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PANEM'S FIRST QUARTER QUELL! STARRING... DARYA MARIN from DISTRICT FOUR!

Darya never wanted to be here - not in a million years. She trained for years with gritted teeth, only doing so to appease their father. Tough love has yielded an even tougher person, with Darya being one of the strongest contenders this year. She’s fast, especially when it comes to water, and can hold her breath for longer than anybody else in her training class. Her father put her name out into her District, hoping people would see that his child was the best. And so Darya has found themself here, hoping to win just out of pure spite.

STASYA BELOV 

TWENTY-ONE ❈ SQUALLER THE ORDER OF SUMMONERS (ETHEREALKI)

* this character is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns.

Their name was Stasya. It was the name they were given at the orphanage and it has been the one that shaped them. Stasya. The mere sound of it was soft and weightless upon the lips, gentle in the way it rolled off of the tongue. When it was used in admonishment by the teachers of the orphanage, there was always that gentle caress of love that seemed to make even the most severe scoldings more bearable. As it was hollered through the halls of the old building, the volume was diminished – slightly, slightly – by the dependency in the young voices that called out their name. Yet, despite the lacquer of life that surrounded them, what with the doting and devotion that shadowed their steps like the most loyal of familiars. The animals that mirrored the souls of witches of old. But they were no witch, were they? The looks of the other children told them otherwise, the way that those who they had only known of as family looked at them as if they were something ill-begotten. Something wrong, something feared, something meant to incite terror rather than the ardor that they had once known. Oh, how wretched they felt as cold, nimble fingers clasped around their wrist, drowning them in the gale of their own power. Oh, how they loathed the feel of the fine cloth as it was draped around their skinny shoulders – marking them as something other. As something to be crucified and burned and martyred with words and looks and prejudices. What a terrible thing it is, to be a martyr at such a young age for a cause you do not believe in.

But they did learn to believe, were taught the wonders of their blood, their bones, their blessing that they called a gift. Hate was invited to fester in their heart, to make its blackened fingers close around the fluttering, forgetful thing. In Stasya’s heart, however, there was no room for such a decrepit creature to call it hearth and home. Instead, light flourished there in the face of slander and damnation that they received at the hands of those who thought themselves above the light of Keramzin and their kind. Darkness and despair tried to grasp at them, but they managed to evade it like a sparrow from the claws of an eagle, a hawk, a bird of prey. It was for their light and levity that they were often noticed, but even more so by the power that played at the tips of their fingers. All they had to do was beckon a gale with their finger and it would howl a mighty tune, bringing with it a wrath and destruction that was not befitting of a creature that seemed so gentle. Sometimes even they forget the power that was woven into their bones and how it harkened to their call like a volcra to the smell of blood. What they remembered, however, was the blood that they left in their wake when all the other soldiers had either fallen or fallen to their knees to bask in the aftermath of the bloodshed.  But then on a breeze they heard a sound that caused their heart to ache with such sorrow that they fell to their knees, to hold upon their scarlet stained lap a face that begged for a certain capacity of a gentleness, of a love, that they had not been aware they were capable of.

Impossibilities, however, were second nature to them – as was an innate need for the makings of martyrdom. It had been harmless, until it wasn’t. Love affairs of their world weren’t like the stories; when words trailed into oblivion and fate smiled kindly. Love affairs of their world were blood-red and torn at the edges like a telltale heart spilling cruor onto the battlefield, like the serrated edge of a knife. They were never vicious and thirsty like the others, but still they marched to war with their hair tied in ribbons of blue, still they quivered and summoned and felt the power blast through their bones and bring monstrous contraptions to the ground, wind and cold and a breeze so chilling that it could cut. They followed orders and quietly absorbed horror. And love was not part of a soldier’s regime – but still they fell, like a blackbird drawn to honey, like a dove speared from the heights. And when they fell, they brought the nightingale tumbling down with them. He was a human. A wretched one at that. For he had harkened for the pillaging of Stasya’s kind, those whom they considered kin and blood. Was the furs of war he wore not drenched in blood of those whom they had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with? Mere moments earlier there was not a doubt in their mind that he the wounds he suffered were recompense for the corpses that surrounded him. But, as the dark-haired Stasya held him in the cradle of their lap, they knew that hate could not find its way into their heart. And it never would.

