Thursday, 7 November 2013

The Students Sold us Secrets (A book review)

The Students Sold us Secrets


It’s your average typical high school. Except with a sinister twist and without the musical.

SO, Curtains closed and lights off...


Sorry. Tickets are sold out for the musical. Come back some other day. “We apologize for any inconvenience caused.”

[Book Title] The Students Sold Us Secrets
[Author] Lee J Mavin
[Genre] Horror - Possibly include the adjectives demented, psycho, and just bone-chilling.

[My Rating] 4.5/5 
[Would I read it again?] Scha YES.
[Would recommend it?] Yes 
[To whom?] People who like reads by authors who can make you feel uncomfortable by twisting and making even the most everyday and so-called ‘normal’ settings feel creepy. Generally horror fans, excluding the sci-fi versions of horror.


I was given this book from the author in exchange for an honest review.





The whole setting starts off as a regular life in a high school. 
You’ve got:
↳The teachers (obviously)
↳The principal (or headmaster)
↳The janitor(s)
↳The students (or else there would be no business. Who would be taught? The air?) 
↳And, your bullies (everyone hates the gang of bullies. It would be great without them. Oh, and of course they bring in a sense of HUGE Ego to the school.)

Average high schools don’t work without these, do they? Or so we think.... 

In this book, a collection of a multitude of different stories based upon school, narrated in first person by the most psychopathic people the face of the earth has possibly ever seen. Pessimists as well, who manage to find every single thing wrong with their school. Like doctors, who find out whatever you’ve got wrong with your broken bone, no matter how much you want it to heal slowly so everyone can make a big deal about it, and you manage to get late to class. 
All the people listed above are essential to make a school environment work. Well, a stereotypical one, at the least. Apparently our narrators think otherwise. 

It seems that these psychos have read a bit too much exaggerated Horror, or watched it. It’s like it’s implanted in their brains, and boy, I would not fancy going to a school with these creepsters... A school where underneath a football field lie the unnoticed and rotting remains of a person being sawn to pieces- gosh, when you read it, it makes you go, “That is sick and wrong on so many levels I don’t even wanna talk about it.” 



Sometimes, when you read this collection of demented diaries, it makes you squirm in your chair, and you can just picture the school possibly twenty years later, the principal’s light blue office rug coloured in places, under his desk, with dark ochre coloured stains, which the janitors had not been able to remove from the fabric. They tried, of course, they did. Unfortunately it was not enough. 

After reading this, if it strikes a seemingly everlasting fear in your heart, school and football pitches and the art studio will never appear the same to you... For the visions of the psycho narrators are haunting your mind.... overcoming it with a substance as dark as the black plague...




Here is a basic summary of how I reacted to The Students Sold us Secrets:

At the beginning of the chapter:


Not bad. Uh huh. I see, oh yeah, nice. It’s in a school. Nice environment. NOt bad at all, actually.


By the end of the chapter:

Woah! WHAT JUST HAPPENED?! Did I really read that?




Now what did I think about it? Well, as mentioned at the top of this review, I gave this book a 4.5/5 because I really loved it. Now normally, I’m not a huge fan of horror and demented gruesome things. I tend to steer more towards the fantasy/historical fiction road. But when Lee J Mavin asked me to review his book, I said yes straightaway, because it’s not everyday that something like this happened. 
So I read the book. And holy cow, I was impressed. Although it isn’t a very complicated read in terms of language, it can get deep at times, and I really like Lee’s writing style. Here is a passage I really liked in the book, although it had nothing to do with the horror aspect. This is in the second- last chapter, entitled ‘The Poet.

The artists were also silenced, and some even tragically forgot how to use their rare and precious talents. The paint grew hard in stored-away tins, and canvases stayed blank under shadows of sadness.

This truly was a great read and I would definitely recommend it, and perhaps if you think you’re reading too much of the same genre, try The Students Sold us Secrets. A good idea would be to not let you teacher read over your shoulder in english class- they may get the idea that you are planning a gruesome revolt against the school, perhaps voting for equal rights between the students and teachers, for example, that you can change your grade from an Average C to an A * by winning the talent show or something. But remember, maybe leave out the ‘musical’ from the high school.


