"Catherine’s rage overflows and she swings the tomahawk forward with all her strength and a rasping cry of her own, burying it in the front of Sergio’s neck. His death is almost instant and his head tips to the side, the luster of life fading from his eyes with the blood that seeps from his body. Through her angry tears, Catherine tugs on the handle, freeing it from his spine and winding her arm back to swing again but Connor grabs her wrist. She briefly struggles against his grip until his voice breaks through her frenzy of anger and heartbreak.
"WildCat! He is dead. Striking him again will not make him more so." The weapon falls from her hand and clangs onto the deck between Connor’s knees as Catherine sags against him, weeping and staring at the lifeless form of her father in law. His blood is on her hands and it marks her clothing in a line of spatters that had fallen across her legs as she had pulled the tomahawk from his chest. Her body shakes as wave after powerful wave of emotions, as everchanging and frightening as the bottomless sea, course through her. Connor turns and folds her in his arms, holding her tightly as her hands fist in his jacket and she bows her head against his chest. His coat is damp with sea spray, sweat and the blood of his enemies and it reeks with the acrid, smoky stench of spent gunpowder and the metallic tinge of blood but she doesn’t care. Her muddle of emotions resolve into a righteous anger and a despair blacker than the darkest abyss. Catherine presses her face into Connor’s chest until she feels the cut on her chin split open and begin to bleed again.
Catherine can no longer hold in her escalating agony and it breaks free of her, tearing itself from her body as a scream and becoming all she can hear or feel until her breath is gone, replaced by the burning pain in her lungs again. Under Connor’s hand on her head, she turns her face to the side and he holds her tightly to his body as she chokes frantically for air. Every exhale leaves her with a high, hoarse moan as she loses all control of her rapid breathing. Her whole body moves with every panicked breath and Connor presses his face to the top of her head, speaking soft words to her that she is unable to hear over the loud ringing in her ears and the strange way her mind and trembling body seem to be receding from reality.” - Misguided, chapter 24 “Rage”
Commission for mme-curie !
I didn’t count the number of hours that I spent on it, but it’s the more big and detailled drawing I did !
And thank you for the commission, it was a pleasure to draw *-*
I still tear up when I read this part!
This is terrifyingly accurate
I had a bit of a snafu with my USB drive and I’ve only just recovered all my writing. I’ll be working on The Quill and La Sombra in the coming weeks, I promise!
"I don’t think I slept much that night. I find it difficult to sleep at all but I don’t even leave my bed some days. I haven’t seen the King since that awful afternoon nearly ten days ago. Instead, I keep to my rooms and watch the birds of spring returning to the land to sing their songs of sorrow. Why do they come here? Why would anything come here?" - The Quill, chapter 4
"Tightening her hands on his elbows, Catherine opens her eyes. Connor’s eyes are already open and he looks deeply into hers, asking with all the silent strength he can muster. A tremor runs through her under his amber gaze and she closes her eyes and raises her chin just enough to let his lips touch hers. His fingers travel farther into her hair and he breathes in through his nose as he gently kisses her soft lips. He strokes her shoulder and pulls back, brushing his lips over hers before retaking them in another slow kiss, trapping her bottom lip between his. A small noise escapes the back of her throat. Not wanting to move too fast, Connor draws away again." - Misguided, chapter 10 “Truth”
having to use your own art as reference cause you forgot how to draw
having to go back to reread previous chapters of your own story as a reference because you forgot how to write
Sometimes I reread a chapter and go, “Oh yeaaaah! I forgot about that part!”
My story USB was broken but the hubby fixed it + transferred everything to a new one! Let the writing resume!
Misguided AU: If only Francisco had decided to start his own business growing coffee instead of following in his father’s footsteps. LOL
Thanks, nenoka for the picture!
you know whatd be a fun exercise
get a writer and an artist together. artist does a sketch, writer writes a handful of paragraphs. they give them to each other.
writer has to write a handful of paragraphs on the scene depicted in the sketch, and it cant be just like, describing it. artist has to draw a new sketch from the writing.
it’d be a neat lil’ flex-the-muscles sort of thing.
this is literally me + jodeeeart
Commissioned piece for the Lovely mme-curie
Her Oc from her AC3 FF Misguided. follow this link for Misguided and all her other AC FF’s http://archiveofourown.org/users/MmeCurie/pseuds/MmeCurie
I am currently taking commissions, for pricelist an full works please head to http://jodeee.deviantart.com/
"Catherine’s words are muffled as she pulls the coal grey petticoat on over her head.
'Of course! I've known him for years!' Bethany helps Catherine put on the overdress and turns her around to button the double row of black buttons up the front of the pointed bodice and tie the ribbons that hold the sleeves tight to her elbows. She fluffs out the layers of long, white lace that extend from the ends of the sleeves over her forearms and smoothes the silvery brocade fabric so it hangs without a single wrinkle. A filmy piece of gauze goes on next, looping loosely around her shoulders and tucking neatly into the front of her bodice, covering her exposed neckline modestly and giving the illusion of more underneath. Bethany sits Catherine down in a chair to busily pin her hair up, smoothing her curls into ringlets by dipping her fingers into a little water from the nearby ewer and twirling sections of it.
Bethany twirls the last two sections of Catherine’s hair and lets the long curls spiral over her right shoulder. She lifts a hat with two large, white feathers draping over the top of it from the sideboard and places it lightly on Catherine’s head, positioning it so it doesn’t crush the curls and pinning it into place by skewering it with a large hatpin before letting her hands come to rest on the back of the chair.
Connor jumps to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over with his spastic movement, and looks Catherine over with wide eyes when she emerges from the sitting room. She is stunningly elegant in the dress Bethany had clothed her in and the way she stands with her hands clasped demurely in front of her makes her appear tiny and afraid. He prefers her in the clothes he is used to her wearing so seeing her like this is a jolt to his senses. It reminds him that she is originally a woman of New York, a world he still feels separated from in so many ways. Catherine smiles shyly at him and lowers her face, hiding it behind the narrow brim of her hat and the fullness of her curls. How can clothing and a hairstyle transform her into such a fragile and vulnerable creature? Bethany bustles past him, too intent on something to notice his concern. She returns with an extensive length of deep maroon fabric and ties it around Catherine’s waist, letting the long ends dangle down the back of her skirt.”