he chided softly, taking a shoulder in each hand. "He is your husband, and your King. If you do not make an effort, and he dies, you will be forced to bear that for eternity."

"Or until someone takes my head," I replied wryly.

"You are too much of a warrior for that to ever happen," Lance answered. "Do you want to carry the guilt of not saying 'good-bye' when you had the chance?"

It was a point he didn't have to make twice. I simply nodded, my unbound hair falling to cover my face and my shame. In a rare gesture of affection, Lance leaned forward and gently kissed the top of my head. It was nearly my undoing, but as Queen, I had to be strong, as strong as my King had been weakened. Stiffening my resolve, and my spine, I slowly opened the door to the solar.

The walk from the door to the bed was the longest twenty paces of my life. Arthur's face was pale and drawn. Merlin could do nothing to slow the poison Mordred had used on his blade. The blade itself had sliced into Arthur's belly, leaving him to languish for nearly a day and a half. I cautiously approached the bed, not wanting to disturb him lest he slept.

"Ahh, Guinevere," he greeted me, his voice barely above a whisper, and his eyes open only a fraction.

"Hush, my love," I replied, easing myself into sitting on the edge of the bed. "Save your strength. You'll need it to get well."

"Guinevere, I have never known you to be in denial," Arthur said. His voice was halting and with each breath, I could hear the death-rattle in his lungs.

"It is not denial, but faith," I answered, taking his hand. I tried to tell myself that it was warm when it clearly was not. Death's icy grip had already begun to claim his fingers.

"Then you must have faith that Heaven awaits me," he replied. "The one who has died for my sins awaits me there. If you have faith, believe in that."

Arthur had always been patient with my disagreement for Christian doctrine. He had never berated my pagan upbringing, nor did he condemn me, and for that he would have my eternal loyalty.

"You will hold the Grail, Arthur," I promised vehemently. "One day, you will hold it."

A vague smile crossed his lips. "And I hold you to your vow, Guinevere Pendragon."

Breath ceased to fill his lungs as his hand went limp in mine. "Go to him, Arthur." I whispered, fighting a losing battle with tears.

I slowly eased the ring bearing the crest of Camelot off his finger. I knew it would pass to Mordred who was Arthur's closest kin. I wiped my tears on a flowing sleeve before leaving our rooms. Lancelot, Merlin, and Mordred were all awaiting me in the corridor.

"The King is dead," I announced, pausing to give the ring to Mordred before soundly backhanding him. "Long live the King."

The passing days were a grief-stricken blur. Arthur hadn't been buried on Avalon a week when Mordred condemned me as unfaithful and removed me as Queen in the same breath he proclaimed himself King. Lancelot and Gawain escorted me to Gawain's family holdings on Orkney. It was there that I began to formulate a plan to retrieve the Grail for Arthur. In truth, it would take nearly fifteen hundred years, but I did indeed keep my promise to my husband and my King.

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
810 Words
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (b/w tear))
Continued from here.

What secrets do you wish you hadn’t kept?

Rubbing down Snowdancer was just the therapy I needed after what had happened with the kids. I'd been able to concentrate on something else for a little bit. Besides it wasn't like the mustang could tell a soul what I'd said. I stomped the snow from my boots and let myself in quietly through the mudroom. From the den, I could hear Wade and the kids deep in conversation.

"But she's not our real mom," I heard Erin argue as I walked towards the door.

I stopped cold in the middle of the hallway, something inside me screaming to pack up and leave. Then and there. Tonight. And never look back. I'd done it a million times before, and I could damn well do it again.

"You're right, she's not," Wade replied softly, sadly. "She never talks about it, but she can't have kids."

"Why not?" Erin asked.

"She said something about getting kicked as a kid that fouled up those plans but good," he answered.

It was a lie. A lie I'd told him just a few weeks after we'd first met, but I couldn't see myself marching in there and saying "the reason is, I'm Immortal and we can't have kids." As Wade's uncle Charlie once said, "that'd go over like a fart in church on Sunday." Even better than that would be, "hon, I know we've been married for twenty-plus years, but I'm nearly as old as Christ." Again, another fart in church. I knew Wade. He couldn't stand for anyone to lie to him for any reason, and for me to keep something that huge from him for that long would be something he'd never forgive me for.

"You two have to understand, we're the only family she has." At least that was the truth. "She never had any brothers or sisters, and her parents died in a car wreck just before she graduated high school. All she had were her daddy's truck and Falling Water."

