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Ama · 05-09-2017, 02:43 AM

❝ DALIA TATIANA ISLAS ❞
✘ ✘ ✘

❝ BASIC STATS ❞
✘ ✘ ✘

FULL NAME: Dalia Tatiana Islas
NICKNAME(S): Use them at your own risk.
PRONOUNS: She/Her
DATE OF BIRTH: 09 May 2075
BLOOD STATUS: Ah something like mixed yeah
AGE: Sixteen
HEIGHT: 179.8 cm
ILVERMORNY HOUSE: Thunderbird
ILVERMORNY YEAR: Sixth
WAND: 11", apple, coral, swishy
HOMETOWN: Harpers Ferry, West Virginia
PLAY BY: Kat Graham

❝ RELATIONSHIPS ❞
✘ ✘ ✘

OTHER RELATIVE(S): single child
PET(S): no, no I think not.
FRIENDS: [processing...]
ORIENTATION:

❝ HISTORY ❞
✘ ✘ ✘

I - HOME
LA SANGRE ES UN FLUIR DE TIERRA Y FUENTE

She was born almost a cliche, screaming at the top of her lungs not during a storm but in its aftermath. Thunderous rain, welcomed her to her birthplace, telling her drop by drop that she was of the packed earth of the Dominican Republic, that her eyes were the needles of the pinos criollos that struggled to survive against the onslaught of diggers, and bulldozers, against shiny new buildings, and the greed of men.

↕↕↕
The pictures of the new home that awaited her in America promised wide rooms with clean white walls--all in cement. The yard didn't seem as green or beautifully wild but it was going to be home and Miriam tried to bury that in her heart lest she get cold feet. It would be hard leaving the village she had been born and raised in. No more would she hear the familiar chirp of insects when the sun would set. No more would she be able to cross a few roads and enjoy the liberty of dipping her feet in the creek. She'd even miss the rowdy trouble making boys of the village.

Her brown eyes turned to the bundle in her arms, brown and tanned. She was so small, with a mouth that already resembled her own and thick curly puffs right at the top of her soft crown. Miriam smiled and brushed at them gently with one skinny hand. If it was for her, she'd do it. If it was for her daughter, she'd sacrifice twenty one years worth of memories in name of a future, however uncertain it may be.
↕↕↕

Harpers Ferry, West Virginia was never, could never, be home just like she could never claim her mother's home to be hers. She meandered, lost, only finding safety and security in the confines of her mother's arms and her stories of ancient spirits and old magic, something she never admitted out loud, not even as she grew old enough to understand the severity of this statement. Perhaps it was the instinctual need of belonging that led her towards discovering her innate difference--that which separated her from some, or so she thought. Perhaps, instead of bright loud spells, complicated Transfigurations, divination and connecting with the cosmos, what she was really looking for was for the one thing Harpers Ferry could never, would never, give her: a place to belong.

a - HOME PART II
TIÑE YA EL SOL EXTRAÑOS HORIZONTES

Her childhood memories were mostly filled with the woman she'd call 'Mami' on the regular, and 'Ma' when she needed something. In return, she was Dalia when she was still, mi corazón when she was sweet, Tatiana when she was not, and [i]muchacha del diablo[/iU] when she was absolutely incorrigible. An only child, she flourished under the devoted attentions of her mother, ruling the house with her puffs of dark hair, and a toothy smile that had ensnared her father's heart as soon as her two bottom teeth first began to grow out.

A spoiled (bratty) princess, unaccustomed to sharing the spotlight or the jumbo crayons, Dalia made waves in pre-school. Complaints were handed over along with Dalia's chubby hand to Miriam about how Dalia had pulled on Mariska Huntington's hair that morning, or how she had pushed down Brighton Brown for trying to play with her and her favorite legos. It was weeks before the complaints became less, until there were none, but even all the way through kindergarten the invites for play-dates, or birthday parties never arrived.

