Stupid Stupid Stupid horse!!!
Disclaimer: No, I don't own Highlander, or Duncan, but Charles De Guillemauve is my own, inspired from the 'french taunter' of Monty Python. This is my first fan fic ever to touch the web, so please, if you have any advice, suggestions, pat on the back, who knows, give me a scribble. Enjoy!
Myst rolled down the hillside of the scottish highlands, gray and murky, making things hard to see. The wind blew harshly, singing a song of hope for the sun to come out. But there was no sun, all the clouds where about, keeping its precious light from touching the land.
The sudden clipetty-clop of horse hoofs where heard, and a horse was soon to be found trodding through the myst, but without a rider. Soon to follow was the staggering form of its owner, a man in traditional kiltwear, long dark unkept hair blowing off his shoulders down his back. He was holding a sword in the right hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. A closer view revealed that he was not wearing any boots.
Half-stumbling, the man tried to make his way on the same route that the horse had chosen; away from the road, and into a grassy field.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid horse," the scottsman cursed his steed, as he made his way closer to it. By that time the animal was grazing on a sprout of wild chives that was growing near a large ancient willow tree. he went to the horse and put away his sword and drink. Feeling dizzy, half-drunk from his routine visit to the pub, the man fell to the ground, getting the horses' attention. As if mocking, the horse neighed at him.
"I was just sittin' down to get me a rest, you oaf." he said in a heavy scottish accent, trying to rectify his stumble to the steed. Then, resting his head on the pillowesque grass, (not that this man had seen a descent pillow in a while), he prepared to slumber.
The horse was still looking at his master, unamused. Growing annoyed, the scottsman said, "Do ye want to join me?" he said, and the horse turned away to continue his grazing.
The man occupied himself by looking at the long vines of the willow tree. Admiring the way it blew in the wind, his mind was soon diverted to another memory : the one of a certain pretty barmaiden who had 'helped', (thought he kept on saying he was fine to do it himself), him out of the pub a couple of days ago. Her hair blew in the same way of the vines. Smiling to himself, he let his drowsiness get ahold of himself and he began to fall asleep, dreaming of that same pretty barmaiden, to then wake up to -
"Get up you lousy excuse for a scotsman!" and a painful kick in the ribs.
"Oof!" the scottman said, but didn't get up, for the pain kept him down.
Suddenly, he was grabbed by the hair by the intruder, whom he had not gotten a good look at, the stars still erupting in his eyes. "You heard me Duncan Macloed." a raspy voice continued. "I have business to do with you."
The scotsman, now revealed to be Duncan Macloed, recognised that voice. That was the voice of Charles De Guillemauve, a frenchman who he had drinks with the night before. A thin veil of mist surrounded Macloeds view...
~~~*~~~
...to then be replaced by cigar smoke, coming from two gentlemen, one a frenchman, the other a scotsman, puffing away in a cublicle at the far end of the pub. Glasses of various beers and spirits where found on the table where they sat, and more where soon to follow.
The two seemed to be in deep serious conversation, when the french said aloud, "And then the donkey said, 'At least you're not the one being called ass!' "
Both errupted in a fit of laughter, their drunkeness making their scene even funnier. By accident, the scottsman, having too many a drink, spilt the whole glass of Bordeau that he was holding, all over the mans new shoes.
Then frenchman jumped out of his chair,saving his lap from being doused as well.
"Bloody hell, Duncan, look at what you've done to my shoes!" he yelled.
Still giggling to himself, Duncan looked down, nearly falling off his chair. Still feeling funny, Duncan said, "Well, I do beleive your right, Charlie," and burst out giggling again.
"This is no laughing matter, Sir Duncan. I demand that you reinburse me for what you have done."
Having no money at the moment, Duncan had to think fast before upsetting his drinking partner any more than he had already done. How could he pay the man? Hence came the idea of giving the french gentleman his own pair to replace his loss.
