talkative whumpee going completely silent and nonverbal after their trauma. caretaker and friends try to help them, but the most they get is a blank stare, short nods and head shakes, and the occasional tap on the shoulder.
cw:/ recovery and rescue whump, trauma response, vampire caretaker, bloodbag whumpee, whumpee thinks caretaker is new whumper, reference to previous torture/abuse/captivity, paranoia, medical interventions, loss of speech, loss of autonomy, disability/immobility, toileting (please let me know if I've missed any!)
Fear dawned on Declan long before the new day's sun did. He lay paralysed, eyes fixed hard on the bedroom door, waiting for the inevitable click of the latch. He was exhausted, a bone-deep fatigue that made his marrow ache - he had fiercely fought sleep off until his eyes burned red.
With the daylight came the vampire. He couldn't quite wrap his pounding head around that. Under Vince’s thrall, the sunrise was a ceasefire. It meant Master had finally skulked away to the upper floors of his grand estate, retreating for his slumber. On the best days, he'd be hauled from the dark and permitted to exist above ground whilst Vince slept. He would spend the day scrubbing floors and polishing silverware until his hands were cracked and sore, but he did it gladly.
Back-breaking labour was a holiday if it meant he could breathe air that didn't smell like the damp basement.
Nothing made a lick of sense here. He was under the impression vampires were nocturnal things, like wolves, that slept the day away, primed and ready for the night's kill. Not this one. Something was wrong with this one. August would sleep through the night, and latch himself to Declan through the day.
It hadn't been like that at the start. The vampire had purposefully warped his own nature to mirror Declan's sleep cycle - to ensure he had no sanctuary.
It was Sod's law. Decan would have given anything for their schedules to flip. If the leech slept whilst Declan was awake, he might have a moment to just exist without being watched. He could breathe without a witness. But no. Like a cruel clock, they were now perfectly synced. Each and every time Declan cracked open his bleary eyes, August was already there. Every waking hour was a shared one. The monster didn't haunt the night anymore; now he had claimed the day too.
Declan lay propped against the pillows, his body a useless sack of atrophied muscle and bruised skin. Yesterday’s physiotherapy had been taxing; August had spent what felt like hours manually stretching Declan’s shortened tendons, forcing a range of motion that his broken body had long forgotten how to possess.
It had left him impossibly more bed-bound than before, his nervous system shattered and screaming in a language of white-hot exhaustion.
He couldn't feel his legs at all now - just a hollow vacuum where his strength used to be, sapped by August. His hands rested atop the white duvet, tingling with an electric numbness that made the simple act of curling a finger feel like trying to lift a mountain. He was only being broken further by the very hands that ‘claimed’ to be fixing him.
The click of the door was a gunshot in the silence of the room. Declan didn't move - he couldn't - but his heart performed a frantic, stuttering dance against his ribs. He kept his gaze fixed down, on the duvet, watching the way his hands trembled as he bundled the sheets in his fist.
“Good morning, Declan,” August said. His voice was a calm baritone, leveled to avoid triggering a startle response, yet to Declan, it sounded like a judge's sentence. He stayed by the door for a beat, letting Declan register his presence before daring to move a single inch closer. “I know how much yesterday took out of you. It was grueling, but you did exceptionally well - you should be so proud. We're going to pull back a little. No big hurdles today, let you catch your breath. We'll keep things small, low impact.”
Low impact. Declan's mind sneered at the phrase even as his stomach curdled. Everything was an impact. Being alive was an impact.
August pulled a chair close, but not too close. He sat, leaning forward just enough to be engaging, but keeping his hands visible on his knees. It was a posture of feigned harmlessness that Declan didn't buy into.
“Before we start, I'd like to examine what we're working with,, if that's okay?” August asked softly. “I need to see how the throat is settling.”
Declan's pulse began to hammer specifically against the skin of his neck, right in the silver-white craters where the fangs had consistently sunk. To August, it must look like a beacon. A visible invitation. Declan's mind plunged. He remembered the way Vince used to look at his throat with those hungry, dilated pupils. He remembered the coldness of a tip of a nose pressed against his jugular, the deep and terrifying sniff.
He's checking the site, Declan thought, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. Searching for scar tissue. Seeing if there's a fresh patch of skin left where the vein hasn't been collapsed or chewed to ribbons. He wanted to pull his chin down, tuck his head like a tortoise and protect the most vulnerable inch of his body.