Perhaps they should have despised one another, pummeled and slashed and resisted: but what was war but bringing of unpredictable destruction? Mortality is a fickle thing. Brevity was its lover, and momentary bliss the child that it bore. His wounds had healed quickly in the cells of the jail that they had brought him to, the wounds that the battle had ravaged on their heart quicker than that still. The moment that those two had shared upon a battlefield transcended the war-ravaged parts of their hearts that they were often told to listen to. In those weeks that they spent guarding him, interrogating him as kindly as they could, the warmth of the affection turned into the heat of unfettered love. Brief touches between the bars of a cage would do no longer and Fate had mercy upon them. That, or perhaps it cared to teach them that even a gentle creature like the dark-haired Stasya was not likely to escape the grasp of their cruelty. For, not but a week later, he was condemned. And, oh, how impossible it was for them to disguise their despair. How quickly the grave was dug, how unceremoniously was he taken from them. But mortality is also a delicate thing – the fluttering of a little bird’s heart in a womb, the knitting of the unthinkable in the dark. They wore their shame with pride – for if love was weakness, then they would gladly be stripped of their wings if only to afford their child a chance to fly.

CONNECTIONS

NEYSA RAI: Great is the comfort that may be taken in the kindness of a smile. In Neysa’s grin there seems to be an endless well of comfort that they can never get enough of. Stasya is never one to compare their own plight with that of others -- but in Neysa’s they steadfastly believe that there is no compare. The world has waged a war against the her, and Stasya is determined to raise their fist and bring the world to its knees in a tempest should anything ever happen to their beloved Neysa ever again. For whatever reason, fate seems keen on making martyrs of them all -- but such a journey is much more bearable when one has the hand of a friend to depend on. They may be martyrs, but they will give the stars a reckoning for their shared destinies yet. 

KATYA ARISTOV: The way that she seems to offer friend and foe a knife in the place of a flower is beyond Stasya. How anyone could harness such a hatred within their hearts is a sickness they will never be able to understand. That is what they see Katya as -- a temperamental child ridden with a sickness. When they offer her the medicine, all she does is make a face of disgust and turn away. They know this because they have tried many times to relieve the burden upon her soul, but the tundra of Fjerda has better chances of being razed in fire than Katya does of having some semblance of humanity in her soul. Yet they show her no bitterness, are not willing to return the anger in kind. For gentle is their ways and gentleness is the only thing they wish upon Katya’s ravaged soul. 

VASILY BARANOV: It is disconcerting, the way  he watches them. They are not a bird to be studied, a spectacle to be put in an exhibition and viewed. Whether he stares at the child they carry or at them, they are not entirely sure -- but they do not take kindly to the fascination that he suffocates them with. Whatever he wants from them, they are not entirely sure they can give him -- whether it be solace or reconciliation or comfort. Though his reasons may be chaste and his motives pure, they know that a lifestyle like the kind that he has cultivated for himself is not something that is easily shaken off. It is not something that they want to be associated with, but if the gossip about the court members have taught them anything, it is this -- whether he presents himself as friend or foe, they will try to know him in the former but will always see him as the latter. 

FYODOR DRUGOV

TWENTY-FIVE ❈ HUMAN OPRICHNIK

* this character identifies as nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns

Death is impartial to many but a lover of few; it adored the few who evaded it, the few who had mastered its art, and the few who were terrible enough to do both. Fyodor was born an exception, a human to a family of Grisha, a heathen amid nobles, wild-haired and tempestuous while their siblings stood tall and noble, the earth at their pretty, little fingertips, ethereal and tangible and beautiful. A family of would-be saints and living marvels, and on a perfectly pristine tapestry, Fyodor was an unsightly discoloration, a stain, tolerated but never loved. They supposed they didn't make it particularly easy. They were wild, their innocence crafted as if an afterthought or disregard it altogether, in its place was an unearthly brutality born out of an inherent disconnect with one's own blood, one’s earth, one’s soul. They laughed at the sight of tears, tore through earth and sky like an erratic Valkyrie, and left nothing in their wake for their victims to cling to, not as a child, and never now.

