Myra Markab | First Year | Ravenclaw
01. basics
.. ..
02. history
03. family
.. ..
04. connections
05. threads
.. ..
06. trunk
07. diary
.. ..
08. misc
Myra Markab | First Year | Ravenclaw
basics
Name: Myra Markab
Year: First
Age: 11
House: Ravenclaw
Patronus: N/A
Race: Human (applying for werewolf)
Wand: 31,8 cm walnut wood and dragon heartstring
Myra is the very epitome of “fawn-like.” Large brown eyes twinkle with naivety beneath expressive, shapely brows. A button nose and upturned lips show unwavering youth. Her hair grows outward in dense coils, but is most-often styled into twists or an updo. Her skin is deep and sun-kissed, though a subtle pallor can be seen nearing a full moon. Her clothes do not designate status nor wealth as outsider fashion often does; preferring practicality above flair. Simple, airy fabrics compose most of her outerwear during the warmer months, and musky furs during the winter; both often speckled with soil and grass from exploration. With her frail stature and sickly disposition, Myra is far from physically intimidating. At 4’6’’ (137cm), she is smaller than most children her age, but she doesn’t let it define her, as evidenced by the many minor scrapes that litter her skin.
To the chagrin of her elders, Myra is a dreamer and, on occasion, a bit of an airhead. For as curious as she may be concerning the many wonders of her commune, her filtered upbringing has left her rather clueless about anything else. Myra unquestioningly takes authority figures at their word, often to her own detriment. She has an idealized view of Freehold’s teachings and struggles to grasp the nonconforming ideals of children like Hugo. Her naivety often makes her a poor judge of character, and therefore, susceptible to manipulation. In unfamiliar situations, her social quirks surface in the form of child-like bluntness and a lack of filter.
Name: Myra Markab
Year: First
Age: 11
House: Ravenclaw
Patronus: N/A
Race: Human (applying for werewolf)
Wand: 31,8 cm walnut wood and dragon heartstring
Myra is the very epitome of “fawn-like.” Large brown eyes twinkle with naivety beneath expressive, shapely brows. A button nose and upturned lips show unwavering youth. Her hair grows outward in dense coils, but is most-often styled into twists or an updo. Her skin is deep and sun-kissed, though a subtle pallor can be seen nearing a full moon. Her clothes do not designate status nor wealth as outsider fashion often does; preferring practicality above flair. Simple, airy fabrics compose most of her outerwear during the warmer months, and musky furs during the winter; both often speckled with soil and grass from exploration. With her frail stature and sickly disposition, Myra is far from physically intimidating. At 4’6’’ (137cm), she is smaller than most children her age, but she doesn’t let it define her, as evidenced by the many minor scrapes that litter her skin.
To the chagrin of her elders, Myra is a dreamer and, on occasion, a bit of an airhead. For as curious as she may be concerning the many wonders of her commune, her filtered upbringing has left her rather clueless about anything else. Myra unquestioningly takes authority figures at their word, often to her own detriment. She has an idealized view of Freehold’s teachings and struggles to grasp the nonconforming ideals of children like Hugo. Her naivety often makes her a poor judge of character, and therefore, susceptible to manipulation. In unfamiliar situations, her social quirks surface in the form of child-like bluntness and a lack of filter.
Myra Markab | First Year | Ravenclaw
history
Little is known of her origins other than Pastor Roche’s weary recollection of the day she was entrusted into his care. On his end, the decision was rather impulsive and without a proper vote from the Greater Council because he could never quite bear the pleas of desperate people. And Renée, mother of Myra, wasn’t the first, but she was by far the most pitiful. The woman had sought him out—whether from word of mouth or fate he could not say—and was in many ways down on her luck, but ever devoted to spare her child from the brunt of it.
Renée was a rambler too, but she probably wasn’t always. What Roche did manage to gather was that her daughter was unwell. Unwell in a way that she was not equipped to handle, but in which he was deeply familiar. The convulsions were new and terrifying, and Renée’s access to sedating draughts was limited. To make matters worse, Renée was so certain that she was being chased by someone, or something; she was sparse in specific details including the question of how long her daughter had been this way. Whatever the case, a sickly child could not tag along for it.
