broadsword_babe

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!

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]

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).

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.

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.

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 iris_angel