It was more instinctual to hurt than to heal and to ruin rather than to mend. Bruises painted a prettier picture than kindness ever did, and blood seem to constantly run from their knuckles, be it their own or someone else’s unfortunate enough to cross paths. Their barbarity was palatable because of their beauty, but there was a primitive chaos they were growing into with each passing day, and their family could see it - a spreading plague threatening to ruin everything they’d worked for, all the prestige they’d earned in a society eager to demonize them. Fyodor became neither seen nor heard, their family had hidden them away in the lush prison of walled gardens and the refinement of pressed collars and fragrances. But chain a feral creature and it's rage returned twofold – dressing it up in powders and perfumes would not change its nature, nor would it hide the fangs. Fyodor accepted it simply because they didn’t think there was anything else they could do but play their inherited role of victim. And they played their part well when they felt like humoring and playing the part of the comedian - their family were lulled into relief by their silence, but really they ought to have been building their defenses and listening for a slow, burgeoning violence.

And when gardens and mansions weren't enough to contain them, Fyodor was sent to the First Army, but it wasn't until their first night that they realized what it really was: an exile in all but name. The perfect, upstanding Grisha family ridding themselves of their one embarrassment – it was irony in its finest form, even they could admit that. It was in the flames of battle that death came to love Fyodor– it watched as they danced between bullets and blades and wet their hands with the colors of Ravka’s enemies – all red. Looks of pity gave way to terror. Mothers pulled their children close whenever they passed, their fellow soldiers whispered of something unholy lurking within them that could turn at any moment, and that it whatever it was, it wouldn’t know the difference between enemy and brethren. But where mere mortals shrunk in fright, death embraced, decorated them in a crown of laurels and lilies. That in a family of Grisha, the only human would come to be regarded as the most aberrant, the most cruel was exactly in death’s humor – and Fyodor was nothing if not an entertainer. Their family, as it turned out, had been right in assuming the worst of them, for they were more vicious than anyone could have ever guessed, more primordial and savage than anyone could have known. The day they refused to bow to lesser folk who imagined themselves grander than their worth was the day death declared them its lover, the very day they turned to slaughter and decorated the white of their ancestral home with the red of their family. What monster kills five Grisha and walks away unscathed? The monsters The Darkling loved to keep in his guard.

They looked death in the eye, laughed in its face, and kissed it before it even had the chance to blink first. Ever since then, Death has been smitten– like a broken-hearted lover that clings to something that was once immaculate. Although, nothing about them have ever been holy. Not the words that spill from their lips – tunes that only the Devil cares to hear – nor the deeds that their hands have wrought. Yet Death considers them something holy. It lays bodies in their wake, corpses in the place of flowers, offerings not unlike those that are brought before gods. But even gods fair better than they, for the gods, at least, show mercy to those who bow before them. Mercy is a foreign language that Fyodor cares not to learn, no, not this chaos-bred child. All they offer is lightning in the place of blessings, wildfires where answered prayers might be, and storms when all cry out deliverance. One has better luck asking mercy from a wolf than asking it of them. Wolves, at least, know the order of nature. But Fyodor? They know only the beat of their own heart and what dark deeds bring laughter to their lips. When they laugh, though, oh when they laugh one cannot blame death for falling in love with them. 