There were more meetings between them, but the Council was dragging its feet and Renée’s situation grew more dire. Unlike before, she turned to listening, scoping Roche out for any falsehoods about his identity and proclaimed mission. He couldn’t blame her for it. Any mother would want the reassurance. All the while, she had yet to actually present him the child in question, creating a fleeting, yet shameful moment where he wondered if she ever existed at all. But she was real, and even though his heart was already set and braced for the inevitable—he would raise her with the Council’s grace or without it—Renée was simply not yet ready to part.
Not until her hand was forced.
The exchange took place minutes past a new moon’s midnight. Renée appeared cloaked in their usual meeting location, the deep sleeping form of a toddler perched on her hip (Roche could not help but notice how heavily they favored each other). Renée first hefted the young girl into his arms, and then upon the girl’s folded lap a small coin purse; the start of what was meant to be regular compensation for her care in which Renée had insisted. She kissed Myra’s temple and his cheek, leaving it wet with tears upon separation. Under his watch, her daughter’s particular needs would be tended to among a mutual community of other sufferers. That was Roche’s promise, and the shining light among Renée’s troubles. He never saw her again.
Things were rough in the beginning. Myra wailed for her mother first thing out of her slumber, every day, until her ribs ached. It wasn’t easy waking up to strange faces in a strange setting, even if those strangers tried their best to speak in soothing voices and lull her with food and toys. At Roche’s request, Myra lived in the home of Mrs. Grant, a healer, and her example daughter Genesis who was only a few years older. Roche knew things were looking up when the screaming subsided, and Myra, eventually, began to engage. Given her age, that meant clinging to Grant. And besides home, the gardens became their favorite place.
But Mrs. Grant’s home wasn’t really her home. In a way, it was everyone’s, and everyone’s was hers too. A few years had passed when Myra learned that this was not normal outside of Freehold. Here, people shared responsibilities and some possessions too. And as Freehold’s youngest member, Myra was often left with what the other children outgrew. She could enter Rose’s barebones quarters at will to braid her hair, scare a Councilman by hiding in the Office cabinet, and make a mess in the Kitchens as long as she ate it afterwards. Chores ranged from cleaning, harvesting, and fixing equipment with Roger, to tending to the livestock and especially ensuring that the Cages locked behind her. Freehold had its routines, but to Myra it became much more:
Community, family, a fighting chance. And a fighter she was.
Little is known of her origins other than Pastor Roche’s weary recollection of the day she was entrusted into his care. On his end, the decision was rather impulsive and without a proper vote from the Greater Council because he could never quite bear the pleas of desperate people. And Renée, mother of Myra, wasn’t the first, but she was by far the most pitiful. The woman had sought him out—whether from word of mouth or fate he could not say—and was in many ways down on her luck, but ever devoted to spare her child from the brunt of it.
Renée was a rambler too, but she probably wasn’t always. What Roche did manage to gather was that her daughter was unwell. Unwell in a way that she was not equipped to handle, but in which he was deeply familiar. The convulsions were new and terrifying, and Renée’s access to sedating draughts was limited. To make matters worse, Renée was so certain that she was being chased by someone, or something; she was sparse in specific details including the question of how long her daughter had been this way. Whatever the case, a sickly child could not tag along for it.
There were more meetings between them, but the Council was dragging its feet and Renée’s situation grew more dire. Unlike before, she turned to listening, scoping Roche out for any falsehoods about his identity and proclaimed mission. He couldn’t blame her for it. Any mother would want the reassurance. All the while, she had yet to actually present him the child in question, creating a fleeting, yet shameful moment where he wondered if she ever existed at all. But she was real, and even though his heart was already set and braced for the inevitable—he would raise her with the Council’s grace or without it—Renée was simply not yet ready to part.
Not until her hand was forced.
The exchange took place minutes past a new moon’s midnight. Renée appeared cloaked in their usual meeting location, the deep sleeping form of a toddler perched on her hip (Roche could not help but notice how heavily they favored each other). Renée first hefted the young girl into his arms, and then upon the girl’s folded lap a small coin purse; the start of what was meant to be regular compensation for her care in which Renée had insisted. She kissed Myra’s temple and his cheek, leaving it wet with tears upon separation. Under his watch, her daughter’s particular needs would be tended to among a mutual community of other sufferers. That was Roche’s promise, and the shining light among Renée’s troubles. He never saw her again.