There wasn’t much I didn’t like about the book. What I sometimes found is that it took me awhile to figure out who exactly the narrator was, but apart from that I found that I really enjoyed this book. 

Overall, an EXCITING read, and a pleasure. It was the kind of book that made you feel relaxed and then suddenly set off your *WARNING: Psychopath ALERT* and just hit your crazy “did that really just happen” and “oh yuk” button. 





Wednesday, 30 October 2013

Chapter 1- Part I of Cliffton {Cliffton #1}

CHAPTER 1


Elizabeth






Elizabeth Isabel Marie Anne Dain pulled her black hood over her head as she walked through the freshly snowed over streets of Guildenstar, not wanting people to recognize her lest she got into trouble. Winter had come early this year- it was almost the end of October, and her birthday was coming up soon. But for now she had to focus on her orientation. Although she had lived and grown up here her whole life, Elizabeth was constantly confined to the indoors.
Racking her brains as she trudged through the snow, she took a left turn onto a wide street, which was so used that the cobblestones were already managing to peek through the layer of white. One left, two right, and another left, go straight, she thought, an image of the village’s map flashing in her mind as she followed her instincts.
       Glancing up, she smiled to herself, satisfied. A wide, dangling sign flashed above her as it reflected the sun’s last rays as the day began to fade, its hinges creaking faintly in the light, cool breeze. Her breath coming out in faint plumes, the teenage girl walked into the Golden Pony, shutting the cold out behind her.
       Still shivering from the after effects of the cold that still clung to her body, Elizabeth sat herself down at a table meant for two people in the far corner of the large, boisterous room. The clamor in the pub was deafening, but it was better than the deadly cold outside that took away many lives over the course of three months.


Peering out from the shadows of her hood, Elizabeth’s emerald eyes took in everything they could hold as the girl waited for the bartender to come. It had been exactly four and a half weeks since she’d had enough time to take the risk to sneak back out into the town and come to the Golden Pony. She couldn’t help but notice a man who had an abnormally large frame sitting at a bar next to another so thin they were impossible to compare in size.
       Tearing her gaze away, she smoothed out the folds of her simple, navy blue dress, and waited for the bartender, her ‘friend’ to come. He was more of an acquaintance, but the two had a lot of respect for each other.
“Yes, miss?” A female voice asked, leaning down to get a look underneath the hood. Elizabeth scowled in mild frustration, pulling the fabric of her cloak further over her face. She looked up to see a waitress clad in a simple farm girl dress with a bosom that was by far too large for the bodice. Elizabeth took a while to realize that the waitress was asking for her order. “Aren’t you a bit too young to be in a bar?” the waitress questioned, tapping her foot lightly against the ground to show she was waiting for Elizabeth to order.
“I do what I want, and when I want,” Elizabeth snapped, lying, but she wasn’t about to let the woman know that. “One hot cocoa, please,” she continued, changing the subject.
The waitress nodded and left to walk behind the counter, where wheat beer, a Guildenstar speciality, sloshed in great quantities to the floor. Careless servers, the thirteen year old thought, playing with the single flame that danced to and fro from a long white candle in front of her.


Then something caught her attention. A boy of about sixteen walked into the bar noisily enough, but he was ignored by all but the waitress and Elizabeth. His dripping wet and thin cloak clung to his dirty clothes, he had dark, auburn hair that fell in messy, unkempt bangs all over his forehead, though had a charming smile of what seemed to be relief as he closed the door behind him.
       He seemed to Elizabeth like a farmer, bits of straw stuck out of his hair, and even from where she sat the young girl could see that his hands were covered in many callouses. From where she sat, Elizabeth could see that dark rings shadowed his eyes, giving them a hooded appearance. They stood out clearly against the pale contrast of his skin. He had high cheekbones and bright eyes, silver with a ring of gold around the pupil, like a wolf.
However, underneath the portrait of the tired, worn out, stable boy, Elizabeth had to admit he was rather handsome. Apparently the waitress thought so too, or found him more interesting than placing out Elizabeth’s order.