It didn't matter how well Dalia could share her sticker book with the mayor's son, or how close she had become to that one girl with the freckles and the hazel eyes. It didn't change the fact that her father struggled with the language and worked in a construction site in Silver City, something that had been deemed unworthy of praise by the glorified circle of small town bigots who made sure the town stayed the same. It was the same circle that still excluded her mother from the community meetings, that refused to allow her to help for town events in the pretense of not requiring any extra services, who handed her backhanded compliments about how her daughter could be so pretty if her hair wasn't so 'wild', so 'unruly', so undeniably against the norm.

In alienation, her mother and Dalia grew closer through little secret meetings of magic. Her father would not approve. This was something her mother would whisper to her as they would sneak into the little backyard after midnight. "Ni una palabra," her Mami would whisper, mimicking a zipping motion across her mouth. "Your father. He doesn't get it." Her fingertips would graze each and every leaf and flower, every vine and bud, as she would explain to Dalia in detail about their names, why they were named so, why they did what they did, and how she could use them.

Sometimes at night, they'd sing to the garden and watch the plants under the moonlight.

Magic was what she shared with her mother, with her father: everything else.

↕↕↕

"Ven, mi niña," he'd call her, gentle like the breeze that blew in from the sea. "Ven aquí."

He'd pat his lap as he put down the newspaper he always read, always on the maroon armchair with the blackened arms rests, and coffee stains, always on a Sunday afternoon. She'd climb up as quick as her legs would let her, finding comfort in his dark curly beard even as it scratched her rounded forehead.

"Let's learn together," he'd say, his accent firm and steady, like the hands that always held her up until she learned to travel the length of the monkey bar--back and forth--on her own. "English, okay? Como los blancos. That's the way."

They'd sound out the words, one by one, syllable by syllable until the taste of them stopped numbing their tongues.

↕↕↕

She was a natural phenomenon ever since she was born; as if mystically absorbing the howling winds and brute force of the storm that had preceded her birth was the reason behind her restlessness and raucous laughter. She was a lithe hurricane with skinny swinging arms, howling an insufferable oath of haphazard independence that took her first grade homeroom teacher to the limit.

The letters of the alphabet came to her like a song, and she'd sing them out, over and over again until her homeroom teacher was forced to distract her with numbers but even those came out in a melody, loud and sonorous. She chirped them at her desk, legs kicking out to the rhythm she had come up with until the bell rang. In the playground she'd continue, chirping her makeshift songs even as she chased after the other children. Her chasing soon stopped as the names started being flung over skinny shoulders. Dalia's legs for once, stopped running, but her lips still pursed to sing even when there was no one there to listen.

↕↕↕

Her hand felt clammy in his but she didn't dare snatch it away. Her father's face appeared made of stone and while Dalia knew this day was inevitable she had still hoped it wouldn't feel like she was sinking into the ground. Her mother had spoken of the school and while she loved doing little bits of magic when her Papa wasn't looking, Dalia wasn't excited about the prospect of being away from home.

"You will behave while you're there," he said sternly. "Y no quiero llanto." Dalia wrinkled her nose, even as she walked in with him into the lobby. She didn't cry and that comment offended her. She was eleve years and one month old. Crying was for babies.

"Is this her?" asked the woman, looking down at Dalia curiously, as if she had just seen a rare breed of bird fly past her face. Dalia gawked back. She hadn't seen such an obviously stupid looking adult in a while.

She responded to her father's nod, and smiled at Dalia. "Your father says you're going to give me trouble. I told him I didn't think that was true. Am I wrong?"

Dalia's eyes widened, surprised at the adult's lack of good judgment but she wasn't about to be shown up by a stranger in front of her Papi. If she was clever at all, she'd work hard to get into his good graces or it was no more allowance for her.

"You're only a little bit wrong," she answered cheekily, and glanced sidelong at her father

↕↕↕

[processing...]

