broadsword_babe: (Miranda (thoughtful))
We've all seen the meme: Pick an emotional state and I'll write you a drabble featuring my character and yours. Now here's your chance to pick a situation and and write that drabble with your character flying solo (should you feel inclined to add NPCs, go ahead).


1. Playful!
2. Murderous!
3. Flailing!
4. Incarcerated!
5. Deviant!
6. Ill! Injured
7. Intoxicated!
8. Wildly Inappropriate!
9. Eloquent!
10. Cooking!
11. Naked!
12. Bitchy!
13. Inexperienced!
14. Young!
15. Long-winded!
16. Bored to tears!
17. Jealous!
18. Inquisitive!
19. Confused!
20. Arrogant!
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Quinn & Adam))
The curtains stirred in the light breeze from the open window. Outside, a nightingale warbled in counterpart to the crickets. Inside, a warm hand lightly caressed her back as she laid in bed with her head on his shoulder.

of cuddles and pillow-talk )

Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
950 Words
[livejournal.com profile] charloft: For this Wednesday, either find or create an image that gives you a sense of peace. As a bonus, or for the graphically challenged, write us a little bit on the topic. Interpret it how you like.
Follows this
[livejournal.com profile] iris_angel borrowed with love and affection.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (b/w tear))
From back when I useta listen t'country stuff. God bless him, but he can make a lass cry, and it's kinda fitting, considering my life.



[lyrics]
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (not amused))
Everyone's got music that reduces them to a twitching, muttering hulk. What sets off your character? Is it a whole genre, or maybe just a particular artist? Or is there a specific song that makes them sit bolt upright in the car seat and flail at the radio dial?

T'be honest, I'll listen t'damn near anything. Now, before I go stickin' m'foot in m'mouth, lemme just say, I'm sure she's a perfectly nice lass and all, but God Almighty! One, I can't understand a blessed word that comes outta her mouth, and two, she really needs t'get her head on straight.

broadsword_babe: (Miranda (b/w orly))
From the inside looking out... )
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (celtic!Quinn))
Go to Google image search and type in your name. Post an image from the first page of results along with your commentary about that image.

For those who know me as Quinn

And for those who don't
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (sunny))
Afternoon found her high on a ladder, paint brush in hand. Large drop-cloths had been spread over the centuries-old herringbone wood floor. Quinn hadn't expected the house to be in pristine condition, not with the Allies using it for a field hospital back in the day. Granted, most of the rooms had been either refurbished, remodelled, or reconditioned in the decades since World War II, but there were still a few that needed work, some more than others.

She wasn't sure how long she and Methos would be staying there, but she figured she might as well get some work done rather than just do nothing at all. To that end, she had already pulled down all the old wallpaper and purchased buckets of light lavender paint. Of course, she could just hire a painting crew, but she took pride in what she had. After all, there wasn't much she actually held on to.

So, there she was, her red hair tied up in a kerchief, painting up close to the ceiling when a hiss and a terrified yowl echoed down the hallway. That was followed by the skittering of claws on hardwood. The next thing she knew, a white and tan blur streaked through the doorway and up the ladder. Claws dug into her jeans, pricking her skin as a terrorized feline climbed up her leg.

"What the hell?!" Quinn exclaimed, trying to keep the panicked cat out of the paint tray and balancing at the top of the ladder at the same time.

Two seconds later, a very large, very enthusiastic deerhound bounded into the room, barking at the top of his lungs. Obviously, the cat had been the object of his latest hunt.

"Stop! Wait! Brutæ! NO!" she yelled, but couldn't keep the dog from planting two enormous paws on one of the steps, and pushing the ladder. Unfortunately, she hadn't locked the A-frame ladder in place like she thought she had and the supports buckled. "AAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!"

The resounding crash could probably be heard for miles, and it was lucky the floor held, but it was a very near thing. Quinn groaned as she felt the bones in her arm and leg knit back together after she had taken a very hard landing. The cat, as all felines do, had landed on its feet, right in the paint tray, effectively toppling both the tray and the bucket underneath onto the floor. The animal in question had disappeared, leaving light lavender paw prints all over the drop cloth and down the hall. Brutæ, who still thought this was the height of hilarity, went running after the cat, leaving his own set of paw prints in his wake.

"Damn and blast you, you mangy mongrel!" she shouted after the deerhound. That was soon followed by a rather extensive epithet of vulgarity in at least six languages, including two that no one had heard in a thousand years.

As for Quinn, her jeans were more paint than denim. Paw prints from the cat covered one leg, an enormous blotch ran down the other leg from where she fell in the puddle from the overturned can. Her shirt, which had seen better days already, had been splattered and clawed.

She ran a hand over her face, not sure whether to be furious or find the whole thing funny as hell. Next time, she would definitely hire painters, and ban the dog from the house for the duration.