He was instantly overpowered by the waitress, who grabbed his hands, pulling him towards her, stroking his chest and taking him by surprise. Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Women these days, her thoughts told her. The boy angrily pulled away from the waitress and squeezed his way over to the bar, where he placed three rusty bronze coins, which could easily be recognized as Joncs, the least valuable part of the currency in Guildenstar and its neighboring country.
       He shot the hooded figure in the corner an odd stare of mixed bewilderment, curiosity, and boredom. Elizabeth noticed and raised her hand to beckon him over to sit at her table, which was the only seat left in the pub, unless the boy was insane enough to squeeze himself between the two largely and thinly disproportionate men at one of the high chairs at the bar. Unfortunately for Elizabeth, he declined the offer, pushed his way to the counter, disappeared from view for a minute, and then came back out carrying a barrel of presumably beer. It could sustain a family for a winter, but could kill them too if they had too much. He was taking a huge risk.


Elizabeth watched him exit the Golden Pony, mildly angry with herself for losing her chance to make a friend and to speak with a commoner. She thanked the barman as he placed a steaming hot mug of cocoa in front of her. She pressed three silver Tarn into his hand. Only the wealthiest could afford cocoa, and she knew it.
As he sat down in front of her, she wrapped her hands around the mug and felt an involuntary shudder down her spine as the beverage warmed her up completely. Taking small but savoring sips, she looked at her acquaintance.
“Good evening,” he said, then teasing, because he knew she wouldn’t like it, “Your Highness.”
“Oh shut it,” Elizabeth snorted in her family’s faint English accent.
The barman himself had a faint Scottish one, and he smiled as he knocked his wooden mug of ale against her cocoa. “Cheers,” he said and drank from it.
“Cheers,” Elizabeth said sullenly.


Noticing there was something wrong with her, the man stood up. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around, yes, Lassie?” he said, and gave her a friendly clap on the back. She nodded from under the cloak, drinking some more cocoa, but only her physical form was still on earth as she looked out the window, where it was already night time. She finished the beverage quickly, and, refastening her cloak around her shoulders, swept out of the bar like a shadow. She didn’t even notice another man enter the bar, crossing her path as she left.
Elizabeth walked out on the street without even so much as a backwards glance, and slowly made her way back home. The first stars were already coming out, and a strong wind was brewing up. Elizabeth picked up her pace. She was not at all in the mood of continuing her way in the middle of a thunder- or snowstorm.


Her father and brothers were probably waiting for her. Relieved to see the oaken doors of the castle entrance hall in front of her, she forced her numb legs and feet to sustain her until she could collapse onto a couch.
Elizabeth walked over the portcullis and squeezed through the doors, which were always left slightly ajar for the guards to slip in and out of the castle. She closed them after her with a grunt, and immediately took off her cloak, wringing it over a bucket so as to not wet the floor. She had a certain respect for the servants, unlike her elder brother, Peter, who was the heir to the throne and a twenty three year old busy man, who had the potential to being a great brother, but who was too occupied with his tutors. He was determined in becoming a great ruler.
There was a good but faint relationship between the two, though Peter could sometimes be horrendous and unforgiving to his little sister. If he wanted to be.


Elizabeth removed her boots and socks and sat down next to the fire on a pillow, warming up her hands and feet. Thank goodness only the hem of her rich navy dress was wet. She thanked her servants for providing her with such great protection as she looked at the cloak which she had hung over the pail.


Elizabeth narrowed her eyes as she felt a sudden presence around her. Looking back, she called, “Hello?” Only the black, flickering shadows replied.
Shrugging, Elizabeth let her thoughts wander off again, getting lost between reality and dreams as her green eyes followed the dancing of the flames, that licked the marble hearth with a shimmering soft orange glow.
Elizabeth sighed and leaned against the leg of a couch, just as her cat, Shadow, pounced into the entrance hall, a strutting gait in his walk. He jumped onto her lap, his tiny claws digging into Elizabeth’s dress, and deposited a small brown thrush at her feet. The tiny creature was unstirring, its wings folded delicately at its sides. The girl picked the bird up in a silken handkerchief. Its tiny black eye opened up, not glassy but vibrantly scared, and it opened up its wings with a shrill birdcall, and fluttered away unsteadily. Elizabeth looked up as it landed on the windowsill, sang one last tune, and flew off into the darkness.


