In Depth
ORIENTATION: Bisexual; with a female preference. They cry in a more lovely fashion.
DEMEANOR: She is ruthless, logical and somewhat dry of wit, the wicked witch of the east, and fiercely opposed to any notion of selfless good or miracles- so much so that such suggestions can send the cold woman into a bitter, violent rage. She consorts best with those with whom it is beneficial to her to associate and who share views that parallel her own. Generally apathetic and unkind, she does not pursue misfortune for those unlike her and yet will spare not a single thought at bringing down ill fate should the means to a chosen end lay in doing so. While she is poetically minded, fascinated with the darker aspects of the psyche and emotion, she is not necessarily romantic; not in the love sort of definition. On some level, Eve is playful but generally in the manipulative and derrogatory sense. It's a difficult task to earn her genuine affection and currently the only people who hold places in her heart are her sisters.
FAMILY: Nicnevin, Jeliel, Sisquali {adoptive siblings}
BACKGROUND: 'Tragic' or 'Travesty' would've been the word used when a young girl was found beaten without regard for age, gender, creed; mutilated among other things, and shoved into a sack. Bright shimmery blue not grimacing in death, rather, her features were relaxed to face the reaper of wayward souls. The stealer of hearts craven in the snow. Stoic navy, lips slightly parted and bruised, split. Her eyes like the glass of dolls. She was dead as dead could be. Who were her parents? Where were they to claim her? They didn't even get to find out the girl's identity. Not one record existed of her. It was as if she'd never even lived. So they named her themselves at the graveyard; Sisquali. A humming whisper inside the dull throbbing of her wretched spirit as it swelled with anger, tainted with one black spot forever. And buried her within a shallow grave vacant of a title or epitaph. Ceremoniously mourning her murder, unceremoniously immersing her into the small wooden box that would be her bodies home for they thought, ever. From forth that shallow grave, on a dark and stormy night (literally, and not just for suspense) her pale fingers emerged from the soil, moist, cold, and pale as the snow they parted against the blackness of the earth crumbling in between them. It all felt like a dream� the pretty white dress they'd given her was all filthy now of course. She remembered nothing save for an oath that loosened her from the grip of death's tight, spindly fingers. Mud caked her hair thick like wet, grainy eels that perished in sand and streamed down her back and chest like tainted rain. And rain stroked and soaked making water into wine, hungry like the wolf, having snatched a white bunny howling its last moments of life. But Eve was humming� a lullaby that'd been rumbling through the throat of the second rate physician that had pronounced her dead.