Things were rough in the beginning. Myra wailed for her mother first thing out of her slumber, every day, until her ribs ached. It wasn’t easy waking up to strange faces in a strange setting, even if those strangers tried their best to speak in soothing voices and lull her with food and toys. At Roche’s request, Myra lived in the home of Mrs. Grant, a healer, and her example daughter Genesis who was only a few years older. Roche knew things were looking up when the screaming subsided, and Myra, eventually, began to engage. Given her age, that meant clinging to Grant. And besides home, the gardens became their favorite place.
But Mrs. Grant’s home wasn’t really her home. In a way, it was everyone’s, and everyone’s was hers too. A few years had passed when Myra learned that this was not normal outside of Freehold. Here, people shared responsibilities and some possessions too. And as Freehold’s youngest member, Myra was often left with what the other children outgrew. She could enter Rose’s barebones quarters at will to braid her hair, scare a Councilman by hiding in the Office cabinet, and make a mess in the Kitchens as long as she ate it afterwards. Chores ranged from cleaning, harvesting, and fixing equipment with Roger, to tending to the livestock and especially ensuring that the Cages locked behind her. Freehold had its routines, but to Myra it became much more:
Community, family, a fighting chance. And a fighter she was.
fiom
“I told you again, Myra! They won’t notice we’re gone.”
Late evening’s Church service had been in session, and Roger thought that was the perfect time to lean over and whisper about the human skull he’d found in the unmapped paths of Cave Stamnach. All of the children had named it so together because it was shaped like a stomach, but “Cave Stomach” didn’t sound mysterious enough for Hugo’s liking, so they threw in some extra letters, took one away, and made the word look all funny. Either way, the trio was going to it now, their forms concealed under a setting sun and tree canopy, Freehold’s walls shrinking behind them.
“You’re silly, Roger,” Myra said, pausing to slip a foot back into Genesis’ shoes, now 'hers' but still ill-fitting despite her growth. In her hindsight, these really weren’t proper to go exploring in. “I think they’ll notice half of us kids missing from our seats.”
Hugo spoke up in his friend’s defense from a bush, having pushed past the two of them to lead the way. “And we think you’re chicken.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
Bickering like this was common between her and Hugo. She simply didn’t understand him. Hugo was older than her, but newest to Freehold. His upbringing wasn’t like hers. It wasn’t his world as it had been hers, and it put them at odds ever since his arrival. Still, Myra puffed her cheeks and stomped after him through the crunch of foliage. Anything for Roger.
Outside the cave entrance, Roger took his lighter to four hand-torches, including the one propped on the wall, and handed the rest out accordingly. Myra basked in its warmth while the boys pulled their guide-rope taut, installed only a few weeks prior. Myra took it with one hand before giggling, “A skull in the stomach cave! Maybe it was just hungry.”
Hugo went first. “It’s Stamnach, and be serious.” He was one to talk! The first few meters past the entrance were a straight shot, until it narrowed, then opened again to a wide, aptly named interior. In this main chamber, stalagmite deposition and stream erosion were rife, creating rifts and dangers the deeper they ventured. “Stick together, or we’ll get eaten too.”
And she didn’t dare leave them, so maybe she was chicken after all. At times, Myra even called on them for their help; Roger let her use his knee as a bony stool while Hugo pulled her up to higher inclines. She had slipped on wet rock and landed on her tailbone; and before that, her ankle had gotten caught on the guide-rope.
“…This skull doesn’t exist, does it?” Myra called out wearily, desperate to surface and go back home. “Stupid boys! You tricked me.”
Roger’s eyes gleamed despite the sediment caked on his face and hair. “No, really! It’s right through there!” With one hand, he took her face and turned it to the nearest passage, a passage that Myra had to squint to make out, even among the glow of their torches. Who could fit in that?
Hugo grounded his torch and instructed the others to do the same. “Roger, let’s switch places. You’re smaller than me, so you lead Myra through to see it. I’ll stay here. And take this.” He paused to rummage through a pocket and retrieve a wand. Myra held her breath—you had to be approved to use those in Freehold. Given Roger’s reaction, or lack thereof, he had already known. Of course.
“Rad! Gimme, gimme!” Roger said with grabby-hands.
Hugo hesitated, then looked to Roger for guidance. “…What’s it, again? Light? Luma? …Lumos?”
Well, yes, but also no. It seemed to Myra that everything that happened next had done so in slow motion. First, Hugo’s really-should-have-been-confiscated wand did actually erupt in light, but was it supposed to be so loud? Second, the ground shook violently, sending Myra off balance and into Hugo’s chest. Third was their fearful faces shooting towards the cave ceiling, and Myra’s following to discover that they were all inconveniently under the path of a falling stalactite.