August pulled a small penlight from his pocket, clicking it on. “Could you open for me, Declan. Please. Say ah?”
The please was the worst part - the illusion that Declan had any choice in the matter. Declan's jaw unhinged in an obedient but mechanical reflex. When a vampire commands, the vessel obeys. He squeezed his eyes shut as the light hit the back of his throat. He waited for the bite to pierce his neck. He waited for August to decide he looked “ripe” enough to drain, or for a gloved hand to wrap around his windpipe to see how much pressure it would take to make him gasp.
Go ahead - his spirit wilted into bitter resentment. See how much is left of me to take.
“Hm. The ulcers are almost gone, and the swelling has settled,” August murmured, examining. “But the muscles in your larynx are still incredibly tight…
…Declan? Could you open your eyes?”
He didn't even realise they were still clamped shut, or that he was trembling so hard the bed frame was rattling. A shuddering breath escaped, Delcan's tear-filled eyes blew open. They locked with the blood-thirsty red of his masters.
“We're just going to try some vocal exercises today, okay? Nothing more. Your vocal cords are atrophied from disuse. Just like your legs, we have to wake them up. We'll start small, I want you to feel the vibration here." August touched his own throat, over the thyroid cartilage. "A simple hum. Mmmmmm. Try to mirror me."
A deep, vibrating hum rumbled through August's lips. He made it look so effortless. Declan envied that.
"I want you to try. Keep your lips closed. Just make the sound in your throat. Feel the buzz."
Declan stared. A trick. Of course. It had to be. Vince used to silence him with a look alone. A single push of persuasion that welded his lips shut until he choked on his own scream. Now his new Master wanted noise? Why? To what end?
Declan drew in a shaky breath. It felt like inhaling broken glass. He forced his lips together and pushed air through his constricted throat. "Hhm... nnn..." A pathetic, airy rasp. It wasn't a hum; it was the sound of a dying engine.
"Again," August encouraged, his expression maddeningly patient and understanding. "Don't worry about the volume. Just that vibration. Let the sound sit in your chest."
Declan tried again, his face heating with a mixture of shame and agony. "Mmm...nnnn..." A tiny, friction-filled vibration sparked in his throat. It hurt. It felt like sandpaper rubbing against an open wound. But he did it.
“Excellent!” August praised, and the warmth in his otherwise cold eyes made Declan's skin crawl. Why the hell are you happy? Declan screamed in the privacy of his skull. What do you want with my voice? Is it so you can wrangle a good scream out of me? Is the silence too boring for you? You want to hear me beg?
“Now we’ll try something else. Ready?” He raised three fingers. “Repeat after me: pa… ta… ka.”
Declan hesitated at first. Then: “Puh… tuh… ku-”
The ‘k’ nearly collapsed into a cough. August gently touched his own throat. “That last one -‘ka’ - uses the back of the tongue. It’s the hardest. That’s okay. We’ll work on it. We'll keep practicing.”
They continued for what felt like an eternity, August leading him through a series of wearying vocal exercises. They moved from simple syllables into rhythmic repetitions - stretching vowels into thin, shaky threads of sound and clicking tongues against the roof of the mouth until Declan’s jaw throbbed. His eyes were constantly locked on August’s mouth, studying every movement. Determined.
“The pathways are still there. They just need time to find their way back to the surface, you're doing perfectly. ”
Declan felt like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel. He watched August, waiting for the punchline - waiting for the moment the "therapy" turned into a demand he couldn't meet. He was just a dog being taught to sit, being praised for not biting the hand that held the leash.
August, seemingly sensing his spiral, decided to shift gears. “Making sounds is a start, but I would like to try some actual words too. Just a few for now.”
Declan braced himself. He expected the staples; Master. Please. Sir. Sorry. He worked his tongue, preparing for the shape of his own submission. His eyes tracked every movement as August reached for his writing pad sat on the bedside table, scribbling fast.
When he turned the paper around, Declan couldn’t believe his eyes. His brows knitted with confusion. He stared at the three words, like they might jump off the page and attack him.
No.
Yes.
Stop.
Those words…they would give him control. They…would give him his voice. Truly.
August leaned in, his eyes intense but strangely…sad? “No.”
Declan blinked, utterly astounded. Lost for words… if he could have spoken them in the first place.
“Say it, Declan. Repeat it after me. No.”
