Myra Alexander

[Myra Alexander]

ABOUT YOU

name you want to go by: Jess
how you found us: grrr
other characters you play: Artemis Callaghan and Rhiley McDuff

Myra Alexander

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phrase or snippet that describes your char

Full Name: Myra Elizabeth Alexander

Nicknames: none

Species: Vampire

Age: 16

Age Appearance: 16

Orientation: Bisexual

Grade in Minuit: Sixth

Physical Characteristics:

Played By: deviantart model, payosa

Special Abilities: Myra has all the usual perks of being a vampire. Heightened senses, unnatural strength, speed and agility. All that good stuff. But she also has a very strong telepathic ability that she hasn't really noticed. It's quite hilarious, actually. She'll hear someone thinking, and think they were speaking aloud, and then reply to their thoughts. It annoys many people. But one other abilty that Myra has noticed, though not had much of a chance to practice with, is the ability of flight. Most vampires don't gain this ability even remotely until they are several centuries old.

Personality: Myra is quiet sort of person. She keeps to herself mostly and doesn't like confrontation. But she isn't shy, though crowds do make her slightly uncomfortable. She'll talk to just about anyone who will stand still long enough to listen. She only says what she feels is the honest truth. Often what she says is highly intelligent and insightful, because she is a very observant and witty person, but her musing are often viewed as being completely insane. But she's very blunt, and states her opinions quite clearly, however unorthodox they may be.

She is a very eccentric person, and sometimes can be misunderstood. She's really very agreeable and friendly, even sweet, but if she doesn't like you, she will enjoy messing with your head. She has a tendency to space out quite often, and may seem as if she isn't listening or doesn't care, but that is quite untrue. Though she may be distant and always in a sort of dream-like state, if you get to know her, you'll find that she's actually a very good listener and can provide excellent advice, though she is rarely taken seriously. She spends most of her time reading books, or wandering the forests and the halls of her home like some sort of ghost.

Myra is also quite mischievous. She often enjoys stirring up just a little bit of trouble, or maybe messing with someone's head. But when she does those things, she has no malicious intent, really. She just likes to have fun, and she is very, very playful. And while her childish antics often get on the nerves of the elders of her kind, many find it somewhat endearing. She's quite the little charmer, actually.

This girl also has quite the feisty attitude at times. She is headstrong and independent, never letting her opinions go unvoiced. She is definitely not shy. She has somewhat of a quiet demeanor, but she's not shy. She just only gets loud when she's very passionate about something, or is causing mayhem. Myra is very warm and friendly too. She'll talk to just about anyone who will stand still long enough to listen. She loves to help people out and give them advice, but she is very rarely taken seriously. The things she says are often very insightful, because she is a very observant and intelligent person, but her insights are often viewed as insane and unorthodox.

Likes:

• blood
  
• white chrysanthemums
  
• reciting poetry
  
• strange diseases and creatures
  
• laughing
  
• technology
  
• yellow
  

Dislikes:

• being stuck indoors
  
• narrow mindedness
  
• not being taken seriously
  
• being alone
  
• being ignored
  
• math
  
• history
  

Fears:

• small spaces
  
• being kicked out of minuit academy
  
• getting bad grades
  

Goals:

• to graduate with high standing
  
• to raise awareness of strange ailments and creatures
  
• to make friends
  

Family Members:Her parents, Cinna and Bianca Alexander. And her brother, Benjamin (deceased).

Birth Place: A small, unknown town in England

History:

'I want to die. Please, just let me die. I can't bear it anymore, just let me die,' the little sick girl thought miserably. She clutched weakly at the tattered quilt that covered her and turned her pallid face to press it against the feather pillows. Tiny beads of sweat sprang up all across her forehead, trickling down her face to dampen the pillows and her long, dirty blonde hair that tumbled down over her narrow shoulders. The room began to spin, making her nassuous as she closed her eyes tightly against it, and then she coughed again. Blood spattered down her chin and onto her faded blue nightgown. She didn't bother to wipe it away, she was too tired and she would just cough again anyway.
It was then that she heard the quiet murmer of hushed voiced and realized there were others in the room. She opened her emerald optics and strained against the darkness to see who was in the room with her. By the dim light coming from behind the antique lace curtains of her window, she could just make out the faint shapes of her parents. She saw, through blurred vision, the imposing profile of her father standing by the side of her bed, turned towards her mother, whose slender form leaned against the wall near the doorway with her long arms folded lightly across her chest. They were whispering urgently to each other, but it was all slurred and incoherent to the dying girl in the double bed.
She caught only bits and pieces of their discussion, "Been like this for over a month... no improvement whatsoever... Tuberculosis... they say its an epidemic... could she be turned?... she's much too young... can't just let her die, what would the others think?... she's far too young, she isn't strong enough... she's smart... she's crazy... she's our daughter... it would be irresponsible. It's against the Code!... we can't just let her die, what will they say? She's so pretty, it would be such a waste... " This torrent of words meant nothing to the sick one, they washed right over her. She simply screwed up her gaunt face against the pain in her stomach as another wave of nassua hit her and she uttered a pitiable moan. The voices stopped and, within minutes, she drifted off into another feverish dream.
A very small girl was walking through the big drafty corridors of the castle. She knew this castle. The girl was a 7-year-old version of the deathly ill one in the bed, who was now probably about 17 or so. Her long frizzy blonde was tied back in two braids and she had a soft pink bathrobe wrapped loosely around her. She hummed softly under breath, an eerie old tune, as she still often did, with her small chubby hand holding a copper candleholder with a beeswax candle out in front of her to light her way. Quiet footsteps led to the big doors of her parents' enormous library. She pushed her way inside and her green eyes glittered with delight as she gazed around the very familiar room. Shelves upon shelves filled to the brim with mounds of entertaining and informative books.
She walked immediately to a nearby shelf and pulled out on of her favorite books, The Complete Works and Tales of Edgar Allen Poe. She smiled as she took it and padded over to a large window. She pushed the window open, letting the warm summer night in, and sat down beside it. She flipped through the book to a story called "The Mask of the Red Death" and began to read. Within a few minutes, a small kitten of the Tabby variety, by the name of Dinah, trotted across the floor with a quiet mew. She leapt up into the girl's lap and curled up to sleep, a pink tongue visible as the fuzzball yawned. She read late into the night and fell asleep before very long, until she was discovered by a thoroughly annoyed older brother soon after dawn. Here, everything became blackness and the dream faded into nothing.
She felt the sickness return to her and coughed up a couple of droplet of blood. She knew she was moving very fast, a breeze was blowing back her tangled mop of hair that was matted with sweat. The breeze actually felt very nice on her burning forehead. She felt someone's arms around her, powerful and like marble. They were cool against her bare arms and felt soothing to her feverish skin. They were her father's arms. He was carrying her somewhere with unnatural speed. Within seconds, he slowed to a hault. They were in another dark room, lit only by a single candelabra that held three candles. The walls were stone and the floor was dirt, she guessed that they must be deep underground. The smell of the damp Earth and mildew engulfed her as her father slowly lowered her to the ground. She clung tightly to him to keep from falling and buried her face against his shoulder without bothering to look around. He felt like a statue beneath the cloth.
He put a hand on her golden head and spoke quietly to her. "Myra, "he said, for that was her name, "Listen to me now. This is of the utmost importance. You know you are dying. Is that what yo wish? Or would you become like your mother and myself, in that form for eternity?"
'Yes, yes. Anything but this pain. Please, please...' she thought, but she was unable to find the words. It seemed she didn't to.
"Very well, "he replied, "but you must obey every order and command you are given without question. You must be loyal to the Coven and do as you are told."
'Anything. Just make it go away.' He put a finger under her chin to lift her blanched facade up towards him. His features were solemn and grim, as if every fiber of his being was telling him not to go through with this. As if the entire thing were against his better judgment. Every line was etched permanently into his eternally young face, the face of one of Rembrant's saints. Thick black, glossy locks curled neatly and elegantly under his seashell ears. His dark, charcoal eyes were bright. Too bright.
"Be still, my Darling, "he commanded coldly. With that, he pushed her unruly hair behind her shoulders to expose her bare throat and gracefully bent his raven haired head to the blue vein. She gasped loudly and tightened her grip as the two pearly white fangs pierced the skin. Her heart pounded loudly in her head as he drew the blood from her, completely drowning out all other noise and thought. Scenes of her earlier childhood flew before her, including the one in her fever dream. Soon her grasp slackened and she was no longer holding on to him.