Elizabeth stroked Shadow’s grey fur absentmindedly, and he purred contentedly, his black-tipped tail wagging from side-to side. It was not long before his throaty vibrations against her skin lulled her to sleep.


The Green Fields of France

Hello everyone. So recently, a song from the 1980s (originally by Eric Bogle) sung by the High Kings, an Irish band, has become my new favourite. The song is called the Green Fields of  France, and it is a sad song, though very beautiful (I have suddenly taken a liking to sad songs. I blame it on Claude-Michael's soundtrack for Les Misérables 2012. Not that it's a bad thing). Below is the music video and the lyrics. It's not a very well known, and not very popular/liked either, but if you don't know it, just focus on the lyrics. They're amazing, and have a very powerful meaning to them. And even if you don't like it, try to figure out the message they are trying to send out to us.

"Music expresses that which cannot be put into words." - Victor Hugo



The Green Fields of France




Well how do you do, young Willy McBride
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside
And rest for awhile 'neath the warm summer sun
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the great fallen in 1916
I hope you died well
And I hope you died clean
Or young Willy McBride, was is it slow and obscene

Did they beat the drums slowly
Did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down
Did the band play the last post in chorus
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest

And did you leave 'ere wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined
Although you died back in 1916
To that loyal heart are you forever nineteen
Or are you a stranger without even a name
Enclose forever behind some old glass pane
In an old photograph torn, battered, and stained
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame

Did they beat the drums slowly
Did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down
Did the band play the last post in chorus
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest

The sun, now it shines on the green fields of France
There's a warm summer's breeze that makes the red poppies dance
And look how the sun shines from under the ploughs
There's no gas, and no barbed wire, no gun firing now
But here in this graveyard that's still no man's land
Oh, the countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man
To a whole generation that were butchered and damned

Did they beat the drums slowly
Did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down
Did the band play the last post in chorus
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest

Now young Willy McBride, I can't help but wonder- why-
Do all those who lie here know why did they die
And did they really believe when they answered the call
Did they really believe that this war would end wars
For the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the shame
The killing and dying were all done in vain
For young Willy McBride it all happened again
And again, and again, and again, and again

Did they beat the drums slowly
Did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down
And did the band play the last post in chorus
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?

Did they beat the drums slowly
Did they play the fife lowly
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down
Did the band play the last post in chorus
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?


Saturday, 19 October 2013

Richard Turpin

Richard 'Dick' Turpin, who terrorised the travellers of Essex and Yorkshire from 1735 to 1739, was the most famous highwayman that has ever lived. His cry "Stand and deliver!" struck fear into travellers who knew they would have to give up their riches or be killed.
Turpin first worked as a butcher, but he was caught stealing cattle which he was then planning to sell in his shop. Later on he joined a gang of smugglers and deer poachers in Essex. Named the Gregory Gang because three of the members came from the Gregory family, they were disbanded by the authorities and Dick needed to find some other way of making a living.
By going into partnership with a famous highwayman named Tom King,  Turpin became accustomed to the job of a highwayman. He accidentally shot (and killed) his partner whilst attempting to shoot a policeman. From then on Turpin worked alone. By the time he was 30, there was a reward of £200 on his head. After learning this, Turpin fled to Holland to escape the police.

When Turpin returned to England wearing a false name, he was arrested in the town of Brough after being accused of killing a Cockerel. Fortunately for him, nobody recognised him, and he was sent to jail. Because he could not afford the release fee to get himself out, he wrote a letter to his brother-in-law to ask if he could help with the payments.
Turpin's old school teacher recognised the handwriting and travelled to York, where Dick was kept in prison. He identified him as Richard 'Dick' Turpin the Highwayman, and was rewarded with the £200 and a dead student- Turpin was hanged in the gallows soon after for his crimes.


Monday, 23 September 2013

The Ęlwha

Acknowledgements




This short story is dedicated to Loris















Prologue

This is me. I am more powerful than anything. Faster. Stronger. More alive. Yet I can play dead. I take whatever shape you give me. I am the Ęlwha, Nature’s shapeshifter, Nature’s power. I provide others with a nourishing source, a source for travel as well.
But as with all else, favours come with a price. Sacrifices must be made, to keep my spirit going. And I choose who and when. The spirits of the lost feed my own, in return for the deeds I have once done for them. They are my souls, and mine to bring back, or take... forever.
One last warning: do not, not EVER, underestimate me. To do so would be a regrettable mistake.








