The Mortal Instruments News en Español

Looking better in black than the widows of our enemies since 1234

2,253 notes

cassandraclare:

I love writing about artists because they see the world completely differently than I do. I see everything in terms of words and descriptions, they see everything in terms of visual representation.
It’s been fun with Jules because Clary is a sketcher of life and an manga artist and Jules works in paints that express imaginary scenes. She’s more of an illustrator, he’s a fine artist (neither being better than the other!)
cinash:

I had been meaning to draw Clary and Julian for a while now and I finally got around to it. That awesome CoHF snippet Cassie gave us sealed the deal for me. 
So here are Cassie’s artists :D
0-s-0 cinash

cassandraclare:

I love writing about artists because they see the world completely differently than I do. I see everything in terms of words and descriptions, they see everything in terms of visual representation.

It’s been fun with Jules because Clary is a sketcher of life and an manga artist and Jules works in paints that express imaginary scenes. She’s more of an illustrator, he’s a fine artist (neither being better than the other!)

cinash:

I had been meaning to draw Clary and Julian for a while now and I finally got around to it. That awesome CoHF snippet Cassie gave us sealed the deal for me. 

So here are Cassie’s artists :D

0-s-0 cinash

3,550 notes


Atop the wings was a folded piece of paper, addressed to the New York Institute. After splashing water on her face, Maryse had taken the letter and read it. It was short - one sentence - and was signed with a name in a handwriting oddly familiar to her, for in it there was an echo of Valentine’s cursive, the flourishes of his letters, the strong, steady hand. But it was not Valentine’s name. It was his son’s.Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern.She held it out to Brother Zachariah. He took it from her fingers and opened it, reading, as she had, the single word of Ancient Greek scrawled in elaborate script across the top of the page.Erchomai, it said.I am coming.

Atop the wings was a folded piece of paper, addressed to the New York Institute. After splashing water on her face, Maryse had taken the letter and read it. It was short - one sentence - and was signed with a name in a handwriting oddly familiar to her, for in it there was an echo of Valentine’s cursive, the flourishes of his letters, the strong, steady hand. But it was not Valentine’s name. It was his son’s.
Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern.
She held it out to Brother Zachariah. He took it from her fingers and opened it, reading, as she had, the single word of Ancient Greek scrawled in elaborate script across the top of the page.
Erchomai, it said.
I am coming.

(Source: weliveandbreathewords, via cassandraclare)