But that still didn't explain where that blasted cat had come from.




Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
589 Words
Write a scene or story that features your character painting (pictures, houses, whatever you choose).
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (amused))


Across the Top:
Mobile: I can certainly see how folks get t'where they can't live without these buggers.
Wallet: Course that has all m'credit cards, drivers' license and things.
Compact: Needed for if I have t'do a bit of primping before meeting for an appraisal.

In the Middle:
Passport: Never know when this could come in handy.
Keys: One t' m'place on Orkney, the rest t'things around New York
Hairbrush: Again with th'primping thing.

Buried in the Bottom:
Lipstick: Don't haveta explain that one, I don't think.
Folding knife: I've carried a blade on me in some form or other m'whole life. Not about t'stop now.
Spare change: Blasted stuff seems t'breed in m'purse. I barely get rid of th'last handful, and another appears. Guess it's good t'have fer parking meters and whatnot.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (sunny))
Not that Quinn's particularly religious, mind, but she does have certain songs she enjoys. Shouldn't be any surprise that the majority of them are Celtic.


broadsword_babe: (Miranda (morning-after))
Takes place the morning of this (Comments definitely NSFW & flocked on general principles)

She sat alone, looking out over the back lawn, waiting for the coffee maker to brew up a couple cups before taking the carafe off the warmer. The mist from the water swirled over the grass, leaving clear gems of dew that sparkled in the first light of dawn. She pulled the white shirt around her, his white shirt. She could still smell his scent on the fabric, on her hair, on her skin.

Read more... )

Muse: Quinnleigh Kincaid
Fandom: Highlander (OC)
Word Count: 780 Words
Prompt: Everyone has secrets. It's the nature of people to hide things from each other, but sometimes it just has to come out. Tell us about a time you had to reveal a secret to someone.
Notes: Based on RP with [livejournal.com profile] iris_angel who is referenced with love and respect.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (sunny))
cut t'spare flists )
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Quinn & Methos love))
Light slowly creeps back into the world of iron and glass outside your windows. The City That Never Sleeps has started another day. Your bed is warm and comfortable, and you can remember a time when it wasn't always so. You've slept in furs on cold, hard ground. You've slept in castles. You've slept in cottages. In tents. Under the stars. Rickety brass beds. Wagons. Horse-hair mattresses. Space-age foam.

A strong arm wraps around your waist. Lips lightly kiss your bare shoulder. You shift your weight, cuddling your back against him. It wasn't so very long ago that you slept alone. It isn't something you'll admit aloud, but you hate sleeping alone.

Your fingers trace the outline of the muscles in his arm. You can almost hear him smile as he buries his face in your tangled red hair. You never thought either of you would ever be this happy, this content. Your fingers curl through his, bringing him closer. You can't imagine your life without him, and every time you try, tears burn your eyes.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks sleepily.

You love his voice, the slight hint of mischief and humor that's almost always present. You remember him when he wasn't always like that. You're glad he's changed.

"Yer on my side of th'bed," you reply.

You're not angry about it, but it's just one of those comfortable arguments that you keep around because it's fun to fight with him. Odd as that may sound, it works.

"You'll live," he answers.

Again, his voice is filled with cheeky mischief, and you get the feeling that this, now, right this moment, this is who he has always been. It's a shame not many have realized that.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
283 Words
Prompts:
[livejournal.com profile] charloft Thurs. 9th April Epiphany
[livejournal.com profile] justprompts It's six am. What are you doing?
[livejournal.com profile] just_muse_me #17.9.4 Spooning
broadsword_babe: (Stock (warrior))


The dream always starts the same: someone lurking in the shadows, waiting for her. She doesn't know who he is, he never says.

He strikes quickly and efficiently before blending back into the shadows. She has no time to ready her defences before he strikes again. She knows she can't win, not against someone like him.

He strikes. She blocks. But it's always too late. He's quicker, better, stronger. She doesn't give in. She can't give in. It isn't in her nature to give up, admit defeat.

The darkness, the unknown is his ally. It is just as much a weapon as his sword. She's helpless to fight it. It's a feeling she hates. She is not weak. She is a warrior.

And yet, the dream always ends the same.

There can be only one.

It isn't her.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (sepia smile))
Not exactly funny, but certainly cute:

broadsword_babe: (Miranda (amused))
cut for various reasons )
broadsword_babe: (Stock (castle))
Post an image of the most beautiful place in the world you've ever visited. (To include any part of the multiverse, naturally.)

I've been t'some beautiful spots in my time:

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us
A view from th'ranch in Colorado.

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Where I grew up: Nærøyfjorden, Norway

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Sunset on Orkney

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Can't forget Paris

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Then, there's New York

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But this is where I'd like t'go next.