I pressed my lips together, trying to hold back a sob. More lies, more secrets. I had to explain how I ended up on the circuit. I knew rodeo folk were a proud bunch and if they ever caught wind that I had a bank account big enough to buy Texas, I'd never hear the end of it.

"She could've ended up doing other things to make ends meet." I knew, just as the kids did, that he meant other things as being a hooker or worse. "Instead, she did the only things she knew how. She rode. She raced. She trained. I've never seen anyone who can train a horse like her. I knew then that if she treated a man as good as she did a horse, he was one lucky fella."

The wistful tone in Wade's voice was my undoing. Before I could make an absolute fool of myself, I retreated upstairs. I looked around the room Wade and I shared. Night was just falling outside of the windows as I sat with a battered old photo album on my lap. In it were pictures of Wade and I on the circuit, at our wedding in front of a justice of the peace, with the kids at various rodeos, finally buying the ranch, me training our first horse. Little by little, in each picture, Wade aged and the the kids grew, but I never changed a bit. Sure, I had the odd moment where I cut my hair, but for the most part, I remained just as I had been nearly two thousand years ago.

I couldn't tell him now. It was too late for "oh, hon, by the way"s. Not for the first time, I cursed my Immortality. For once I wanted to know what it would've been like to have children of my own, to grow old with someone, to be a grandparent. As long as I kept my head, those things couldn't happen, and even if I did lose my head, it was over and I'd be six feet under. Gods how I hated this secret, this burden, this truth, and this pain.



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
690 Words
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Guinevere))
November, 2007
Orkney Island, Scotland


I stared out over the water and let my mind wander. I had left Elaine behind in Colorado, and it was time to reacquaint myself with Quinnleigh. I thought about her personality, her beliefs, her quirks, who she was as a person.

Elaine had been a rough and rugged, hard living and hard loving woman. She could rope, ride and knew almost everything there was to know about horses and ranching. She was tough and proud and absolutely fearless.

Quinnleigh was a different sort. She was a woman who could kick back with the chaps, toss back a few pints, and tell bawdy jokes. She was a flirt and a knockabout in her own right with a fierce pride for her native Scotland.

In some respects Elaine and Quinn were actually rather similar. They could both drink just about anyone under the table. They both swore a blue streak that was a “country mile wide.” They were both outgoing, and they were both fiercely loyal: Elaine to her family and Quinn to Scotland.

I turned back to the house and realized something about myself as well: I was home, and I was a coward. Every time I felt threatened or exposed, I ran. I had been running my entire life, the whole two thousand years I’d been on this Earth. I tried to tell myself that it was for my own protection and to protect those around me. Self-preservation demanded I change lives every few decades, more or less, and I was tired of running, tired of not having a place I could call mine.

This is where we fight! This is where they die!

It had been a rallying cry in a swords-and-sandals movie I’d seen with Wade and the kids back in March. I had uttered almost the same phrase as Boudica when faced with a similar situation, and I felt a strong kinship towards that man, that king.

I looked at the house once more. It was a simple home of stone and slate, but it was mine. Hunters, Immortal and mortal alike, be dammed. This was where I would make my stand. This was where I would live. This was where I would fight. And, if worse came to worse, this was where I would die.

I knew quite a few Immortals who had one place they could always return to, but I had seen no reason to have anything like that, until now. I had always traveled light and burned bridges behind me. I’d never had someone, or someplace, I could return to time and time again. But there was something about this house, this remote island, that changed my mind. It had taken nearly two millennia to find it, but I was home. Finally.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
460 Words
broadsword_babe: (Text (Kincaid Motto))
{only for those who know of Quinn's Immortality}

This I Will Defend ~ Clan Kincaid Motto
When I married into the Clan Kincaid, little did I know how much those four words fit my personality. As Boudica, I defended my husband's daughters' honour and I stood up to the might of Rome itself. I have always been a protective spirit, defending and sometimes avenging those I feel deserving.

Do Not Start, You Will Not Win ~ Cowgirl Motto
There are cowgirls and then there are "buckle bunnies." At first glance, most people would have a hard time telling the difference, but it's all in the attitude. Cowgirls aren't afraid of getting in a fight. You'll often hear "there'll be two hits, me hittin' them and them hittin the floor." Buckle bunnies are more apt to let the men do the fighting because they don't want to break a nail. Cowgirls are a hard living, hard loving bunch, and if you even think about crossing one, "do not start, you will not win."

