#lest i wither || Faceclaim

[laidbare-a]

tag dump

[zorarpg]

I have died too many deaths that were not mine.

- Audre Lorde, Sequelae

NAME: Evanna MacTavish Harper BIRTHDAY: February 26, 1580 GENDER: Cisgender female SPECIES: Samodiva OCCUPATION: Singer at Club Entre Nous YEAR JOINED ZORA: 1885 FACECLAIM: Emilia Clarke

HISTORY

There was never a time before turning. Not for Evanna, the first child of the powerful Rolland clan and keeper of their legacy. Their clan wasn’t the typical sort speckled across the Scottish Lowlands, and thus their pride was different as well. They were of the samodivi, sworn to secrecy lest they lose their lives at the hands of vengeful humans. It was a threat they had already faced once, what with Evanna’s grandfather being of samodiva blood when his own brother was not. Divides like this left their clan sworn even more to legacy than to confidentiality, one could say, and thus their daughter was presented with a crucial task. She was hardly an ideal leader, more partial to making merry and music than legislation. But there was no choice. By now, Evanna hardly remembers the life she took in order to earn her timelessness and her flight, though she does remember the sight of blood upon her hands. Yet the memory that she has always found more striking is the sensation of feathers sprouting from her shuddering shoulders. These wings, symbolic as they may be, were overwhelming in size and painful beyond her young mind’s comprehension. Yet they made her whole. Finally, she was a proper samodiva, and thus, a proper Rolland. As it was, these names and titles were put to the test much sooner than anyone had anticipated: within a decade, witch hunters stormed the fragile refuge that the Rollands and their followers had turned into a home. Like Zmajkovo so long beforehand, their small semblance of a realm was destroyed, and their new leader was hardly equipped to cope with the fallout. Not even a century old, so pitifully young compared to others, Evanna was one of the few survivors and one of two keepers of her name. This new leadership was not an easy undertaking, and those under her haphazard care wandered off or withered within three years, including Evanna’s younger sister, who left without so much as a glance back. It was after that final brutal departure, when the scorned samodiva had given up on her skills as caretaker and leader alike, when she was utterly alone in the midst of the human world, that circumstances changed.

Meeting Conall MacTavish was like turning on a light after decades of darkness. A mischief-making friendship tumbled headfirst into romance and then, somehow, into family. A caretaker she’d failed to be once, yet there she was, content with her husband and children. It was a simple life, tucked away from the rabble that had the potential to disrupt their quiet peace. But interrupt it did. The memory of that day is burnt into her like the scar of a hot iron, seen every time she closes her eyes, even a century and a half later. Witch hunters stormed their quiet abode, and Evanna, fearful and pregnant, fled clutching the hand of one of their two children. It was the last time she would see her home, which was but ash by the time she returned. The last time she’d see her husband, too – there was no sign of Conall upon her return. What there was, however, was sign of their only daughter. Like a girl made of marble, she lay in the snow, looking practically untouched and utterly dead. The son that had fled with his mother suffered a similar fate not longer after, hastily succumbing to illness that Evanna could not mend, no matter what she tried. The baby she carried was lost as well. Due to stress, or shock, or the sheer power of grief – she’ll never be certain. All that Evanna knew then and knows so well now was that once again, she was utterly alone, surrounded by lives snuffed out all too quickly.

Little can be said of the years after that – much like the time before her turning, the time before her grief seems almost nonexistent. Stripping herself of her married name in an attempt at anonymity, Evanna blended into the shadows and became someone else entirely. This was an era of vengeance, wielded mercilessly and quietly. Her newfound legacy traveled in whispers: the ‘winged woman,’ her shaken survivors dared to call her. But as much as she valued the fear, it was never felt by the right people. Evanna has yet to discover the group of witch hunters who laid such terror upon her family so many years ago now. Proper tracking takes time, and she lacked it, working with a messy rage that led to her having to flee more often than not. Zora was a refuge she was pulled into by force by a recruiter hoping to guarantee her safety during one of these flights. It seemed less than ideal at first, but really, Evanna uses it as a safeguard: here, she can take her time, seeking information. No one is free from her searching, not even the New Orleans patrons who visit the smoky jazz club where she performs most nights. Not that they tend to truly know that they are privy to such persuasions. All that they know is that the notorious singer La Dame Blanche has a remarkable gaze and a charming, sultry voice. When she turns her attention to you, you almost want to tell her anything she wants to hear. Almost.

CONNECTIONS

Dina Meijer - Evanna’s niece – not that either of them know that just yet.

STATUS 

Evanna Harper is taken.