Declan's breath hitched. He felt the phantom pressure of a snake coiling around his throat and squeezing all the air out. No? He couldn’t. You didn't say that word to a vampire. No was forbidden. No meant Vince would peel his mind apart layer by layer until he didn't know his own name. He shook his head, tears pricking his eyes.
Don't make me, Master. Please. I don't like this game.
“It's safe,” August promised, reaching out to Declan but he flinched back so hard his head thwacked against the headboard. August recoiled in a heartbeat. “You're safe. Declan, you are allowed to deny me. You are allowed to refuse. You have total agency here, with me. You can say no.”
Declan's mouth stuttered open. His lips shaped the word, but his vocal cords seized as though to protect him from the mistake he was about to make. The conditioning was a physical wall he couldn't scale over. He gasped, choking on the syllable, panic crashing over him in tides. The leech was setting him up to fail - giving him a reason to be punished. God knows Vince used to do the same.
The monitor beside the bed began to beep faster.
"Okay. Okay, stop." August’s hands were up, palms open. "Breathe. Declan, look at me. Breathe."
Declan wheezed, shaking violently. He waited for the anger. He waited for the punishment for failing the test. It was a lose-lose situation from the get-go.
"We’ll come back to that," August said softly, reassuring. He looked disappointed, but not at Declan. At himself. At the situation. “I'm sorry -”
Sorry. Not only does this vampire sleep the night away and walk the day, but he apologises too. Maybe Declan wasn't brought back to life, and maybe he did die and he's stuck in purgatory…or hell.
“Your voice is tired, and you are exhausted too. But you need a way to tell us what you need. When the words are too hard to grasp, maybe use your hands. May I?”
If he refused, the ‘caring’ mask would slip, and the monster would simply take what he wanted anyway. Better to be a willing victim than a forced one. He let his hand slide a fraction of an inch across the duvet toward August. It was a silent surrender, his eyes fixed on the vampire’s, waiting for the first touch to turn into a bruising grip.
August gently took Declan's hand - the one that wasn't curled into a claw of tension - and carefully manipulated the fingers. “This,” August tapped Declan’s fingers against his thumb, mimicking a beak closing. He brought Declan's hand up to his chin. “This means food, or eat”. He pried Declan's beaked hand into a C-shape, and performed a sipping motion, “this is drink-”
He moved Declan's hand again, this time forming a ‘T’ shape. “This is toilet”. Finally, he flattened Declan's palm. facing outward. “And this…this means stop. If Lucas or I are doing something you don't like, if it hurts, if you are scared…you show us this palm. And then we stop. Immediately.”
Declan stared at his own pale, trembling hand. A shield? August was giving him a shield?
“Try it,” August urged.
Slowly, fighting the tremors in his muscles, Declan raised his hand in the air. He flattened his palm towards August. The vampire immediately leaned back, creating distance. “Perfect. Good job! I see that. I stop.”
August stood up then, and the sudden height difference made Declan shrink into the mattress.
“I think that's a good place to call it. That’s more than enough for today,” August said, oblivious to the way Declan had flattened himself against the bedding. “I'll send Lucas up with some breakfast shortly. He asked me to get eggs, mushrooms, and bacon. Said he was gonna make an… egg…-let… no… om-lettuce. Something like that.”
August gave a small, self-deprecating shrug that looked entirely too human on a creature of his stature. If Declan wasn't scared out of his wits, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it. The vamp lingered for a moment, his gaze sweeping over Declan with a quiet, paternal sort of pride, before he turned and padded out of the room.
Declan stared at the empty doorway, the word om-lettuce echoing in his mind. He knew he should stay awake. He knew that when a master provided food, you were expected to show gratitude by consuming it. He braced himself, listening for Lucas’s heavier tread on the stairs, intending to force his throat to work one more time for the sake of the meal.
But the stress of the "lessons" had acted like a physical blow. The adrenaline that had been keeping him upright drained away, leaving his limbs feeling like cement. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, the room blurring into a haze. He tried to keep his head up, but his chin drifted to his chest, the phantom sound of sizzling bacon fading into the distance.
The task of staying awake was a mountain he simply couldn't climb.
—
The urge woke him hours later.
It was a sharp, demanding pressure in his lower abdomen. Declan blinked into the darkness, his heart rate spiking instantly.
He needed the bathroom.
