bakerstreet | I'm no knight

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[meme] shipping

I'm no knight

No Knight
shipping meme

Long ago, in a distant land...

That's how a fairy tale would start, followed by velvet words and beautiful images on parchment, telling of the adventures of heroes. But you? You don't get a fairy tale - you certainly don't get the prerequisite knight in shining armor, whether you wanted one or not. It's the right time, yet the wrong place and the wrong person, for sure. Maybe you're being protected, somehow; on the other hand, you could be getting kidnapped. At any rate, your companion is a rough-edged warrior, a commoner, a ruffian rogue, or even worse, a savage.

Will you even survive this story unscathed? Because you certainly won't get a picture-book ending or, far be it, true love...right?

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Whether you want a picturesque fable setting or something more akin to realism or a gritty fantasy world a la Game of Thrones, we've got you covered!
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[ ancient/medieval/fantasy era works best. gritty as they come. 'savage' very apropos ;) ]

[any interest in some Romans v. Britons druid-napping?]

[ Definitely. Alexander was sold into Roman slavery, so quite naturally he hates their guts, lol. But he could have been taken to Gaul as one of their "exceptional" soldiers, and happens to get loose north of the wall? Or something similar? Hit me with anything, you know I'm easy. ♥ ]

They shouldn't be hobbling. They should be killing.

Were she stronger, Nimue would be shouting as much. Had she not newly exhausted herself on shrieking incantations and tugging at the strength of the land to ensure a victory for Brân's beloved, she would have been shrieking and tugging now. Arthur's soldiers part before her while she wanders the fresh battlefield, wary of her bared golden eye and snarling lips, but they stand firm between her and the surviving Romans captures.

It's pitiful, watching as each swordhand is broken in turn. These militum would run back to the Roman lines with their tails between their legs, true, but their broken fingers, incapable of lifting their own sword, would serve well enough to point their fellows into the heart of Dumnonia.

The soft continuous hiss of protest stops only once. The bear-shielded warrior who had been ignoring her stolidly seems to catch the shift, pausing in his work to glance uncertainly at the little slip of a druid.

"Give me this one." It isn't a question. It isn't something that waits for a response as Nimue takes a step forward to better see the captive who's caught her attention. Still, it never hurts to seal any deal with the invocation of her master. "I'll take him to Merlin."

Edited (decisive???) 2017-12-29 02:45 (UTC)

Half a century he'd spent killing for Roman entertainment. It had taken those godless creatures five decades to finally become glutted over his "performances". So they'd taken him from the arena and placed him in their legions, albeit not as a regular soldier, no. He'd still been chained, housed in a cage, made sport of for their amusement, and it was only when he'd taken the throat out of two of their "elite"--too stupid not to get within his reach--that he'd had a modicum of peace.

Which hadn't lasted long, of course.

So he'd been hauled to these frigid northlands, to slaughter the backwards barbarians in the name of Rome. Alexander hadn't missed the irony. Now, it seemed he was to become the thing he loathed most in all of the world.

But the carnage had been satisfying, in its own strange way. At first, he'd held himself back, refusing to kill, but only crippled, ensuring those he took down would live to fight again. But then the savagery of his very nature had taken hold, and the red killing haze enveloped his vision and he tore through the battlefield, uncaring of what his hands ripped apart. Roman, Briton, Gaul, it mattered not.

What did was that he destroyed until he could no longer stand, brought finally to the earth by seven arrows, a myriad of cuts and slices carved into his hide, the haft of a javelin skewered into his side, and still he was snarling his defiance at everything before he lost consciousness entirely.

This one is special. This one is worth all of Arthur's stupidity. Nimue is certain of it.

The power in her bearing is far stronger than her actual fingers as she shoves the hobbler aside. It takes effort to tug the unconscious man over in order to properly study his face. He doesn't quite look like the Romans--and certainly not like the Sais. He doesn't look as if he could possibly have survived the hurts clearly visited upon him. But none of that is what had drawn her to him.

This one is more.

Nimue's fingers trace thoughtfully for a moment at the bonds holding the man's wrists. The sensation of binding lingering about him doesn't seem to emanate from the actual restraints. It's something else. It's something old, something that tastes foreign when she inhales. This one will wake again, and she wants to be there when it happens.