Sometimes The Past Is All We Have. Sometimes It's All We Need.
This one is one of my own. With 2,000 years of history behind me, all I'm left with are memories. It's part of why I became an archaeologist in the first place. Some sites I know well, and there are some that I don't. I love figuring out puzzles. Why was this built? How did they build it? Who lived here? What was that life like?

Never Piss Off A Woman Carrying A Sword ~ Pearl of Wisdom
This one should be pretty self-explanatory. Add this to "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" and you've gotten yourself into a right jam. Best do what you can to apologize, grovel and otherwise kiss arse unless you want to be missing vital parts of your anatomy.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
302 Words
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (amused))
{OOC: This was actually inspired by the "letters to mun" & "letters to muse" prompts @ [livejournal.com profile] realmofthemuse. Quinn just decided to take it a bit farther.}

Dear Meg )

Dear Erik )
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (sword))
{For Mun/Immortal/Watcher Knowledge Only}

K. Wishbone Ash – Throw Down the Sword

Throw down the sword,
The fight is done and over,
Neither lost, neither won.
To cast away the fury of the battle
And turn my weary eyes for home.

There were times when I stood at death's own door
Only hoping for an answer.

Throw down the sword,
And leave the glory -
A story time can never change.
To walk the road, the load I have to carry -
A journey's end, a wounded soul.

There were times when I stood at death's own door
Only searching for an answer

cut for language & other things )

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
467 Words (not incl lyrics)
broadsword_babe: (Ellen)
October, 1980
Somewhere in New Mexico
Alias: Elaine Brown (prior to her meeting Wade)


Two kills in a week makes me downright cranky. There were times when being what I am was a right pain in the ass. No kids? Eh, that’s alright, I guess. Got Brutæ to keep me company. Right, so where was I. Oh, yeah, kicking something.

So, I’m sitting down at the local bar having a drink when this real ass-hat walks in. Starts hitting on me something fierce. Word to the wise, don’t hit on me when I’m cranky. Right, so he keeps on saying shit like “remember my name, you’ll be screaming it later,” (I didn’t remember, and I didn’t scream it) and “who’s your daddy?”

“Not you,” I replied, and tossed back a shot of whiskey.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that when my conversations are reduced to one syllable words, they’d best back off or there’ll be two hits: me hitting them and them hitting the floor. This numbnuts wasn’t taking the hint.

“So, what do you say? Want to go back to my place…?”

“In your dreams.”

Then he made the massive mistake of trying to take my arm. One, I’m already having a peach of a week. Two, I’d already consumed half a bottle of whiskey. So, yeah, I was not a happy camper. I picked up his hand by the finger as if it were a snake and dropped it back down on the bar.

“Touch me again, and you’ll be singing soprano for a month.”

“A pretty thing like you? I bet you can’t make a fist.”

Oh, if he only knew that I knew over fifty different ways to kill him where he stood, with my bare hands. I only stared at him. Guys, you know that look. The one that makes you feel like you’ve swallowed two dozen bad eggs. Apparently, this genius had never had one bad egg.

“You think so?”

“Yeah.”

I shook my head. Dumbass here was in for a rude awakening. I slid off my stool, a bit unsteady thanks to a certain Mr. Daniels.

“You want me to hit you?” I asked, just to make sure he was really that stupid.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.” He waved his hands in open invitation.

A quick right jab to the nose. I could feel the bone crunch beneath my knuckles as he howled in pain.

“That’s for thinking I hit like a girl.”

And, just for good measure, I gave him a good swift kick right between the wickets. I don’t think Beverly Sills could’ve hit a note that high.

“And that’s for not taking no for an answer.”

I dug a couple of twenties out of my pocket and tossed it on the bar. “Sorry about that.”

I think the dumbshit was still sobbing on the floor when I got home. Wuss.



Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
468 Words
broadsword_babe: (boudica)
A rewrite of this.

{For Immortal Knowledge Only}

The white ribbon the Romans called “Wæcelinga Stræt” coursed through the landscape. I scowled. It was yet more proof of Roman intrusion into lands that were not theirs. They defiled the land just as they had deflowered my husband’s daughters. Nothing was sacred to them. They made their Emperors into gods and made my people pay for their temples.