Shame, hot and prickly, washed over him. Since waking up in this bed, he had been subjected to the bedpan. The humiliation of it - having to be lifted, adjusted, and cleaned like an infant. He didn't want to think about what had happened before he woke up. He pushed those memories down into the dark water where he kept the worst of Vince’s tortures.
He turned his head. The en-suite door was cracked slightly ajar. He could see the gleam of the tiles. It was right there. He'd never been in there, never been able to reach it. Never thought to try..
A memory superimposed itself over the room: Vince’s basement. It had been kitted out with amenities, a gilded cage meant to keep his "pet" healthy and clean. The chain around Declan's ankle had been long enough to reach the bathroom and the kitchenette, but not to reach the stairs. There had been no doors. Not one He’d spent years forced to use those facilities in the open, under the unblinking, predatory gaze of a monster who refused to grant him even a second of privacy.
Declan looked down at his legs. There was no iron cuff around his ankle now. No rattling chain bolted to the wall. But as he tried to shift his weight, his limbs felt as heavy as lead. His own body was the chain now; the atrophy was the restraint. He was still anchored to the bed, trapped by the very muscles that had forgotten how to serve him.
I can’t wet the bed, he thought, panic rising. If I soil these sheets, Master will be angry. He’ll think I’m broken. Dirty. Then, the punishment would surely and finally come. He grit his teeth. He had to try. He had to prove he was housebroken.
With a groan of strenuous effort that sounded too loud in the quiet room, Declan used all his strength, dragging his torso toward the edge of the mattress. His arms shook violently. He hooked a hand over the edge of the bed, pulling, dragging his weight inch by agonising inch.
He got his legs over the side. He took a breath. He pushed off. He’d hoped his legs would hold him. He expected pain, yes, but he expected to at least stand.
He didn't stand.
His knees buckled instantly, legs turning to jelly. Declan hit the floor hard. His shoulder slammed into the carpet, the impact jarring his teeth. A cry of pain tore out of him before he could bite it back. Declan lay crumpled on the rug, gasping, pain radiating through his hip and shoulder. Tears stung his eyes. Get up, he screamed at himself.
He dug his fingers into the carpet, trying to drag himself toward the bathroom. He was a worm. A pathetic, wriggling worm.
The door flew open. Light flooded the room. Declan squeezed his eyes shut and curled into a ball, shielding his head with his hands.
"Declan?"
August. Albeit, his voice wasn't angry, as Declan expected - it was alarmed. There was a rush of air, and then the vampire was there, kneeling beside him.
Declan tried to scream, but it came out as a strangled whimper. He flinched away, pressing his face into the floor. I was trying to escape. That’s what he thinks. He thinks I’m disobedient.
"Declan, are you hurt? Did you fall?" August’s hands were hovering, terrified to make contact and cause more fear.
Declan was already hyperventilating to the point of nausea. The air wouldn't go into his lungs. He was going to be punished. He'd be strapped down to the bed, chain around his ankle or worse - compelled to helplessly lie there.
Tell him, a desperate voice in his head whispered. Use the words. He couldn't speak. His throat was locked tight by terror.
“T-toi-” he couldn't work his throat around the oi sound to the el.
Use your hands. When you can't grasp the words-
Declan opened his watery eyes. He looked up at the vampire looming over him. August looked frantic, unknowingly to Declan, his eyes scanning for apparent injuries, maybe even more broken bones.
With a trembling hand, Declan reached out. He formed his fingers into a fist, thumb tucked under the index finger. He shook it slightly. Then, he clumsily transitioned into the 'T' shape August had shown him.
Toilet.
His eyes darted and he pointed a shaking finger toward the open bathroom door.
August froze. He looked at the hand sign, then at the bathroom, then back to Declan. The realization washed over the vampire’s face, softening the panic into heartbreak. "You... you needed the bathroom?" August understood.
Declan nodded frantically.
"Okay. Okay, let me help you-” August reached out to scoop him up.
Declan saw the hands coming and instinct took over. He panicked. He didn't want to be grabbed. Before he could think, he threw his hand up, palm facing outward, fingers splayed.
Stop.
August halted instantly, like a magic spell had frozen him on the spot. He rocked back on his heels, giving Declan space. "I see it. I see 'stop'. I’m stopping."
The validation was dizzying. He had signaled, and the monster had obeyed. Declan took a jagged breath. He lowered his hand slowly, trembling. He looked at the bathroom, then at his useless legs, then back at August. He let his shoulders slump in defeat. He couldn't make it on his own. He knew that.
