foreverwarrior: (Miranda (eyebrow))
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."

"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.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (eyebrow))
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.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (looking down/soft smile))
 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, 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
485 Words
Guests & comments welcome
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w orly))
January, 2007
Cripple Creek, CO
Alias: Elaine Jameson


I wasn't just mad, I was furious. The whole back forty acres of pasture had been turned into a rutty, muddy pit. There were tire tracks everywhere, and it looked for the world like half the SUVs and 4x4s in the state had had a Mud Bowl on my ranch. I couldn't believe Scot and Erin were so irresponsible as to not know about it. I turned in the saddle as I heard the triple-plod of someone approaching at a lope.

"How bad is it?" Wade asked, riding up.

"See for yourself," I said, jerking my chin in the direction of the pasture.

"Dammit," he swore, taking off his sweat-stained hat to run a hand over his brown hair. "I did not raise those two to act like that."

"And I did?" I shot back.

"That wasn't what I meant, Elaine, and you know it."

"So, what do they have to say for themselves?"

"They'd only mentioned it to a couple of their friends and it got out of hand," he answered. "Some deejay up in Denver heard about it, said something about it on the air, and next thing they knew five hundred people showed up."

"Five hundred..." I repeated. "So, what do we do now?"

"I already called the radio station and they're willing to foot the bill for mending some of the fence," Wade replied. "It's not really the kids' fault that the station put it out there."

I agreed that the fact things got out of hand wasn't something they could have foreseen, but they shouldn't have mentioned anything in the first place, especially while Wade and I were out of town looking at new stock. Someone could've been hurt, or maybe even killed, and we'd be liable for it. Naturally, that just fueled my already heated temper. Without another word, I kicked Snowdancer into a full gallop, hoping the ride back to the house would cool my jets. It did, barely. I found the two of them sitting at opposite ends of the couch in the family room like a couple of angry bookends.

"Dad already read us the riot act," Scot started.

"Now you're going to hear it from me," I snapped. "Do either of you realize what would've happened if anyone had gotten hurt?"

"But no one did!" Erin argued.

"That's not the point, and I wasn't finished, young lady," I replied. "Your father and I have worked our asses off for this ranch. If anyone had gotten hurt bad enough, they could've taken all this away from us. Now, all you two seem to care about are the chores and that you have food to eat and a roof over your heads. Your dad and I've had to make do with a lot less! Yeah, the radio station made it worse, but they're going to step up and do something about it. Now, it's your turn."

A cold draft ruffled my hair. I knew Wade was standing behind me, waiting to see what kind of punishment I would hand down.

"I don't care how long it takes," I continued, harshly. "But you two are going to spend every Saturday putting that pasture back to rights. You'll start by filling in the ruts, then you'll seed the entire thing by hand. After that, you'll put down straw so the seed doesn't wash off. Maybe, just maybe, after you're done putting your own sweat and blood into this ranch, you'll understand how lucky you are to have this place to call home."

There was so much more I wanted to say to them, not just about the ruined pasture, but about actually having something they could call their own. As an Immortal, I'd pulled up stakes more often than not without a backward glance. This was the first time in a very long time I actually considered myself part of a family who cared about each other, and my decision not to tell them about my life was tearing me apart. Maybe I was mad, after all, mad for thinking I could keep up this charade. Before I could say another word, I stormed out of the house to take Snowdancer down to the barn after her hard ride.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
705 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (embarassed/shy))
Where: Cripple Creek, Colorado
When: September, 2006
Alias: Elaine Jameson


"Geez, hun, I was just tryin' to heat up some chilli."

She tried not to roll her eyes at her kitchen disaster of a husband, and turned off the stove. Sitting on one of the eyes was a pot containing what should've been chilli, but instead was a blackened mess of beans and meat. Smoke still wafted from underneath the lid as she moved it from the stove to the sink.

"I guess I kinda forgot."

She still didn't say anything. She wasn't angry at Wade. Well, maybe just a little. The man couldn't be trusted to boil water. What in blazes made him think he could heat up some chilli?

"You know you're not supposed to leave it on 'high' right?"

"I didn't mean to. I wanted to get it started thawing, but the game was on."

This time she did roll her eyes. Football. Men in more padding than a knight in armor shoving each other around a field for a damned ball. She'd never understand it.

"Look, I said I was sorry."

"I know. Just next time, let me do it?"

"Yeah, I'm just glad one of us can cook. Otherwise, we'd starve."

She laughed just as the kids walked in.

"Oh my GAWD!!"

"Dude! What died?"

"Your father and my latest batch of chilli."

"Awww, man! Now what'll we have for dinner?"

"Dad, you're hopeless. Hope. Less."


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
231 Words
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (classy))
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
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (b/w sword))
A priest opens the door, and ushers you inside. Sanctuary, you mumble wearily. Of course, my child, he answers. His voice is soft, kind, safe. The night blurs past you. A woman, a nun?, comes to help you. You're cleaned with shockingly cold water. Rough, homespun cloth settles around you. You're given a bed to sleep in, and suddenly, it's morning.

Breakfast is bread, cheese, an apple and some fresh spring water. You're ravenous. The fight last night has brought out your appetite. Who were you running from? the priest asks. The man with the sword, you answer. He was trying to kill me. The priest and the nun exchange glances. We saw no one. That doesn't surprise you. You know holy ground is your only haven. An idea tickles your mind.

I'd like to stay, you say, once the last crumbs of the meal have been eaten. You want no more of being what you are. You hate being Hunted. And if staying on holy ground keeps you safe, so be it. Of course, my child.

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
176 Words
foreverwarrior: (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
This is not binding to any Arthur, Merlin or Mordred muses.
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (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
foreverwarrior: (Miranda (looking down/soft smile))
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
foreverwarrior: (Default)
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

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