Several men are needed to drag the unconscious hulk back to the Tor. The last few yards Nimue struggles through herself, barking the warriors back from the door of Merlin's dream-tower. For now, his wounds will sit as they are. For now, the arrow shafts will hold in what blood they can.

And for now, Nimue will watch the man--if he is one--breathe from the other side of the tower, wrapped in her cloak and gold eye still barred. For now, she won't bother with restraints beyond the thick rope binding his hands and feet. For now, she'll sit and idly pet the tabby that wends its way into her lap, feeling out the strange new imprint of an unknown god.

Alexander woke with an abrupt groan of pain. He hissed, tight between his teeth, bringing up his hands out of reflex only to find them bound with thick green-cut rope, impossible to break with his current strength. His body was seeking to repair itself, and the obstructions littering his skin were hindering that process. He had to get the shafts out, else his flesh would heal around them and cause him only more pain.

The hiss became a growl as he twisted, trying to get his fingers around the nearest of the shafts, embedded in his left arm. It was agonizing, having to flex the muscle in attempt to pull his opposite hand towards it, but he was determined to yank the thing out! The growl soon became a roar when he felt the arrow's tip scrape against bone. His shoulders bunched; the rope binding his hands gave a warning creak.

Alexander began to flail, but somewhat weakly; his body was starving as his astronomical metabolism did its job and attempted to knit his abused body back together. Another predatory roar resounded in the small cavern; feline green eyes wide and unseeing, but still he thrashed, the implements tearing his flesh further with his wile struggles.

Perhaps it was the twisting of a man blinded by pain. Perhaps it was a panicked response to hurts and disorientation and fear.

To Nimue's eyes, it was something more. She had seen warriors die. She had seen them in their last fits of life. She had seen them claw their way back to life from the edge of Angau's domain. This set her less in mind of any of that than of a creature just before the sacrifice.

Not a lamb. Not a gentled calf. Something sharper--a snake or a wolf.

The battle had been exhausting, but not so painfully as to leave Nimue devoid of the lapping power in her core. The kitten was brushed from her lap as she climbed onto hands and knees, sliding quietly closer to the writhing form in the dim light of the dream tower.

"Is a big thing like you so bothered by a little splinter?"

There's no honey in her voice, the way she might have soothed a violent man. Instead, there's a soft tsking as Nodens crackles the edge of her words, ready to gentle his savage beasts.

Feline green eyes were unfocused, dilated. Alexander dimly registered the scent of Another, the smell foreign, but then all around him was. He snarled as a dim shape wavered into his vision, perfect teeth viciously bared. He hurt, godsdamnit, and this...female, his nose told him, didn't seem to be keen on assisting.

The wash of pain from the haft still piercing his ribs nearly had him fainting, as it jiggled with his erratic movements. Roaring again, he managed to grasp it with bound hands, but was unable to remove it. He whipped his head back to the...wild looking creature nearby, snapping his teeth intently.

"Pull--!" he hissed the demand.

The syllables take a moment to filter through her mind. They sound entirely different than they had in Merlin's familiar voice curving around foreign words. The realization shakes loose a scattered sort of laugh.

Her own accent is thick, closer to that of her first home now as she forces something more like Latin over her lips. "Then be still, idiot."

It's stubbornness as much as anything that has her ignoring the haft, moving instead to start tugging at the nearest arrow shaft. Those would be made quicker work of, after all--and, with luck, would take less attention than whatever gaping hole removing the spear would leave.

The scrape of metal in his flesh had Alexander hissing again through clenched teeth, and had he been able, he'd have bitten out her gods-be-dammed throat for such uncaring mannerisms. But he did manage to keep the roar in his own throat when the first shaft jerked free, although cords stood out beneath his skin with the strain of holding the pain in.

One after another followed, but he had to writhe with the snakes of pain that twisted in his flesh; a strangled sound did manage its way free when the last arrow shaft came loose. But he fell back with a pained grunt, sweating profusely, more exhausted than if he'd felled a thousand legionaries with his own two hands.

Now the javelin needed to come out.

Alexander opened pain-filled eyes, but they were no less determined and filled with the will to survive, and jerked up his bound wrists. "--release!"

[ definitely not a knight ~~although his father was go figure~~. kills demons and other spawns of Hell for a living. m/f for shippy/smutty things, ota gen/cr. ]