CONNECTIONS

SVETLANA GAVRIKOVA & ADRIK VAHKROV: Together, they are the most feared in Ravka. Together, they are brutal. They all made a home in death’s maw and shadows, and all the familial attachment that had nowhere to go when Fyodor was growing up extended to this strange motley crew of fellow Ophrichnik. And just like them, their affection was consuming, biting, and unrelenting. The only loyalty they’d ever known so far and quite possibly the only they’d ever know, it’s an informed devotion, being aware of the kind of twistedness that existed in those they chose to call kindred and admiring them all the more for it. But predators never stopped being dangerous, and though Svetlana and Adrik’s lethality was more refined and restrained, Fyodor would never forget what they were capable of. What they all were capable of. Forgetting the nature of a beast was what got their family killed, after all. 

IRA SOROKIN: She is a wolf woman with a spine of stone and silver, feral and fierce and every bit a beast as Fyodor was, two predators born of different wombs. There is never a moment where they’re anything but dazzled by her, and they think if they’re well-adored by death, then she must be the sun’s favorite idol, golden and openly vicious in spite of all her enemies who had dug their claws into her heels, unstoppable all the while. Fyodor doesn’t make it a habit to know many Grisha, but the Durast is the very antithesis of everything their family had stood for: pride versus propriety, honesty versus refinement, torn dresses and loose hair and claws versus upturned noses and painted faces. She and them, what a wretched, perfect pair. 

DMITRI ALEKSEEV: The bloodletter thinks himself far too highly, and that’s all Fyodor has to say on the matter. To them, he pales in comparison to the company they keep, to the likes of Svetlana and Adrik and Ira and The Darkling himself, that his lofty arrogance is utterly laughable. He can play all the parlor tricks he wants, he can show off with all the easy targets he likes, but the second Aleksander bores of him, Fyodor will be there to ensure the rivers run red with his blood, and they’ll be laughing as death looks on, grinning and eager and reverent.

ARSEN TARASOV

TWENTY-THREE ❈ INFERNI ORDER OF SUMMONERS (ETHEREALKI)

* this character is a demiboy and uses he/him and they/them pronouns

When he was born, they did not cry out beloved. The only answer to his harmonious wails were the weary groans and tired sighs of the people who filled the room. Those were the only things that the war-torn village had to offer, for their souls knew not the levity and joy that often accompanied the birth of a beautiful, healthy baby boy. The moon shown brighter in the sky, but all they could see were the angry, red blisters upon the palms of their hands. Stars glittered and danced in joy for this beautiful child, but all they could feel was the hunger that choked their stomach, that made their limbs feel weighted with the promise of a death that would come all too slowly. But the babe paid no attention to the suffering that it was born into, for the smiles and laughter that burbled out of his rose-pink lips would not be dampened by the frivolous moanings of humans. For this child knew that it was above it all -- a creature that was better suited to the company of heavenly beings than those who tilled the soil of the earth. That, and that reason alone, was the reason that he smiled as blissfully as he did, the suffering that occurred about him being nothing more than a corruption of the beautiful which was a product of the mundane. Beautiful beings like him have no time for the tribulations of others, it’s a terribly human thing to assume so. 

But he had to learn, at least, to imitate and entertain human thoughts. His parents begged him to when they realized that he was more, so he acquiesced to their demands to humor them. Little did they know what they were asking was for the devil to hide his horns, for a demon to act as if he had a heart in place of the black, decrepit thing that took up the chasm of his chest. If anything, though, he liked to think of himself as the benevolent sort. So he did as he was asked to do, but Arsen Tarasov was never one to do something for nothing. He played the part of the older brother, chiding his siblings when he needed to, wiping their tears away when they poured from their wretched little eyes, and working each day so as to provide more food for the many mouths that awaited. Little did the naive children know that their brother was using them, like a puppet with strings -- playing the part of a particularly malevolent puppeteer. He would pit them against one another, a soft little whisper here, a particularly vile lie there and they would be at one another’s throats with their teeth bared and their mouths spitting. There was more than one time where these quarrels would escalate -- blood spilling from the mouths, bones breaking from the blows --to the point where fratricide was almost assured. Then, who else would step between them, but their savior --  their brother singing the sweet tune of salvation and reconciliation. 

