My love of Tennant - let me shows you it.
Sep. 21st, 2008 11:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
logansrogueI love him so much I created a character that I think he'd be brilliant playing in my future Mummy fic, "We'll Meet Again".
Malcolm Brodie:
Born in Scotland. Father died young. Acted up through grief and his mother was too busy doing cleaning work to be there for him. He was physically abused by his older brother who was an alcoholic at a young age. He kicked his older brother out of the house when the man got into one towering alcoholic rage too many.
His mother died when he was barely 18. He left Scotland to go join the French Foreign Legion and fight in the war.
He fought in the battle of Bir Hakeim in the 3rd Battalion. He was awarded for bravery, but he doesn't speak about it.
After the war he stayed in Egypt, falling in with treasure hunters and tomb scavengers. After some years he ended up heading his own group of scoundrels which scour the temples on the Nile and beyond for any old treasures they can find.
Malcolm's latest plan is to track the O'Connells, famous for their discoveries of Egyptian treasures, and make off with what he can.
Chapter Five
Brown eyes scanned the battered, delicate scroll in the worn leather cover. Scruffy dark auburn-brown hair hung against the lightly freckled forehead, and wild brows knitted. Sweat tickled him, he could feel it beading on his skin. The heat was getting to him. He wasn't built for it, not in the slightest. His body preferred the northern climes, but his pockets preferred the income he could scrape out here in the desert. Slapping a fly from his neck, he scowled at the haggard young Egyptian farmer in front of him.
"Where were you keeping this? With yer goats?" he asked in a mild, smooth Scottish accent. "It's not worth wipin' my arse with!"
The farmer stepped forward to take the scrolls back, but the man lifted a slim hand, hanging his mouth open.
"Aaah, wait a moment. I might do you a favour. Two pounds, an' that's all I can do fer this."
The local man nodded and the Scottish man rolled up the scrolls, letting the unkempt young men about him guide the local out. With a yawn, he regarded the cave he sat in, stretching out. It was lit with a few lamps and had a fire burning in the middle of it. On the walls was what he called 'ancient nonsense'… old hieroglyphs that were rather unimpressive to look at. Not the deeply coloured beauty of royal tombs. Just pointless, endless symbols.
An Egyptian man, Mahmoud Rassif, dressed in Western styled clothes - pants, boots, shirt and bandolier - trudged into the cave that had been hollowed out to neater dimensions by his ancestors thousands of years ago. He was a solid, dark man with flared nostrils and sharp eyes that were so brown they looked almost black. He watched the foreigner in front of him ponder the scroll.
"Is it worth anything, Brodie?"
Malcolm Brodie tilted his head at the scroll, jutting out a bottom lip judiciously.
"Possibly," he said. "I'll have to have it checked in Cairo. You never know with scrolls. They could be a lost scripture or jus' some king's shoppin' list." With a sigh he put the scroll carefully away in a camphor wood trunk. Slapping it shut, he sat on the thing, looking unsatisfied. "I'm sick of swindling unwitting villagers out of pieces of dried papyrus and old pottery, Rassif."
Rassif smiled coolly. "Then you will be glad of my news, then!"
Brodie's eyes sparkled. "From the reconnaissance?"
"Oh yes," said Rassif, nodding. "They're no longer at the Medjai Camp. They're going back to Hamunaptra." The Egyptian ran hand across his stubbled chin. "Some of the men wonder why you didn't ransack Hamunaptra while they were gone."
"With the Medjai only a mile or two away?" snapped Brodie. "It would'eh been suicide!" He shook his head and jumped to his feet. "Nah, nah. Hamunaptra is well looked after, ye'd best remember that."
"What about Am Shere? The pyramid of gold?"
"With 'Lord Carnahan' overseein' things?" asked Brodie with a lifted brow, looking incredulous. "I'd be surprised if there were a scrap of treasure left. Naw. If there's a man better at stealin' away with treasure than I, it's Jonathan Carnahan. It's been twenty years since he was pokin' his toffee nose around these parts and folk still remember him."
Rassif looked frustrated. "Then why are we following the O'Connells?"
"I'm a patient man, Rassif. Evelyn O'Connell is a settled woman now. That goes for her brother, too. But her son, ah!" He pointed at Rassif and grinned. "There's a boy who's not started yet. I'm sure there're plenty of things he'd like to dig up. P'raps treasure would be one of them?"
Standing, Rassif put his hands into fists. "And what if he leads us nowhere?"
"Then he's lead us nowhere," said Brodie with a shrug. "We move on, we look for new tombs to desecrate. There's no harm in tryin' something new, is there?"
Rassif merely looked sceptical. At this Brodie grit his teeth.
"Now you listen to me, Rassif. I want a pair of eyes on that family at all times! In fact, make it two. If we cannae find a new site from this lad o' theirs, then by God, we'll overturn one a' their artefact runs to the museum in Cairo!"
With a stiff nod, Rassif assented. "Very well, Brodie." With that, he stomped out of the entrance of the cave.
With a sigh, Brodie stretched out on a bedroll by the fire. These wandering thieves from the cities, they didn't understand. They believed in running in, guns blazing, grabbing what they could. He knew that would only get a man hung or shot in these parts. No, what they needed was cunning, anonymity and knowledge.
That was the treasure the O'Connells had. They knew where to find things. And if they didn't know, they knew of the most likely places. They were walking, talking treasure-finding miracles on legs. All he had to do was watch them and wait.
~~*~~
It's been a while since I've shared what I've been working on. I used to write short stories and release them all the time. These days I'm getting sucked into big long stories. This one is half-written and is already 41,000 words or there-abouts. I don't *mean* to make them long, there's just a lot of plot to get through!