Almost instinctively, Myra took them by their elbows and braced for death. But death was taking an awfully long time to arrive, and since when did the dead still have racing heartbeats? Myra gasped, and opened one eye at a time to near darkness after the dust settled. One of three torches remained lit in the chaos, but more miraculously was the iridescent sphere surrounding the trio, unharmed, if not but a little frazzled. Myra relieved her grasp on Hugo to touch it; a solid bubble shield.
“I told you again, Myra! They won’t notice we’re gone.”
Late evening’s Church service had been in session, and Roger thought that was the perfect time to lean over and whisper about the human skull he’d found in the unmapped paths of Cave Stamnach. All of the children had named it so together because it was shaped like a stomach, but “Cave Stomach” didn’t sound mysterious enough for Hugo’s liking, so they threw in some extra letters, took one away, and made the word look all funny. Either way, the trio was going to it now, their forms concealed under a setting sun and tree canopy, Freehold’s walls shrinking behind them.
“You’re silly, Roger,” Myra said, pausing to slip a foot back into Genesis’ shoes, now 'hers' but still ill-fitting despite her growth. In her hindsight, these really weren’t proper to go exploring in. “I think they’ll notice half of us kids missing from our seats.”
Hugo spoke up in his friend’s defense from a bush, having pushed past the two of them to lead the way. “And we think you’re chicken.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
Bickering like this was common between her and Hugo. She simply didn’t understand him. Hugo was older than her, but newest to Freehold. His upbringing wasn’t like hers. It wasn’t his world as it had been hers, and it put them at odds ever since his arrival. Still, Myra puffed her cheeks and stomped after him through the crunch of foliage. Anything for Roger.
Outside the cave entrance, Roger took his lighter to four hand-torches, including the one propped on the wall, and handed the rest out accordingly. Myra basked in its warmth while the boys pulled their guide-rope taut, installed only a few weeks prior. Myra took it with one hand before giggling, “A skull in the stomach cave! Maybe it was just hungry.”
Hugo went first. “It’s Stamnach, and be serious.” He was one to talk! The first few meters past the entrance were a straight shot, until it narrowed, then opened again to a wide, aptly named interior. In this main chamber, stalagmite deposition and stream erosion were rife, creating rifts and dangers the deeper they ventured. “Stick together, or we’ll get eaten too.”
And she didn’t dare leave them, so maybe she was chicken after all. At times, Myra even called on them for their help; Roger let her use his knee as a bony stool while Hugo pulled her up to higher inclines. She had slipped on wet rock and landed on her tailbone; and before that, her ankle had gotten caught on the guide-rope.
“…This skull doesn’t exist, does it?” Myra called out wearily, desperate to surface and go back home. “Stupid boys! You tricked me.”
Roger’s eyes gleamed despite the sediment caked on his face and hair. “No, really! It’s right through there!” With one hand, he took her face and turned it to the nearest passage, a passage that Myra had to squint to make out, even among the glow of their torches. Who could fit in that?
Hugo grounded his torch and instructed the others to do the same. “Roger, let’s switch places. You’re smaller than me, so you lead Myra through to see it. I’ll stay here. And take this.” He paused to rummage through a pocket and retrieve a wand. Myra held her breath—you had to be approved to use those in Freehold. Given Roger’s reaction, or lack thereof, he had already known. Of course.
“Rad! Gimme, gimme!” Roger said with grabby-hands.
Hugo hesitated, then looked to Roger for guidance. “…What’s it, again? Light? Luma? …Lumos?”
Well, yes, but also no. It seemed to Myra that everything that happened next had done so in slow motion. First, Hugo’s really-should-have-been-confiscated wand did actually erupt in light, but was it supposed to be so loud? Second, the ground shook violently, sending Myra off balance and into Hugo’s chest. Third was their fearful faces shooting towards the cave ceiling, and Myra’s following to discover that they were all inconveniently under the path of a falling stalactite.
Almost instinctively, Myra took them by their elbows and braced for death. But death was taking an awfully long time to arrive, and since when did the dead still have racing heartbeats? Myra gasped, and opened one eye at a time to near darkness after the dust settled. One of three torches remained lit in the chaos, but more miraculously was the iridescent sphere surrounding the trio, unharmed, if not but a little frazzled. Myra relieved her grasp on Hugo to touch it; a solid bubble shield.