05-09-2017, 02:43 AM	#42 (permalink)
Ama MLE Werewolf Join Date: Sep 2003 Posts: 65,730 Hogwarts RPG Name: Tahir Kovac Khatri First Year	Ama!Nabs IS NAMED MINHO & Is SO Black Panther Right Now ❝ DALIA TATIANA ISLAS ❞ ✘ ✘ ✘ ❝ BASIC STATS ❞ ✘ ✘ ✘ FULL NAME: Dalia Tatiana Islas NICKNAME(S): Use them at your own risk. PRONOUNS: She/Her DATE OF BIRTH: 09 May 2075 BLOOD STATUS: Ah something like mixed yeah AGE: Sixteen HEIGHT: 179.8 cm ILVERMORNY HOUSE: Thunderbird ILVERMORNY YEAR: Sixth WAND: 11", apple, coral, swishy HOMETOWN: Harpers Ferry, West Virginia PLAY BY: Kat Graham ❝ RELATIONSHIPS ❞ ✘ ✘ ✘ OTHER RELATIVE(S): single child PET(S): no, no I think not. FRIENDS: [processing...] ORIENTATION: ❝ HISTORY ❞ ✘ ✘ ✘ I - HOME LA SANGRE ES UN FLUIR DE TIERRA Y FUENTE She was born almost a cliche, screaming at the top of her lungs not during a storm but in its aftermath. Thunderous rain, welcomed her to her birthplace, telling her drop by drop that she was of the packed earth of the Dominican Republic, that her eyes were the needles of the pinos criollos that struggled to survive against the onslaught of diggers, and bulldozers, against shiny new buildings, and the greed of men. ↕↕↕ The pictures of the new home that awaited her in America promised wide rooms with clean white walls--all in cement. The yard didn't seem as green or beautifully wild but it was going to be home and Miriam tried to bury that in her heart lest she get cold feet. It would be hard leaving the village she had been born and raised in. No more would she hear the familiar chirp of insects when the sun would set. No more would she be able to cross a few roads and enjoy the liberty of dipping her feet in the creek. She'd even miss the rowdy trouble making boys of the village. Her brown eyes turned to the bundle in her arms, brown and tanned. She was so small, with a mouth that already resembled her own and thick curly puffs right at the top of her soft crown. Miriam smiled and brushed at them gently with one skinny hand. If it was for her, she'd do it. If it was for her daughter, she'd sacrifice twenty one years worth of memories in name of a future, however uncertain it may be. ↕↕↕ Harpers Ferry, West Virginia was never, could never, be home just like she could never claim her mother's home to be hers. She meandered, lost, only finding safety and security in the confines of her mother's arms and her stories of ancient spirits and old magic, something she never admitted out loud, not even as she grew old enough to understand the severity of this statement. Perhaps it was the instinctual need of belonging that led her towards discovering her innate difference--that which separated her from some, or so she thought. Perhaps, instead of bright loud spells, complicated Transfigurations, divination and connecting with the cosmos, what she was really looking for was for the one thing Harpers Ferry could never, would never, give her: a place to belong. a - HOME PART II TIÑE YA EL SOL EXTRAÑOS HORIZONTES Her childhood memories were mostly filled with the woman she'd call 'Mami' on the regular, and 'Ma' when she needed something. In return, she was Dalia when she was still, mi corazón when she was sweet, Tatiana when she was not, and [i]muchacha del diablo[/iU] when she was absolutely incorrigible. An only child, she flourished under the devoted attentions of her mother, ruling the house with her puffs of dark hair, and a toothy smile that had ensnared her father's heart as soon as her two bottom teeth first began to grow out. A spoiled (bratty) princess, unaccustomed to sharing the spotlight or the jumbo crayons, Dalia made waves in pre-school. Complaints were handed over along with Dalia's chubby hand to Miriam about how Dalia had pulled on Mariska Huntington's hair that morning, or how she had pushed down Brighton Brown for trying to play with her and her favorite legos. It was weeks before the complaints became less, until there were none, but even all the way through kindergarten the invites for play-dates, or birthday parties never arrived. It didn't matter how well Dalia could share her sticker book with the mayor's son, or how close she had become to that one girl with the freckles and the hazel eyes. It didn't change the fact that her father struggled with the language and worked in a construction site in Silver City, something that had been deemed unworthy