From the outside, the boots looked very nice, all in leather, styled as the musketeers wore. When Charles put on the boot, it was a comfortable fit; he liked them. Duncan decided it best not to mention that the heel of the left boot was held by only a few wads of tree sap, and would fall off if used too brusquely. Accepting this mode of retribution, and too drunk to have a good look at the boot, De Guillemauve bade his companion to have another drink, that he was forgiven for the little mistake. For more wine, Duncan was eager to accept a few more drinks.
After that, Duncan left the building as quickly as possible, not caring about the loss of footwear, and hoping not to see the englishman again. Besides, he was only passing through this town to make his way back to Scotland, and didn't think he would ever pass it again in this lifetime. Shoes would not be a problem to find.
~~~*~~~
Too bad Duncan was even easier to find than shoes.
"Get up Macloed!" said Charles De Guillemauve, giving the other man a motivational kick.
"Ow!" Duncan said as he quickly got up to his feet. "What was that for?!?" he yelled, rubbing his bottom.
Finally getting a good look at the man, Duncan laughed at the sight of him; his right foot wearing one of Duncans' boots, and the other one, without, all muddied. Who couldn't laugh? A nobleman wearing only one boot, and the other covered in mud? A peasants dream, for sure.
Face twisting in rage, Charles De Guillemauve unsheathed his sword, and said "For this mockery, Duncan, I will teach you a lesson," the tip of the blade pointed straight at Duncan's face.
Putting up his hands in surrender, Macloed backed away from the blade cautiously.
"C'mon man, cannot we settle this over a pint or something?" the scotsman asked.
"Unless you are buying, Macloed, pull up your sword and receive your punishment."
Stopping a bit to think, Duncan felt for his moneysac, and found that it was empty.
Oh well, he thought to himself, would have liked to have a bit of ale..., But his thought was interrupted by Charles who took a swing at him. Ducking in the nick of time, Macloed reached for his own sword. But it was not at his side.
Where the bloody hell is it?! he thought to himself. Another swing made him realise that he had left it wrapped up hooked on the saddle of his horse. Bloody horse always getting me into scrapes! He cursed the horse as he drove into the man, pushing Guillemauve to the ground. Using that moment, he went to find his horse.
But the horse in turn was not anywhere in sight either!
"Stupid stupid stupid horse!!!" Macloed bellowed in anger. Things where not going right for him at all.
By that time, Charles was up from the ground and was runnung towards him, yelling as he went. Turning around quickly, he prepared to defend himself, though vulnerable was he.
Half a dozen steps before he would reach Macloed, Guillemauve slipped on something and fell to the ground, knocking his head on the ground, and lie there dazed.
At closere inspection, Duncan realised what the frenchman had slipped on; a little present from Duncans' horse, perhaps from the chives, which his stomache never agreed to. And boy, was it fresh too. to make the matters seem even more ironic, Guillemauve stepped on it with his bear foot.
While he was thanking the horse silently, a neigh came from in behind of him.
Turning, Duncan saw the horse emerging from the nearby forest. The horse had a blue-stained mussle, from the blueberry patch he had just raided. But sooner or later, those blueberries would have their way with the horse, and end up like the chives, awaiting another victim for it to be stepped on.
The horse, expecting chatisement, approached cautiously. Duncan came to it with a stern face, making the horse feel uneasy. But the sternness quickly dissapated with a smile, and Duncan took the horse's mussle and kissed it (not forgetting to spit after), and hugged its head, saying, "Ooh, my viliant steed, where would I be without you?"
Bewildered, the horse neighed, not knowing what had gotten into his master. Perhaps the evil chives. Duncan mounted the confused horse, but before galloping off, he stopped next the still dazed frenchman. Looking down at him, he said, "Sorry you had to run into my horses heap, but you must look where you put your feet." Reaching for the half-empty bottle of wine, he threw it down to the man. "Take this, as an apology for the sake of my horse, good sir."
Duncan rode off to the main road, smiling from ear to ear. Still on the ground, the frenchman's hands went up into the air, making fists, as if to say, "I'll get you back for this, Duncan Macloed!"