Part I - Leana




The forest is still. Not a breeze is to be felt. There is no birdsong. All is silent. There is no deer, no squirrel, no insect to be seen. The mossy ground muffles the sound of my light footsteps, letting me pass unheard. Unafraid. Unnoticed.
My light blue gaze flickers from tree to tree, branch to branch. The early morning sunlight filters its way through the leaves, dappling the trees with a pale, milky gold. The foliage is so thick it blocks the sky from my view. I snake my way through the thick trunks that surround me, almost menacing.
I can still remember it, years ago. The forest. My thoughts as we stepped in, enveloping ourselves in the nature. It used to be lively. And I used to think it a beautiful, peaceful place where no harm could be done. A safe place to take refuge. From authority, from people. From our own kind. Humans. Naturally I was wrong.
Being thrown out of civilisation and into the unknown wilderness with your best friend is never easy. Even without the best friend it's a hard and cruel thing to go through. And all that for a simple mistake. The simple yet so complicated ways of nature. Of a human's nature. Hierarchy is the key, or so I think. You have the powerful, all mighty, at the top of the ladder. Under that rung is the power. Those with slightly less power than the king, but with land. The nobles. And then, at the foot of the ladder, the weak, helpless, and powerless. The puppies chained to a wall of death. Those with no voice, no insight, no power. Those like us.

Now I am not part of the ladder. No, not anymore. And neither is he. We had been classified as unknown, undetectable, dangerous and untrustworthy. In other words, I am an outcast. Doomed to die without a grave, with no tombstone, no coffin afterwards. He has met his fate already. And yet still the location of his being remains a mystery to me.




As I take a left through the trees, I spot the first movement. Frothy and fast, the water glides over the stones that lie hidden at the bottom of the Ęlwha River. Lethal, yet silent. No sound arises from the dark blue water, littered with rocks poking out of the surface here and there, breaking the steady gliding movement of the water.
Sitting down on the riverbed, I dangle my bare feet into the water, watching them sway in the rhythmic pulse of the river. It is alive. Breathing. I can feel its force. But I can not hear it. No- can not isn't the right term. No. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to listen to the running water, swift as the breeze, yet powerful as thunder. A burst of energy surging through the wilderness.




And yet as I look out, brushing my dark bangs out of my eyes, I can see his face clear as the sky on a cloudless day. His silver eyes boring into mine, bright and fierce, wise and bold, that wolfish stare. Yet also fear. I can still hear him screaming my name, sandy hair clinging to his face. It is the only sound I can hear. Now everything seems silent, save for his voice, that beautiful voice that was to me everything I held on to. "Leana!" He shrieks.
I watched, helpless, as the river engulfed him. Some extraordinary yet powerful, dark, and unseen force bound me, held me back as the Ęlwha bore him away from me. Yet he was strong, I told myself. He could make it... He could, couldn't he? He was stronger, after all, stronger than me. And yet...

As I sit here, digging my fingernails into the muddy grass around me, I chew on my lower lip, the memories coming back. It haunts me. My blue eyes scan the river's surface, as if searching for him again. As if I was waiting to see those silver eyes, still lit up with life, resurface. But of course they don't. He is long gone. Three days it has been, and I miss him already. It was like my heart had torn into half.
He was all I ever had, since the long winter, a terrible period of five months where the lands of Nienr were covered with a glittering white blanket of snow, beautiful yet deadly, just like the Ęlwha. And just like the river, It had taken lives. The souls of my parents had been one of the first to go. At least they hadn't been stabbed to death like the rest of Jackal's family. But the winter was terrible. The cold, famine, and disease kills as suddenly as if nature had just snapped her fingers, and poof- just like that, one person stilled and never moved again, their skin turning alabaster by the minute, the rosy in their cheeks fading, the light in their eyes being snuffed out like a candle flame in the wind.