He looked at August with resignation, and made a small, beckoning motion with his fingers. Help. August moved slowly, broadcasting every intention. "I’m going to lift you, Declan. Just to get you there. Is that alright?"
Declan nodded, squeezing his eyes shut against the shame. August’s arms were strong and surprisingly gentle. He lifted Declan effortlessly, carrying him into the brightly lit en-suite. He didn't mock him. He didn't make a comment about the smell of fear or the tears streaking Declan's face. He simply helped him, offering a dignity Declan hadn't felt in years.
Ten minutes later, Declan was back in bed. Declan lay exhausted, his adrenaline crashing. He stared at the ceiling, waiting for hell’s wrath. Waiting for August to punish him for how stupid he was for leaving the bed.. But August just stood by the bedside table. He was quiet for a long time.
"I realise I made a mistake earlier," August spoke, deep in thought.
Declan didn't look at him. He already knew. The mistake was allowing Declan the illusion of autonomy and choice. August had let the leash go slack just to see how far Declan would try to run, and now he was here to yank it back. He had let Declan feel a flicker of hope just so the darkness would feel more suffocating when he snuffed it out.
"I told you to use your voice, or your hands. But I didn't give you a way to call for me when you couldn't do either. When we're not around" August sighed, a heavy and deflated sound. "You shouldn't have had to crawl, Declan. You should never have to crawl again. You're a human, not an animal."
From where Declan lay, humanity was a weakness. Being a human meant that between the two of them, he was the only one who could bleed out, the only one that could starve to death, the one destined to end up as a stain on the carpet if he didn't play his part perfectly.
The vampire dipped out the room, returning with a small object that he set gently on the nightstand. It was a silver bell with a polished wooden handle.
“I originally bought it for Lucas. He had a bout of tonsillitis and struggled to speak, so I thought it would help,” August said, a soft, genuine chuckle escaping him. He seemed lost in the memory for a second. “But the rascal just rang it over and over for ice cream and jelly. I think I spent three days as his personal waiter.”
To Declan, the idea was alien. He couldn't imagine a world where a "pet" rang a bell for a Master and received a treat instead of a blow.
“Now, it's yours. If you need or want anything. If you are in pain. if you need the toilet. If you just want the light on. Ring this."
He just stared at the bell, waiting for the catch. It felt like a setup. A test to see if he was arrogant enough to think he actually had the right to call for help.
Vince used to play games like this. He’d leave a door unlocked or a weapon within reach just to see if Declan would take the bait - and the punishment was always ten times worse if he did. Now August was doing the same thing, just with a bell. It was a lure. Not mercy.
Because why? The question screamed in Declan’s mind. Why give me a voice? Why give me a summon?
"I will hear it.” August promised. "No matter where I am in the house. I will hear it, and I will come to help you. Day or night. No matter what."
In Vince’s house, noise meant death. Noise drew attention. But here…? He curled his fingers around the wooden handle, not lifting it, just holding it. He didn't ring it. He had a voice now, sitting right there on the table, waiting for him to find the courage to use it.
His mind, usually a chaotic storm, went strangely quiet as it tried to process the day. He ran the calculation over and over, looking for the error.
But his body, though weak, was building strength day by day. His belly, full and warm. The sheets were clean and smelled of lavender.
And the vampire had stopped.
That was the splinter in his brain that he couldn't dislodge. When he had raised his hand, palm out - a pathetic, trembling barrier that couldn't stop a breeze, let alone a predator - August had recoiled.
Why?
Why hadn't he fed? Why hadn't he used persuasion? Why is he…gentle?
If it was a trick, it was an inefficient one. If it was a game, it was boring. Vince never played games where the toy won.
Declan looked at the bell again. He didn't trust August…he couldn't…right? Trust was a luxury for the living, and Declan was barely that. But as he traced the rim of the silver bell, a new fragile thought took root in the back of his mind.
For the first time, the terror had a question mark at the end of it.
And that was enough to let him sleep.
Mahoosive thank you to @for-the-love-of-angst for the beta on this! MWAH!
Shattered taglist! (Let me know if you'd like to be added!)