Malcolm Brodie:
Born in Scotland. Father died young. Acted up through grief and his mother was too busy doing cleaning work to be there for him. He was physically abused by his older brother who was an alcoholic at a young age. He kicked his older brother out of the house when the man got into one towering alcoholic rage too many.
His mother died when he was barely 18. He left Scotland to go join the French Foreign Legion and fight in the war.
He fought in the battle of Bir Hakeim in the 3rd Battalion. He was awarded for bravery, but he doesn't speak about it.
After the war he stayed in Egypt, falling in with treasure hunters and tomb scavengers. After some years he ended up heading his own group of scoundrels which scour the temples on the Nile and beyond for any old treasures they can find.
Malcolm's latest plan is to track the O'Connells, famous for their discoveries of Egyptian treasures, and make off with what he can.
Chapter Five
Brown eyes scanned the battered, delicate scroll in the worn leather cover. Scruffy dark auburn-brown hair hung against the lightly freckled forehead, and wild brows knitted. Sweat tickled him, he could feel it beading on his skin. The heat was getting to him. He wasn't built for it, not in the slightest. His body preferred the northern climes, but his pockets preferred the income he could scrape out here in the desert. Slapping a fly from his neck, he scowled at the haggard young Egyptian farmer in front of him.
"Where were you keeping this? With yer goats?" he asked in a mild, smooth Scottish accent. "It's not worth wipin' my arse with!"
The farmer stepped forward to take the scrolls back, but the man lifted a slim hand, hanging his mouth open.
"Aaah, wait a moment. I might do you a favour. Two pounds, an' that's all I can do fer this."
The local man nodded and the Scottish man rolled up the scrolls, letting the unkempt young men about him guide the local out. With a yawn, he regarded the cave he sat in, stretching out. It was lit with a few lamps and had a fire burning in the middle of it. On the walls was what he called 'ancient nonsense'… old hieroglyphs that were rather unimpressive to look at. Not the deeply coloured beauty of royal tombs. Just pointless, endless symbols.
An Egyptian man, Mahmoud Rassif, dressed in Western styled clothes - pants, boots, shirt and bandolier - trudged into the cave that had been hollowed out to neater dimensions by his ancestors thousands of years ago. He was a solid, dark man with flared nostrils and sharp eyes that were so brown they looked almost black. He watched the foreigner in front of him ponder the scroll.
"Is it worth anything, Brodie?"
Malcolm Brodie tilted his head at the scroll, jutting out a bottom lip judiciously.
"Possibly," he said. "I'll have to have it checked in Cairo. You never know with scrolls. They could be a lost scripture or jus' some king's shoppin' list." With a sigh he put the scroll carefully away in a camphor wood trunk. Slapping it shut, he sat on the thing, looking unsatisfied. "I'm sick of swindling unwitting villagers out of pieces of dried papyrus and old pottery, Rassif."
Rassif smiled coolly. "Then you will be glad of my news, then!"
Brodie's eyes sparkled. "From the reconnaissance?"
"Oh yes," said Rassif, nodding. "They're no longer at the Medjai Camp. They're going back to Hamunaptra." The Egyptian ran hand across his stubbled chin. "Some of the men wonder why you didn't ransack Hamunaptra while they were gone."
"With the Medjai only a mile or two away?" snapped Brodie. "It would'eh been suicide!" He shook his head and jumped to his feet. "Nah, nah. Hamunaptra is well looked after, ye'd best remember that."
"What about Am Shere? The pyramid of gold?"
"With 'Lord Carnahan' overseein' things?" asked Brodie with a lifted brow, looking incredulous. "I'd be surprised if there were a scrap of treasure left. Naw. If there's a man better at stealin' away with treasure than I, it's Jonathan Carnahan. It's been twenty years since he was pokin' his toffee nose around these parts and folk still remember him."
Rassif looked frustrated. "Then why are we following the O'Connells?"
"I'm a patient man, Rassif. Evelyn O'Connell is a settled woman now. That goes for her brother, too. But her son, ah!" He pointed at Rassif and grinned. "There's a boy who's not started yet. I'm sure there're plenty of things he'd like to dig up. P'raps treasure would be one of them?"
Standing, Rassif put his hands into fists. "And what if he leads us nowhere?"
"Then he's lead us nowhere," said Brodie with a shrug. "We move on, we look for new tombs to desecrate. There's no harm in tryin' something new, is there?"
Rassif merely looked sceptical. At this Brodie grit his teeth.
"Now you listen to me, Rassif. I want a pair of eyes on that family at all times! In fact, make it two. If we cannae find a new site from this lad o' theirs, then by God, we'll overturn one a' their artefact runs to the museum in Cairo!"
With a stiff nod, Rassif assented. "Very well, Brodie." With that, he stomped out of the entrance of the cave.
With a sigh, Brodie stretched out on a bedroll by the fire. These wandering thieves from the cities, they didn't understand. They believed in running in, guns blazing, grabbing what they could. He knew that would only get a man hung or shot in these parts. No, what they needed was cunning, anonymity and knowledge.
That was the treasure the O'Connells had. They knew where to find things. And if they didn't know, they knew of the most likely places. They were walking, talking treasure-finding miracles on legs. All he had to do was watch them and wait.
~~*~~
It's been a while since I've shared what I've been working on. I used to write short stories and release them all the time. These days I'm getting sucked into big long stories. This one is half-written and is already 41,000 words or there-abouts. I don't *mean* to make them long, there's just a lot of plot to get through!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-21 06:48 pm (UTC)Definitely go for it. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-21 08:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-23 02:08 pm (UTC)Very nice. I can't wait to see where you go with this.
And any reason to use David Tennant is a good reason.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-23 02:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-09-23 02:38 pm (UTC)