"Myra, don't fade. Be strong. I need you to drink,"came her father's insistent voice. Her eyelids fluttered open, but she couldn't move. Her limbs were too heavy. Her father pulled her towards him, his lips glistening red with blood. She bent slowly to tear a gaping wound in his deathly pale neck and began to suck out the blood. It was hot thick as it flowed into her mouth and down her throat, settling pleasantly in her gut. She continued to draw it from him gluttonously, pulling more and more blood, her heart still pounding loudly in her ears like the symbols of a marching band, but now the beat of his heart had been added to it as well. She almost succumbed to the blood swoon before her father roughly pushed her away.
"That's enough, "he growled impatiently, a slight weakness to his voice that hadn't been there before. He took the blood from her once more, and she did the same. The second time, she was delighted to find that she had sprouted two sharp fangs of her own and tore a new wound. When he pushed her away again, he leaned wearily against the cold stone and closed his eyes. Myra hungered for much more blood, but said nothing for the moment. She wiped the blood away from her lips, but of course there was nothing to wipe. Vampires never spill a drop, only in the motion pictures. She could barely remember the pain of her illness now. It was blocked out by the ecstasy of the drink. She felt strong like a tower. Invincible. Unbreakable. Immortal.
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Blood. That's what she wanted. She had to have it. Deep in the crypt below the castle, she craved for it. Confined in her dusty, ancient sarcophagus, she longed for it. She dreamed of it. She dreamed of holding someone close in her arms, and draining them of it until their heart stopped ticking, and then draining another. She dreamed of the delicious hot liquid gushing into her mouth and down her throat. She could smell it. Even in her deathlike sleep, she could smell it. There in the dark walls of her sepulcher, her eyes snapped open. Two vivid green pinpricks in the dark of her coffin. Her brother was lurking. He knew of course, and he wanted to see for himself. Poor, jealous Benjamin. He was the one who was supposed to be turned, not her. He was the one they wanted, not her.
But it didn't matter now. Benjamin had blood, and that's what she wanted. Its what she wanted so badly that it could wake her early. With all her strength she pushed back the lid, biting her lips slightly at the noise of the grinding stone raking in her ears. Momentarily forgetting about her newly emerged fangs, she had accidentally punctured lip and a small droplet of blood rose upon it like a budding flower. She licked it away, savoring the saltiness of it, wetting her appetite. There he was. Sneaking, spying Benjamin. His brown eyes opened wide at the sight of her, utterly bewildered what she would awaken so early. The sight of her was ghastly. So deathly pale her skin, from being ill during her turning.
Only a day had passed, but already her rosebud lips had paled, her fingernails shimmered like glass, her eyes burned with hunger. The poor fledgling hadn't fed once since she'd been turned. She didn't know it at the time, but this was a particularly vile and cruel thing on the part of her maker. The only thing unchanged was her glistening mane of golden tresses that looked as if it gave off its own light, just as her emerald optics did. She looked thin and drawn, as if suffering from starvation, which in fact she was. An unimportant simple white gown clung loosely to her slender frame. Benjamin was such a contrast to Myra. He was quite tall, about six foot, much taller than his sister's five foot, two, and around twenty years old. He was of a large build, thick muscles so similar to his father's, but still lean. He had a mess of dark curly hair sitting atop his finely shaped head, long enough to fall into his face constantly, but too short to tie back. His skin was naturally pale, but nothing compared to the others. When the feeling of surprise seemed to fade, he appeared thoroughly annoyed with the very sight of her.
"I knew it. I knew they'd give into you. I knew they'd break the rules, "he spat at her. She didn't seem to hear him.
"They'll die because of you, you know. They'll be killed, because you exist." He seemed to be even angrier because she wasn't responding. Somewhere deep within the recesses of her mind, Myra was wounded deeply by his honest words, but she didn't look as if she cared in the least. All thought was drowned out by the color red... A small, placid smile graced her features as she started to cross the dusky, dusty tomb, passing the sarcophagi of her parents, enjoying the feel of the hard Earth beneath her feet. A look of alarm claimed her brother's face, the beginnings of sheer fear, and he started to back away, but not soon enough.
The blonde one leapt forward and grabbed him, swiftly pushing his head back to sink her teeth into that big blue artery in his neck. She was immediately filled with the blood, closing her eyes, almost giving into the blood swoon. His shout reverberated loudly off the walls as he pushed uselessly against her. He was big, but she was a vampire. Yes, keep struggling... Don't give up... Then, all too quickly, she was thrown backwards across the room and cracked her head against the far, cobweb-covered, cold stone wall and slumped to the ground. It was her father. Apparently Ben's frantic shouting had awoken her parents, and they were absolutely livid...
She shut her eyes tight against the searing, blinding pain in her head as it slowly subsided to a dull throbbing. Then they opened to reveal the vague, wobbly outlines of her parents fierce forms looming over her. "What have you done?" her mother whispered, silky voice now hard as stone, quivering with suppressed rage in every syllable. And soon after, she was sent here, to Minuit Academy...

Code Word: edited by admin