I sigh and look at my feet again, their pink outline blurred by the rushing water. I just hoped his soul had found a good place, that it wasn't lost in the hellfires of death... And yet, even three days after me seeing him being dragged under, it still hadn't sunk in properly, hadn't pierced my heart yet, not truly, so that I could still cling onto that last feeling of hope.
Whenever I think of him, I feel like I am dangling from a precipice, suspended in the air by only a thin rope, a rope that tears a bit more every day. And somehow I know that if I hold on too long, it will break, and I would be sending myself into an everlasting darkness, with no light to see, no one to talk to, no shoulder to cry onto, no comforting words, just those from my own lips to try to make myself stay sane, but I'd wither soon enough, of grief and despair and loneliness, and the world would fade....

I shake the thought off as it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. "I will not lose hope," I say out loud. "I won't. I can't." I see my vision blur over, and feel the familiar wetness on my cheek as a tear rolls down from my eyelashes.

And then it begins to rain. I find shelter in the trees, the lowest I can find, and huddle up underneath a willow, not caring what happens. As lightning flashes overhead, I can see the storm clouds through the willow wands. Great masses of ashen grey and black rolling across the heavens, giving them a menacing aura. The thunder booms again, and again his scream sounds in my head, as the roiling water sucked him under, that sound that rang in my ears long after he had disappeared... "LEANA! Leana..."
As I huddle against the bark of the willow, I hug my knees to my chest and think, if my body doesn't survive, know that my spirit will never give up hope. “Jackal... Where are you?”
Then I cry myself to sleep.











Part II - Jackal

I can't breathe. All I see is that swirling, dark water, menacing. The cold is agonising. My lungs feel as if they're about to burst. I think of Leana, how desperate she had been to take my hand and pull me out of the river's deadly embrace. And yet somehow she couldn't. Something held her back. But what? I still hear my name, the scream tearing itself from my friend’s lips, how desperate and torn it had sounded.
And here I lie, unmoving, worn down to the bone, beaten, but still alive. The River Goddess has been forgiving. But there is no guarantee she will be it again.
As I lie face down on the pebbly beach where I have been stranded on, I think of Leana. Where is she? Is she still alive? Stupid, I think to myself. Stupid. How could you even think she were dead, Jackal? I shake my head violently to try to get the thought out.
Weakly I push myself up into a sitting position. My head throbs- my throat feels clogged up, my skin slimy and wet. “LEANA!” I want to shout, but my body doesn’t obey- I have no energy to do anything but sit, slumped, head hung, my sandy hair plastered to the sides of my face.
I cough and regurgitate river muck. Looking at it makes me sick, and I don’t dare myself to touch the black, swirling water of the Ęlwha. So there’ll be not cleaning up for me right now. Where are you, Leana?
She must be worried sick... I think with regret. Angrily I punch the pebbles, grazing my skin in the process. Tiny beads of startlingly red blood appear on my skin, but I ignore it.  “This is all my fault,” I mutter, frustrated. “I shouldn’t have been so stupid.” Little did I know the same feeling of guilt was engulfing her....
But she would hold on, wouldn’t she? She had confidence in me- after all, I was the one who had kept us surviving through the winter... I had been the one, hadn’t I? Or was that just luck? Sheer luck? If it was, then it was clearly running out. At the worst it had run out already.
I lie back down, rolling on my back as I do so. I gaze glassy- eyed at the fast darkening sky, wishing I was back home, where I belonged. But then I mutter, “Stop being so unrealistic, Jackal. Stupid. You have no home.”
I blink and feel a tear roll down my temple, and I try not to break down. Stay strong.



Wednesday, 28 August 2013

Character- Evangeline Renée Nightshade

PART I OF Evangeline Renée Nightshade

Brought to you by Sarah

"Greetings! I come in peace. But be warned- that does not mean you can trust me... nor I you."

[ Full Name ] Evangeline Renée Nightshade

E | van | ge | line .  Re | née . Ni | ght | sha | de





Evangeline comes from the Latin word evangelium, meaning "good tidings." Evangeline is a Greek girl name, but it is mainly used in English. 
In Greek, Evangeline means "like an angel" or "good news."


nightshade |ˈnʌɪtʃeɪd|
noun
a plant related to the potato, typically having poisonous black or red berries. Several kinds of nightshade have been used in the production of herbal medicines.
●Solanum and other genera, family Solanaceae (the nightshade family): several species, including the European woody nightshade (S. dulcamara), a climber with purple flowers and red berries. The nightshade family includes many commercially important plants (potato, tomato, capsicum peppers, tobacco) as well as a number of highly poisonous ones (henbane, thorn apple). See also deadly nightshade.
ORIGIN Old English nihtscada, apparently from night + shade, probably with reference to the dark colour and poisonous properties of the berries. Compare with German Nachtschatten.