The Iceni they had claimed as “savages” had systematically ruined three of their precious settlements. And the one and only Legion that had dared stand against us was slaughtered. Still, I wouldn’t rest until every last Roman left Britain without a backward glance. I would be free of them, or I would die trying.

At last the dawn came. I took to my chariot, my husband’s daughters beside me. With a flick of the reins, I urged the two horses to ride to the front of my forces. 230,000 strong; it was a sight to behold. I raised my voice to the clear morning air and spoke to them not as a Queen but as a mother avenging her daughters and a woman fighting for her freedom. Although Immortals couldn’t scar, my back still twinged at the memories of being flogged for trying to keep my husband’s daughters intact. That fury added power to my voice.

“On this spot we must either conquer, or die with glory. There is no alternative. Though a woman, my resolution is fixed: the men, if they please, may survive with infamy, and live in bondage.” I raised my voice to the dawn, praying the Gods would hear my cry. “Nothing is safe from Roman pride and arrogance. They will deface the sacred and will deflower our virgins. Win the battle or perish, that is what I, a woman, will do!”

To their credit, each raised their arms and roared with battle lust. Men, women, Iceni and Trinovante alike had answered my call. Rome must know that their deeds would not go unpunished, and we would not be conquered easily.

“Fight the foe!” I cried.

“Fight the foe!” Over two hundred thousand voices echoed in the dawn.

The Battle )


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
351 words (not including wiki info)
broadsword_babe: (smirk)
Letters? Bah, I don't write no stinking letters! Text messages? Now you're talking! Just because I'm an archaeologist who tends to eat, sleep & breathe the past doesn't mean I can't be up with the latest technology!

broadsword_babe: Mornin'

takemeasi_am:
Hey

broadsword_babe:
Did you hear about that thread last night?


takemeasi_am:
o.O What thread?

broadsword_babe:
this one


takemeasi_am:
::goes to read::
broadsword_babe: (boudica)
THE Roman Road runs straight and bare
As the pale parting-line in hair
Across the heath. And thoughtful men
Contrast its days of Now and Then,
And delve, and measure, and compare;
Visioning on the vacant air
Helmeted legionnaires, who proudly rear
The Eagle, as they pace again
The Roman Road.

But no tall brass-helmeted legionnaire
Haunts it for me. Uprises there
A mother's form upon my ken,
Guiding my infant steps, as when
We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
The Roman Road.


{For Immortal Knowledge Only}

Taken from these events, and continued from here.


"This is not the first time that the Britons have been led to battle by a woman. But now she did not come to boast the pride of a long line of ancestry, nor even to recover her kingdom and the plundered wealth of her family. She took the field, like the meanest among them, to assert the cause of public liberty, and to seek revenge for her body seamed with ignominious stripes, and her two daughters infamously ravished. From the pride and arrogance of the Romans nothing is sacred; all are subject to violation; the old endure the scourge, and the virgins are deflowered. But the vindictive gods are now at hand. A Roman legion dared to face the warlike Britons: with their lives they paid for their rashness; those who survived the carnage of that day, lie poorly hid behind their entrenchment, meditating nothing but how to save themselves by an ignominious flight. From the din of preparation, and the shouts of the British army, the Romans, even now, shrink back with terror. What will be their case when the assault begins? Look round, and view your numbers. Behold the proud display of warlike spirits, and consider the motives for which we draw the avenging sword. On this spot we must either conquer, or die with glory. There is no alternative. Though a woman, my resolution is fixed: the men, if they please, may survive with infamy, and live in bondage."


Quote taken from here.

My voice carried in the still, clear air. Smoke rising from the ashes of Londinium smudged the horizon. We left none alive. I had my vengeance for my dead husband's daughters. The 230,000 men, and women, under my command let out a roar that made the very ground shake. I smiled. I could taste victory on the back of my throat the same way one could taste lightning before it struck.

As I looked out across the landscape, I soon realized the Romans had chosen the battlefield well. The gorge protected their flanks and the forest, their rear. The gorge would also serve to funnel our forces and take away our advantage of superior numbers. Even then, I couldn't, wouldn't, back down. Those Romans had to learn they they could not savage our people and not expect retribution.

The battle raged all day, and as I suspected, our losses were heavy. The Romans pushed us back against out own wagons, slaughtering everything and everyone in their path. We lost almost half our forces, and half again were maimed or wounded. Although we didn't win the battle, per se, it still showed that the Britons were not afraid to stand against the tyranny that was Rome.

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