The End
Disclaimer: No, I don't own Highlander, or Duncan, but Charles De Guillemauve is my own, inspired from the 'french taunter' of Monty Python. This is my first fan fic ever to touch the web, so please, if you have any advice, suggestions, pat on the back, who knows, give me a scribble. Enjoy!
Myst rolled down the hillside of the scottish highlands, gray and murky, making things hard to see. The wind blew harshly, singing a song of hope for the sun to come out. But there was no sun, all the clouds where about, keeping its precious light from touching the land.
The sudden clipetty-clop of horse hoofs where heard, and a horse was soon to be found trodding through the myst, but without a rider. Soon to follow was the staggering form of its owner, a man in traditional kiltwear, long dark unkept hair blowing off his shoulders down his back. He was holding a sword in the right hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. A closer view revealed that he was not wearing any boots.
Half-stumbling, the man tried to make his way on the same route that the horse had chosen; away from the road, and into a grassy field.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid horse," the scottsman cursed his steed, as he made his way closer to it. By that time the animal was grazing on a sprout of wild chives that was growing near a large ancient willow tree. he went to the horse and put away his sword and drink. Feeling dizzy, half-drunk from his routine visit to the pub, the man fell to the ground, getting the horses' attention. As if mocking, the horse neighed at him.
"I was just sittin' down to get me a rest, you oaf." he said in a heavy scottish accent, trying to rectify his stumble to the steed. Then, resting his head on the pillowesque grass, (not that this man had seen a descent pillow in a while), he prepared to slumber.
The horse was still looking at his master, unamused. Growing annoyed, the scottsman said, "Do ye want to join me?" he said, and the horse turned away to continue his grazing.
The man occupied himself by looking at the long vines of the willow tree. Admiring the way it blew in the wind, his mind was soon diverted to another memory : the one of a certain pretty barmaiden who had 'helped', (thought he kept on saying he was fine to do it himself), him out of the pub a couple of days ago. Her hair blew in the same way of the vines. Smiling to himself, he let his drowsiness get ahold of himself and he began to fall asleep, dreaming of that same pretty barmaiden, to then wake up to -
"Get up you lousy excuse for a scotsman!" and a painful kick in the ribs.
"Oof!" the scottman said, but didn't get up, for the pain kept him down.
Suddenly, he was grabbed by the hair by the intruder, whom he had not gotten a good look at, the stars still erupting in his eyes. "You heard me Duncan Macloed." a raspy voice continued. "I have business to do with you."
The scotsman, now revealed to be Duncan Macloed, recognised that voice. That was the voice of Charles De Guillemauve, a frenchman who he had drinks with the night before. A thin veil of mist surrounded Macloeds view...
~~~*~~~
...to then be replaced by cigar smoke, coming from two gentlemen, one a frenchman, the other a scotsman, puffing away in a cublicle at the far end of the pub. Glasses of various beers and spirits where found on the table where they sat, and more where soon to follow.
The two seemed to be in deep serious conversation, when the french said aloud, "And then the donkey said, 'At least you're not the one being called ass!' "
Both errupted in a fit of laughter, their drunkeness making their scene even funnier. By accident, the scottsman, having too many a drink, spilt the whole glass of Bordeau that he was holding, all over the mans new shoes.
Then frenchman jumped out of his chair,saving his lap from being doused as well.
"Bloody hell, Duncan, look at what you've done to my shoes!" he yelled.
Still giggling to himself, Duncan looked down, nearly falling off his chair. Still feeling funny, Duncan said, "Well, I do beleive your right, Charlie," and burst out giggling again.
"This is no laughing matter, Sir Duncan. I demand that you reinburse me for what you have done."
Having no money at the moment, Duncan had to think fast before upsetting his drinking partner any more than he had already done. How could he pay the man? Hence came the idea of giving the french gentleman his own pair to replace his loss.