Actually, I've changed my mind. Wouldn't mind staying here for a bit.
Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us


Note: All images are clickable thumbnails.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Freyja fearless))
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Guinevere))
Inspired by [livejournal.com profile] idealized_sue: "I mean take Guinevere for instance. She’s painted in history as being a total hoebag and is pretty much the reason given for the fall of Camelot." From here.


Not t' speak ill of th' dead, but Mordred was a right bastard. Literally. Y' see, th' thing is, he was Arthur's illegitimate son from a previous romance. Not sure why that never worked out, but there y' have it. Right, so, since he was a bastard, he couldn't exactly become King, now could he? Not that he didn't try, th' blighter.

He was ever a grand one for spreading rumours, mostly about me. When he couldn't get me inta bed himself, like I'd have him, th' wanker started spreading lies about me and Lance. I'll have y' know not a bloody word of it was true.

Thing was, Lance was m' bodyguard, m' protector. He was a grand friend for when Arthur was off on "state business." Lance taught me more about swords and defending m' self than I'd already learned. But he never, not once, ever so much as made a pass at me. He respected that Arthur and I were married, and that was th' end of it.

Mordred, may he eternally be buggered by Satan himself, used our friendship t' tear apart th' country. And th' more I tried to fight his rumours, th' more it just egged him on. Got t' be where I was damned one way or th' other. Course it didn't help that Lance was known t' be a bit protective of me. If folks started t' get a bit carried away, he'd step right in and tell 'em t' piss off. Well, maybe not in s' many words, but y' get th' point.

Before I knew it, rumours went round that Lance wasn't th' only bloke I was shagging. T' hear tell, there wasn't a man between th' ages of sixteen t' seventy that I hadn't taken t' bed. Granted, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if half those rumours were started by th' rest of th' wagging tongues at court. Still, Mordred was th' one t' get that particular ball a'rolling.

Meanwhile, there was th' whole problem of Arthur and me not having bairns. Th' truth being that I just flat out can't have any. Which meant that there weren't any other heirs t' th' throne but Mordred. Which was pretty much why he started th' crap about me an' Lance.

Right. So, Arthur gets back from one of his trips and hears about all that mess. Needless t' say, he was bloody well pissed. Not at me or Lance, mind, but at Mordred. Called him out, he did. Sent th' sod packing then and there. Not that it did much good, course.

'Bout a year or so later, just as things are starting t' calm down a bit after th' shite he'd stirred, Mordred shows back up with a full on army t' challenge Arthur. Course men are a bit pigheaded when it comes t' proving themselves in combat. Arthur was no exception. He felt Mordred just needed t' be taught a lesson.

Battle being what it was then, Arthur led his army and Mordred his. It was no surprise t' anyone that th' two came to right blows. Arthur, God rest him, gave as good as he got, and Mordred was dead before sunset. As for himself, Arthur didn't live but another two days after.

So, th' fact of th' matter is, it wasn't my fault or Lance's that Camelot fell apart. It was Mordred, may he rot in hell.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
572-ish words
No particular Mordred or Arthur muses implied/used. Lance is [livejournal.com profile] her_champion & headmate.
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Freyja-smile))
One True Love, or more affairs than you can remember?

Er... Uh... Guess I'd haveta say both.

Not that I can't remember them all, I can. Mostly. It's just that's th'sorta thing that happens when yer two thousand years old as old as I am. I've had m'share of flings and whatnot, that's true enough.

Lucky for me, I've found th'love of m'life as well. Just hadta get m'head outta m'arse first.

Thing is, he's been there th'whole time. Well, maybe not the whole time, but y'get the idea. Granted, we didn't much care for each other at th'start, but then things started changing. We started changing. We may not've liked each other, but there was a sense of respect there.

Slowly, that sense of respect I guess morphed into something else. Especially once I quit going after his head. Once I got t'know him, I realised he wasn't a half bad bloke. Cheeky bastard, sure, but not an entirely bad sort. He has his moments. Gods, don't we all.

I'm not sure when it changed, exactly. All I do know is remembering leaving Paris in one of those clichéd scenes where he's standing on th'platform and I'm on th'train. I honestly didn't think I'd see him again after that. Guess that's about th'time I realised there was more t'that respect thing than either of us wanted t'admit to.

Sixty or so Years later, he pitched up and that was it. He wanted more, and I was tired of keeping secrets. So, there y'have it. And he'd been there all along...


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
248 Words
Based on RP with [livejournal.com profile] iris_angel
broadsword_babe: (Miranda (Freyja-smile))
This is one I used t'sing t'Erin t'get her t'fall asleep. Wade later told me it was th'reason she wanted t'learn French.



lyrics & translation )

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