of praise by the glorified circle of small town bigots who made sure the town stayed the same. It was the same circle that still excluded her mother from the community meetings, that refused to allow her to help for town events in the pretense of not requiring any extra services, who handed her backhanded compliments about how her daughter could be so pretty if her hair wasn't so 'wild', so 'unruly', so undeniably against the norm. In alienation, her mother and Dalia grew closer through little secret meetings of magic. Her father would not approve. This was something her mother would whisper to her as they would sneak into the little backyard after midnight. "Ni una palabra," her Mami would whisper, mimicking a zipping motion across her mouth. "Your father. He doesn't get it." Her fingertips would graze each and every leaf and flower, every vine and bud, as she would explain to Dalia in detail about their names, why they were named so, why they did what they did, and how she could use them. Sometimes at night, they'd sing to the garden and watch the plants under the moonlight. Magic was what she shared with her mother, with her father: everything else. ↕↕↕ "Ven, mi niña," he'd call her, gentle like the breeze that blew in from the sea. "Ven aquí." He'd pat his lap as he put down the newspaper he always read, always on the maroon armchair with the blackened arms rests, and coffee stains, always on a Sunday afternoon. She'd climb up as quick as her legs would let her, finding comfort in his dark curly beard even as it scratched her rounded forehead. "Let's learn together," he'd say, his accent firm and steady, like the hands that always held her up until she learned to travel the length of the monkey bar--back and forth--on her own. "English, okay? Como los blancos. That's the way." They'd sound out the words, one by one, syllable by syllable until the taste of them stopped numbing their tongues. ↕↕↕ She was a natural phenomenon ever since she was born; as if mystically absorbing the howling winds and brute force of the storm that had preceded her birth was the reason behind her restlessness and raucous laughter. She was a lithe hurricane with skinny swinging arms, howling an insufferable oath of haphazard independence that took her first grade homeroom teacher to the limit. The letters of the alphabet came to her like a song, and she'd sing them out, over and over again until her homeroom teacher was forced to distract her with numbers but even those came out in a melody, loud and sonorous. She chirped them at her desk, legs kicking out to the rhythm she had come up with until the bell rang. In the playground she'd continue, chirping her makeshift songs even as she chased after the other children. Her chasing soon stopped as the names started being flung over skinny shoulders. Dalia's legs for once, stopped running, but her lips still pursed to sing even when there was no one there to listen. ↕↕↕ Her hand felt clammy in his but she didn't dare snatch it away. Her father's face appeared made of stone and while Dalia knew this day was inevitable she had still hoped it wouldn't feel like she was sinking into the ground. Her mother had spoken of the school and while she loved doing little bits of magic when her Papa wasn't looking, Dalia wasn't excited about the prospect of being away from home. "You will behave while you're there," he said sternly. "Y no quiero llanto." Dalia wrinkled her nose, even as she walked in with him into the lobby. She didn't cry and that comment offended her. She was eleve years and one month old. Crying was for babies. "Is this her?" asked the woman, looking down at Dalia curiously, as if she had just seen a rare breed of bird fly past her face. Dalia gawked back. She hadn't seen such an obviously stupid looking adult in a while. She responded to her father's nod, and smiled at Dalia. "Your father says you're going to give me trouble. I told him I didn't think that was true. Am I wrong?" Dalia's eyes widened, surprised at the adult's lack of good judgment but she wasn't about to be shown up by a stranger in front of her Papi. If she was clever at all, she'd work hard to get into his good graces or it was no more allowance for her. "You're only a little bit wrong," she answered cheekily, and glanced sidelong at her father ↕↕↕ [processing...] Last edited by Ama; 05-12-2017 at 02:10 AM.