From the outside, the boots looked very nice, all in leather, styled as the musketeers wore. When Charles put on the boot, it was a comfortable fit; he liked them. Duncan decided it best not to mention that the heel of the left boot was held by only a few wads of tree sap, and would fall off if used too brusquely. Accepting this mode of retribution, and too drunk to have a good look at the boot, De Guillemauve bade his companion to have another drink, that he was forgiven for the little mistake. For more wine, Duncan was eager to accept a few more drinks.
After that, Duncan left the building as quickly as possible, not caring about the loss of footwear, and hoping not to see the englishman again. Besides, he was only passing through this town to make his way back to Scotland, and didn't think he would ever pass it again in this lifetime. Shoes would not be a problem to find.
~~~*~~~
Too bad Duncan was even easier to find than shoes.
"Get up Macloed!" said Charles De Guillemauve, giving the other man a motivational kick.
"Ow!" Duncan said as he quickly got up to his feet. "What was that for?!?" he yelled, rubbing his bottom.
Finally getting a good look at the man, Duncan laughed at the sight of him; his right foot wearing one of Duncans' boots, and the other one, without, all muddied. Who couldn't laugh? A nobleman wearing only one boot, and the other covered in mud? A peasants dream, for sure.
Face twisting in rage, Charles De Guillemauve unsheathed his sword, and said "For this mockery, Duncan, I will teach you a lesson," the tip of the blade pointed straight at Duncan's face.
Putting up his hands in surrender, Macloed backed away from the blade cautiously.
"C'mon man, cannot we settle this over a pint or something?" the scotsman asked.
"Unless you are buying, Macloed, pull up your sword and receive your punishment."
Stopping a bit to think, Duncan felt for his moneysac, and found that it was empty.
Oh well, he thought to himself, would have liked to have a bit of ale..., But his thought was interrupted by Charles who took a swing at him. Ducking in the nick of time, Macloed reached for his own sword. But it was not at his side.
Where the bloody hell is it?! he thought to himself. Another swing made him realise that he had left it wrapped up hooked on the saddle of his horse. Bloody horse always getting me into scrapes! He cursed the horse as he drove into the man, pushing Guillemauve to the ground. Using that moment, he went to find his horse.
But the horse in turn was not anywhere in sight either!
"Stupid stupid stupid horse!!!" Macloed bellowed in anger. Things where not going right for him at all.
By that time, Charles was up from the ground and was runnung towards him, yelling as he went. Turning around quickly, he prepared to defend himself, though vulnerable was he.
Half a dozen steps before he would reach Macloed, Guillemauve slipped on something and fell to the ground, knocking his head on the ground, and lie there dazed.
At closere inspection, Duncan realised what the frenchman had slipped on; a little present from Duncans' horse, perhaps from the chives, which his stomache never agreed to. And boy, was it fresh too. to make the matters seem even more ironic, Guillemauve stepped on it with his bear foot.
While he was thanking the horse silently, a neigh came from in behind of him.
Turning, Duncan saw the horse emerging from the nearby forest. The horse had a blue-stained mussle, from the blueberry patch he had just raided. But sooner or later, those blueberries would have their way with the horse, and end up like the chives, awaiting another victim for it to be stepped on.
The horse, expecting chatisement, approached cautiously. Duncan came to it with a stern face, making the horse feel uneasy. But the sternness quickly dissapated with a smile, and Duncan took the horse's mussle and kissed it (not forgetting to spit after), and hugged its head, saying, "Ooh, my viliant steed, where would I be without you?"
Bewildered, the horse neighed, not knowing what had gotten into his master. Perhaps the evil chives. Duncan mounted the confused horse, but before galloping off, he stopped next the still dazed frenchman. Looking down at him, he said, "Sorry you had to run into my horses heap, but you must look where you put your feet." Reaching for the half-empty bottle of wine, he threw it down to the man. "Take this, as an apology for the sake of my horse, good sir."
Duncan rode off to the main road, smiling from ear to ear. Still on the ground, the frenchman's hands went up into the air, making fists, as if to say, "I'll get you back for this, Duncan Macloed!"
The End