{Titles
The Human of the Night
The Messenger
The Archer
Nicknames: Eva, Night, Shade

[Age] One of the youngest beings in Nienr, Evangeline is aged 14
[Date/Place/Time of Birth] 12th of October in the late Second Age of Nienr, in the village near the fortress of the Dark Lord, Master of Nienr

[Nationality(ies)]
From Nienr

[Gender] Female
[Sexuality] Straight (Heterosexual)


[Physical Appearance]




"Now we must leave those we have lost, Oziris. We thank the gods for keeping us safe"


[Personality

Temper
Evangeline is an arrogant, hot headed human girl that will not hesitate to slap someone.   She is brave, bold, and reckless, but defends those she loves.
Sometimes, though, her bravery and temper make her stupid, well, for a human who’s grown up in Nienr, and she will then be vulnerable to making bad decisions.




"As the sky seemed to rise, they knew the battle that lay before them. A battle against all things good..."

Wisdom and logic
Evangeline has a sharp mind, and that skill of hers helps with her battle reflexes.

Friendship
Unlike some humans, Elva is not of the betraying kind. She can, however, sense the evil and malice of the Land of Shadow, that was her home for her life. She hated it there.

However, if she got a chance, she’d take it.

Eva, however, is a friendly and empathetic human who often tries to help others, but only when she deems wise to do so. 
She also happens to be an optimistic person and can wear a smile on her face in even the dreariest of times.


"Where there is dark; there is light. When it seems we are doomed there will be hope. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not there."


[History] Evangeline’s life began in Nienr's  Land of Shadows. She was born in the drab and dirty conditions of a small village that surrounded the Dark Lord’s fortress- a place which would hold her hostage for the next thirteen years of her life. 
Her mother being dead from childbirth, infant Elva was taken by her once loving father to the wild, along with her then- 9 year old brother Ethan.
But soldiers of the Dark Lord found them and took them to their master, who eyed them in amusement before offering a place as his right hand in court to their father... 


”Hope seemed like the song of birds, too swiftly flown away...”

...But first Lawrence had to prove his worth and loyalty and went though a course of 12 years, watching his children grow up as he practiced his loyalty and devotion to their future master. 
As Evangeline grew up, she became more aware of the horrible threats the Dark Master posed to Nienr.  After a year of planning, before her 14th birthday, she decided to escape from the fortress. 
But only after trying to persuade Ethan to come. But he would hear none of it, and it was with tears in their eyes that they bade farewell to each other.



"All good things come in time."


Soon after, her father was appointed right hand of the Dark Lord. Now he lives a pampered, rich life full of malice, greed and power.
                                         
"Nightshade kills.
But shades of the night,
Can revive you.






[Family]
⚔ Lawrence Marcus Nightshade - Father
{Titles: Right hand of the Dark Lord} 
Age: 34














 ✝Aleana Nightshade (Née Sande) - Mother
{Titles: Wife of the Right Hand} 
Age: 28 when deceased

Siblings- 
Ethan Ronan Nightshade (Brother, 19)


[Relationship Status] single


[Weapons:] 
Her beloved bow and arrows, given to her by her brother. She treasures the weapon and is one of the best archers in Nienr.


Eva is alright with a sword, but she’ll only use that as a last resort.

[Pets:] 
Eva has one black Stallion, Tempest.


She also has a pet metallic bird, which flies on its own and is a totally normal bird, save for the fact that he’s made entirely of metal. His name is Oziris.

[Strengths:]
☞ Archery
☞ Remembering stuff
☞ Bravery 


[Weaknesses:]
☞ Her father and the Dark Lord
☞ Spiders- Although she loves nature, Eva hates spiders
☞ Being very sneaky- she’s bad at it
☞ Her past




"To rule time is to rule the world."