Name: Yana Mikhalovna Levitina- her dads, and eventually her friends, call her Yanika
Pronouns: She/Her or They/Them
Age: 30
Orientation: Lesbian
Zodiac: Cancer Sun, Aquarius Moon, Gemini Rising
LI: Natiqa Satrinava
Occupation: Novelist
Favorite Flower, Food, and Drink: Dahlia, Macaroons, Iced Coffee
Masquerade Costume: Lovebird
Patron Arcana: The Moon
Lore Juice beneath the cut
Having migrated from Nevivon decades ago, Yana’s dads, Mikhail and Osip ran a small but vibrant cafe in the floor below their apartment in the Temple District. Though veering to reserved and quiet, Yana greatly enjoyed being in the company of people- most of whom she found fascinating in their own way. It wasn't unusual for her to spend most of the time she wasn't assisting her fathers simply observing the people who went in and out of the cafe or in the markets or the streets outside- going about their day and playing out the dramas of their lives.
Though they werent ever rich, Mikhail and Osip were loving, doting fathers. Knowing Yana's vibrant imagination, and to encourage her to learn to read in a city where literacy wasn't universally distributed, they brought her comics and serialized paperbacks from the market, also supplemented by contributions from kind-hearted patrons and neighbors, and soon enough it was unusual to find her without one of the thin, brittle-spined volumes.
It was this love for stories, combined with her fondness for people, that led her to begin writing stories of her own. Her writing was her love letter to both of these loves- handwritten and handbound and magically reproduced, they were her attempt at, despite her own reserved disposition and what she sees as her own plainness and ineptitude to conversation- through her writing she could love people, and through her writing she could reach out to them and comfort them.
They were, and are, in the same template as those serialized paperbacks- risque romances and whodunnits, ranging from the feel good and mushy to titillating and exciting. She still harbors no inclination to write anything else, either. Hallowed as the names of some artists may be, she sees herself as not an artist but a friend to her readers, though she always doubts whether she even is a worthy one at all on that front.
Despite the number of Vesuvians to whom her writing became a staple- read aloud among friends and spoken about- Yana has a hard time believing that they aren't just doing these things or saying them to be kind to her.
Her doubts, however, never put her off from writing. She does so anyway, particularly through the terrible years of the plague and its aftermath, writes almost incessantly, trying to bring even the tiniest sliver of happiness in the darkest of times. She believed that even if she weren't adequate, she could still try, and try, and try again till she could become the kind of writer, the kind of friend, who could reflect the comfort and excitement that she'd always recieved from them.
On an early summer morning, having scoured the bookstalls and the marketplace and tracked down the writer through sheer word of mouth, Natiqa Satrinava nearly misses the important diplomatic appointment she'd been in Vesuvia for because she'd binge read a series during in the time between meetings and the author had the audacity to leave her hanging at a cliffhanger.
And there was no way she was leaving this place without finding out who Yana Levitina is and asking her for how much longer she'd have to wait for the next goddamn instalment.