But Arsen was anything but a savior, was anything but a Sankt. By the time his parents realized the game that he played, the strings that he pulled at as he watched the little puppets dance, they knew that they would burn before they could deny him the games that he so loved to play. They considered themselves blessed the day that he was whisked away to Os Alta, knowing that the demon that resided in their home was not to be kept caged in polished walls and polished gates. Mistakenly, they had assumed that it was the place where demons died and angels were formed. Instead, Arsen bloomed under the apprenticeship of violence, thriving as they taught him how to feed his flame -- no, this was not the place where demons died, it was where they were meant to revel in their violence. He rose, he bloomed, he thrived, he reveled. Those who were his peers simultaneously loved him and despised him for the skill he exhibited, for the intuition he showed in the matters of warfare. He was no heatrender, but there were those who would have been glad to bare their hearts for him while sparring -- if only it meant that he would have mercy upon their poor souls. If only it meant that he would croon a sweet song that would soften the blows he reigned upon them. But would he truly be Arsen Tarasov if he ever relented? 

For he was a creature of passion and indulgence, of gluttony and greed. He was all that and more. Arsen was a kiss that bit into one’s lip so as to draw blood, was a flame that danced so enticingly only to burn one’s fingers when they pressed too close. The war that loomed like a shadow in the night, ever-present and suffocating in the way that it promised to draw closer, only allowed for his flame to grow brighter, to burn all in his path. It was an excuse. A means of entertainment, as was the Fold and the excitement that it often promised him and his kind. There were those who cowered in fear of all the bloodshed it promised -- for all the graves that would have to be dug. Because of this they thought themselves gentle souls, righteous souls that cried at the violence of it all. They pitied the humans and the lives that were likely to be lost, and for that they thought themselves beautiful in their kindness. Should suffering befall them all, they would likely wail their lamentations. Hypocrites. Nevertheless, he will carry his tune. His language is lilting, a cadence of darkness and desertion, warning them all of one thing: a creature of beauty is something that he is...and something that he is not. 

CONNECTIONS

VALERIAN PETROV: They have had many siblings, but never had they had a true brother until they met Valerian. The same fire flows in their veins, manifesting itself in their differences -- keeping them together in their similarities. For what is a fire without its spark? What is a bonfire without the flickers of a flame? One cannot manifest itself without the other and so too is it for these brothers. In their differences they earn each other’s respect, in their similarities is where they take comfort. Despite their many faults ( though they are blind to them ) and disparaging characteristics ( Arsen truly believes that they are free from such flaws ) Valerian stands by their side. There are not many that Arsen would take a knife for, even fewer who they would truly die for. But what better way to die, than for the brother that they had always wanted and have finally had? 

SHONA YUL-JUN & LUKA MRAVISNKY: War is their lover and chaos is their ministry, anarchy their beloved wife. Arsen, Valerian, Shona, and Luka -- the most despised and revered of the creatures that could liken themselves to gods, if only they indulged as much as these four men did. Arsen remembers the day that they met Shona, the frankness of the words and the bawdiness of their language something that they found themselves guffawing at immediately. It was not the lilting nor the beauty that they themselves favored upon their tongue -- but they liked him all the more for it. Luka, they knew, was the more gentle and quiet of the four bratvas, but they did not fault him for it no, they saw it as a challenge. For every gentle comment he made, they had twelve more to make an innocent sentence seem contrary. Lovers may come and go -- but these men who they consider brothers? Such things are everlasting. 

RITA JAKOV: Traitor, they hiss whenever the poor creature has the misfortune to pass them. Forsaken. They sneer at the simpering thing she has become, spitting upon the pliable, useless thing that she could be. What is she to them but another toy to disassemble, to take about piece by piece, to tear their teeth into like a lion with a lamb -- hoping that, with each bite they might be able to draw blood. Each word that they utter draws another cut, each smirk of triumph another blister. She might think herself untouchable, important even, by keeping company with the human courtiers. Naive, then, is she. For she will soon learn that Arsen Tarasov is better than her. They are better, and more brilliant, than them all. 