EVERYBODY WITH OCS!!! I WOULD LIKE TO PROPOSE A TRADE :D
i give you: a list of fun crafts/diy/etc to do with your OCs
you give me (if you want, not pressuring): a reblog with a list of your own craft/diy ideas for OCs :D
my list:
missing posters
print out their face claims/drawings and put them in a locket
crochet or sew dolls
make their family tree
get tokens of them (i have a friendship necklace that's supposed to belong to my OCs)
this isn't a craft but like. pretend to be them :0
use one of those fake texts/social media posts websites to make their texts/social media posts
write a song about them (can be with words or just instrumental--i have mostly songs with lyrics, but i've also made a piano song for one of them!!)
write letters/diary/scrapbook entries from their perspective
where to get pictures: so you can go onto pinterest, search the general appearance, and then save any pictures or art that you think look like them :> or you can use any art of the OC that you or a friend have drawn/commissioned, or you can go onto picrew.me and make a picrew of them :))
Over the past few months, i've been a little tired, but progress is going well. The story is being outlined, but the characters and concepts are being finalized. Puppet, or hopefully now better known as: The Red String
Will likely be coming to tumblr (and maybe ao3) sometime sooon! I would really appreciate it if you would spread the word or show this to Moots who you think would be interested in it! I would love interaction and making friends if anyone would like to say hello or to know more. (This is my first time making a web series, go easy on me ;3)
Genres: Modern Hurt/Comfort
Themes: Love, Perserverance, Freedom, Family, Personal Worth, Jesus
POV: Third (Limited)
Plot Structure: Hero's Journey
Status: OUT! IT'S OUT NOW! RAHHHHHH GO READ IT PLEASE! IT'S JUST STARTING!!!
Knives and targets, blood and tears. A Shadow, a chameleon in the crowds of the nobles, a hundred identities, a hundred faces. But he knows only one name as his own, Puppet. That’s what she calls him. The woman who owns his every thought. Lady Eilene Hallon. Her wish is his movement, her life is his breath. Not a person, but a possession. 026. The Northwing Facility’s newest weapon. And as long as 026 can remember, that’s all he’s ever been. A life lived in a ditch, the constant taste of blood and lingering agony of Eilene's rage. Pulling himself back to his feet, alone.
Raised since childhood for the scope of a gun, 026 should know better than to feel remorse for his prey. After all, that's all they are. Prey. But the blood on the walls and the screams for mercy haunt him, his only semblance of freedom found in high nights and Dreary mornings. Everything slowly goes from bad, to worse as 026 begins to lose his grip on everything that kept him sane. Until he fails. His target leaves alive. And Eilene is furious.
Tortured for half the evening and left to die, 026 accepted that he would, ready to meet the darkness with one last sigh, anything would be better than this. Until he wakes up, temporarily blind with a couple dozen broken bones in a place he doesn't recognize and people he doesn't trust.
Eve, the farmer's daughter who fished him out of the alleyway and hauled him home. Cole, the easily-excitable little boy with a lot of questions and an empty space in his life for a protector. Iris, the matriarch and the watcher who waits for 026 to prove himself to her. Lucian, the friendly church book-keeper and retired Therapist. And the Watchful eyes of a God 026 never believed in, whispering that his life has a purpose, and it's not his time to die just yet.
Characters
#026 - Puppet - Male - 26 yrs old - Mixed Ethnicity/Biracial - ISTP
A Young man raised for as long as he can remember to believe he was a weapon, taught to supress himself for his job, but bits of his spite and grief still poke through. Defiant and angry with a wild streak. This causes him to often lose control of his emotions and abuse any substance he can get his hands on to cope with his situation.
Dislikes: Being called out, Sudden loud noises, Specifically red dice, Grease, Mud & Dirt, Complete silence
-
Lady Eilene Hallon - Whumper - Female - 41 yrs old - Greek - ESTJ
A charismatic Noblewoman with a penitent for blood and violence, she has high-expectations and little patience for mistakes. Her favorite toy is of course, #026, who conveniently gets rid of all of her problems for her
Likes: Things being quick and easy, Rich flavors, red wine, The colors Red and Blue, Night, Stars, Silence
Dislikes: Slow processes, Failure, The color orange, Fish, Birds, Most flowers, Loud noises, Swearing
-
Evelyn (Eve) Sparrow - Caretaker - Female - 24 years old - Caucasian - ESFP
A Sweet young woman who recently moved back into town from college to help her aging mother on the farm and care for her siblings. She's generally a very happy girl with a heart of gold who tries her best but sometimes misjudges the situation.