ANASTASIA LANTSOV

TWENTY ❈ HUMAN PRINCESS OF RAVKA

* This character is a demigirl and uses she/her and they/them pronouns.

Adoration and ardor are the only song that she has ever known. It was whispered in the quiet of the room, when her eyes first opened and her lips first parted. From the first breath she took, it was a sweet croon of affection. From the first cry that rang through the halls, it was but a most beautiful wail of praise. Since then, it has been sung back each and every day -- not only to those who are obligated to hear it; brothers, friends, loved ones -- no, this song is the one that she sings to Ravka. For, they have adored her so devotedly and have shown her their love with little inhibition, they have given her little choice but to show them the same steadfast devotion in return. There are many who contributed to this almost religious fervor in the princess of Ravka. Perhaps it was her mother, who would whisper to her the tales of the Saints that would bless the poor of the country, ridding them of the plagues and diseases that the rich and haughty were loathe to deal with. There were her brothers, each of them her knight tending to a piece of her heart; just as they were a piece of her heart, they represented the pieces of Ravka she adored most. Ivan, with his nobility. Anton, with his courage. Viktor, with his ambition. What was she, then? What was the little princess of Ravka to be if not noble, courageous, or ambitious? She was to be its heart. 

Her heart, though tiny, always aimed true -- but it did not bleed its first until the day she first wandered the out of the gates of the Grand Palace. Although to say she “wandered” was not correct for she went out there with full intent to know what lay behind the gates of her gilded cage. But when she slipped past, wrapped in the ill-fitted clothes of her cousin, she wandered until her feet grew weary. They were not, however, as weary as her heart. It quivered each time she passed widows begging in the streets, children crying for their stale bread, and parents who cried for their children who had none. There was no sweetness to be found in the streets that her people seemed to languish in. Everywhere she looked, she saw sorrow beset her people like the Lady’s Plague -- it was inescapable, save for the one refuge where frivolous joy seemed everlasting. It was the one place she knew as home and never before had she been so disgusted to know it as such. Then and there she decided that the only home she will ever know is in the dingy homes of the people who suffered, in their beds made of straw and hay. She would forsake her hearth and home until the day that the starving children and weeping mothers knew the comfort that she lavished in. Only then would her heart stop bleeding. 

Initially, she thought that her mother’s and father’s hearts ached as hers did -- she did not believe that they could sleep so restfully, so peacefully when, just outside their windows, their people slept upon cold cots and wet straw. Young Anastasia thought that they were all of one mind, that her and her family’s heart beat the same. The day she realized that such a thought was naive was the same day she donned her little costume for a second time. Each time she promised herself it would be the last -- for what a scandal would it be, if one were to find out that the princess traipsed about the city each night. But each time she made that promise, she broke it; it felt right, it felt true. Like breaking the lock upon her cage and flying free each night. What a cursed thing it is, though, to have to return to the cage each morning and sing a pretty tune of innocence and harmonies of superfluous flirtations. She did not remember when the crown began to feel like a costume, when the costume began to feel more like a fitted crown. She was more earnest to don the rags that her people wore rather than the silver and gold that her mother and father plied her with, that her brothers sent to her wrapped as pretty presents. At first they did not understand why she would curl her lip at that little glittering things that they held out to her -- as if she were still a child, to be soothed with dolls and pretty dresses. But all too quickly, she learned to guard the openness of her heart and the smile that she gave in turn was just as beautiful and dazzling as the prizes that were laid at her feet. 

So she learned to stifle her beating heart, to mask it as if it was one of the politicians of the royal court. Donning the likeness of sycophants like a great actor upon a stage. Lies were ever present on the tip of her tongue, willing and ready to guise her true intentions in superfluous conversation. Anastasia learned to become the princess that they wanted, but she would never be the princess that they thought they knew. No, she was much too clever for that -- not that the courtiers who simpered at her feet would ever think her intelligent enough to be so. But the stars that watched her steal away from the castle like a thief in the night knew. The moon that guided her from her balcony, calling her to her people knew. The sun that greeted her each morning as she slipped back between her sheet kept her secrets, like an ever-watchful confidante. Even the people that she served -- blessing them with the gifts that she could -- kept the secret of the living Sankta that put bread upon their doorstep and clothes upon their windowsill. All the celestial bodies adore her, all her people do too. So what a sin it would be, she thinks, to not show her gratitude for all the blood that has been spilled in her name. What a sin it would be to not bleed for those who have bled for her. 

CONNECTIONS

ANTON & VIKTOR LANTSOV: They remember a time when their kinship was whole and unfettered. But time is an enemy to all and as it is likely to do, it wore away at their love for one another relentlessly, leaving something a bit worn but unbroken, all the same. When Ivan was lost, Anastasia remembered the inhuman moan that had escaped their lips. Was that not understandable when part of one’s heart was torn from one’s chest? They sought solace in Anton, but they knew it was likely to be for the last time. Anton, their beloved brother who they longed to emulate in all things (but who had ever heard of a princess becoming a soldier?), now bore a cross that they could not help shoulder the weight of. Viktor, the closest to them in age and shared secrets -- who taught them the power and bloodshed that could be reaped at their fingertips -- was slipping away as surely as Anton was. They could not remember a time when the Lantsovs felt less like a family and more like a name. A label. Something as symbolic and useless as the crown. 

TATIANA LANTSOV: Darling, darling, darling Tatiana. It’s a mantra that they often repeat to themselves so as not to strangle the likes of their cousin when they think her voice to be particularly grating upon the ears. They don’t remember when Tatiana turned into the shrieking little harpy that she is, but they do remember what fun they used to have as children. Anastasia knows that their cousin does not know this, but it was she who had smuggled them out and urged them to step upon the streets as a common servant -- for they had just been read the tale of a king who had done the same. Tatiana had encouraged it for the romance of it all, Anastasia had done it for the adventure. Though their cousin has changed, they still believe that in the depths of that frosted little heart there still remains warmth in there. For, they sigh, what else could keep it beating?

MAKSIM KAEV: Disconcerting. Nosy. Intuitive. Those are the words that sit there on the tip of their tongue whenever they are confronted with the personage of Maksim Kaev. It is because it is easier to criticize him in their thoughts than reflect on the duplicity that the exchanges between them often entail. See, Anastasia is able to lie like Kerch trader to all the courtiers that simper and croon whenever they deign to converse with the princess. But when Anastasia is confronted with Maksim, they find themselves in a rather difficult position because lying to Maksim makes them feel rather guilty. Perhaps it is because, whenever he looks at them, it seems as if he is searching for something; namely, the truth. However, in the Royal Court, secrets are held at a greater value than gold. Every Ravkan knows that. 

“Who’s this?”

You already know who it is! But if you don’t, you’re talking to Mailyn Perry, the 21-year old child of Hestia. I’ve been told I look like dreezydreezy by many, and I possess the power of food manipulation as well.

“You do know where you come from, right?”

Mailyn was dropped off at an orphanage when they were a baby and grew up in the system. When they were nine years old, they ran away and lived on the streets. The older homeless people took care of them to the best of their ability: pretending to be Mailyn’s parents for school, sharing their food/ money, and teaching them about the real world. One day at school, when Mailyn was 15, Mailyn didn’t like the taste of the peanut butter sandwich at lunch and changed it into pizza. They didn’t know how they did it, but they liked it. Someone saw Mailyn do this and started shouting and called Mailyn a freak, with everyone in the cafeteria joining in. Mailyn grew so embarrassed and angry they made everyone’s food taste like rotten eggs. Mailyn suspended for “stealing” the pizza. When they went “home”, they did some research and found out that the goddess Hestia had this power and immediately knew that she was their mother, and trained to use their powers to help feed the other homeless people in the neighborhood.

“Who else do you know?”