Yesterday, 08:55 PM
Evanya "Eve" Myshelovna Tarasovich
Eve takes heavily after her mother, the sad and beautiful model who shone like a shooting star, loved her father as she tumbled from the sky, and had the misfortune to expire into glittering dust shortly after producing a daughter. It’s impolite to discuss affairs, and Eve has never asked many questions; her place in the household was likewise accepted without comment, despite her dishevelled crown of golden hair marking her quite distinct from her brother’s shadowy magnificence. Irrespective of the obvious differences she certainly inherited the Tarasovich charm, a product of both nature and nurture, though one she wields with a softer finesse. Others are drawn to her like a moth to flame, but no trap descends, and she does not burn.
Growing up alongside the shrewd Daniil, Eve was drawn to watch their father’s machinations with equal fascination, but drew entirely different lessons. Diplomacy, influence, persuasion. Myshelov was an artist, and Eve was a willing and talented student, yet she has no aspirations to follow her father politically, nor craves infamy for herself like her brother. She’s perhaps the only one who sees through their charm to the ruthless steel beneath, but she finds no fault with it. She reconciles herself easily with moral ambiguity and does not wish to change the world, just to make it a more tolerable place for herself and those she loves dearest.
Eve adores languages, art, philosophy, history, but especially the community experience of culture. As a teenager she was often Aunt Olena’s shadow, unravelling the stories of the artefacts in their cases, and begging for a chance to lead the tours. People were her equal passion, for though she did not desire a spotlight like Danya, she did enjoy the small ephemeral connections to be found with strangers. She handles people with the same thoughtful care she always employs with the contents of the museum displays. And she always places them back just as carefully.
Cultural heritage was an interest which soon expanded, and she devoured Moscow's museums and galleries as a child. As she grew older birthday treats were nearly always trips abroad to see some famous piece or other, and she enjoyed each new experience in the different countries of the Custody just as much. Amidst it all was exposure to high society – dinner with a Patron’s family here and there, say, with each occasion subtly interspersed between the artistic exploration which was well known, by then, to delight her. Those tours were the simple indulgences of a cherished daughter, and what important, loyal Custody family would not be pleased to host her? Eve was not unaware of the gentle shaping of her father’s designs, but she didn’t seem to mind either. When Myshelov asked her about her trips, she always knew what he actually wanted to know.
At eighteen she left Moscow to study abroad, and she continued to travel between those studies, and afterwards. Yet she returned home often, and was known for hosting elegant parties and gatherings when in residence. Whether intimate family dinners, soirees with friends, or lavish government affairs in her father’s honour, it was always Eve at the heart of it. For no matter how far she roams or for how long she’s gone, home is a place that always beckons her back – and it’s always a place she deems worth celebrating with the people who make it so.
She was in London during the Alistair Grey trial, a case which was to become one of many jewels in Daniil’s career crown. By then she saw her brother only seldom, for their schedules rarely aligned, and she made the most of it when the opportunity arose. In the meantime she was at a gallery opening in the heart of the city, and that was where she saw the painting; one of a beautiful woman surrounded by an unearthly glow. By then the Sickness had come and passed several times unremarked upon – Eve wasn’t the sort to complain or linger abed if she could stand – and that night her skin was a little luminous with the fever, her mind caught on that image as though it ought to mean something to her. The artist was not in attendance, and neither was the painting for sale.
She recalls that a man came to stand at her shoulder while she was looking; tall, mild-eyed, well-dressed. He asked her what she thought it meant, an opening into which she normally would have given an eloquent answer. But for once she couldn’t quite put it into words. Home. Life. The flame that comforts. He interrupted her thoughtfulness with his own answer: one that was strange, specific, and stuck with her years after. He called it a surrender to true power; a prescient vision of a world yet to come.
She first met Guillaume at an avante garde Parisian bar, on a balmy summer evening while she was sipping red wine and sorting through various potential acquisitions to explore while in the city. She was twenty-one then, fresh from graduation and eager to spread her wings. That night she recognised the swagger of a Volthström when she saw one, which did not impress her on its own, but she smiled over the rim of her glass anyway, and he sat down, and that was that. Eve was somewhat aware of his reputation at the time, but her heart was never on the table, and she only ever shared what she was willing. Maybe it was the wine or the warm evening which cast the spell, or maybe Eve herself, but it was into the moonlight hours they spilled several hours and bottles later, still talking. Eve likes to talk, about everything and nothing, but she has a way of unpeeling the layers. Philosophy, art – your deepest secrets.
She was fascinated by the dichotomy of him; trapped by the heavy chains of familial obligations, far too heavy for such a restless spirit. He was full of the sorts of stories designed to impress, scandalise, and arrest with his charm. But they glittered like a smoke screen. Eve absorbed it all. The hints of his insecurities. The loyalty to his father. The uncertain quest for connection. In short he was a rebel, but one who knew he’d never escape the leash. Perhaps he did not want to.
She threaded her fingers through his on the dark city streets as they left, and let him walk her the long way to her hotel. At the door his eyes were shining and warm, as though the wine was not the only thing he was intoxicated by. But she didn't kiss him; instead she thanked him for his company, and allowed him to be exactly the kind of gentleman he told her so certainly he wasn’t.
For a while after that they were inseparable. The romance was slow burn, and she opened to it only slowly, but each moment was deliciously intense. Trips to Tuscany to see Botechelli and David and the Duomo basilica, vibrant evenings amongst the colourful eccentricities of Soho, log-burning fires in a Swiss hideaway, where curled under fur blankets she finally whispered her own secrets in exchange for his. They talked a lot, but she never asked what he did with the rest of his time. Paris’s infamous libertine had a secretly romantic soul, at least where she was concerned, but she didn't intend to change or tame him; she just wasn't ready to burst their bubble with reality. Not because she feared discovering infidelity, but because she was wary of commitment.
By then Eve was more than a confidant and paramour, she was a match; the weight which could promise to anchor and domesticate the Volthström heir, at least so far as Emmeline and Timothée were concerned. They loved her, welcomed her like a daughter. Eve’s poise and pedigree were indisputable, and she’d even befriended Guillaume's cold, quiet sister on trips to the family estate.
Then, quite suddenly it was over. Gossip suggested Eve had spooked at the rumour of a ring, but others said it was just Guillaume being Guillaume. That of course he would grow bored eventually.
Eve fled quite literally – all the way to America, where she was beyond the Custody’s reins at all. Myshelov was not happy for her to be so far away from home, though she soothed him with assurances of her capability using every ounce of charisma he had ever nurtured in her. America was utterly unlike Europe, its history far younger. The perfect place to breathe. She found herself exploring the art scene in Manhattan, and ultimately fell into the circles of Araminta Rosewood – a vibrant, warm artist who captivated Eve immediately. It has almost been two years, the longest Eve has ever stayed away from Moscow. But the reprieve has come to an end; her father has called her home.
Personality: Eve is thoughtful, empathetic, and unhurried in her judgements. She understands influence and persuasion but wields them with care rather than calculation. Like all Tarasoviches, she was born into a world where influence is both weapon and inheritance, but for her influence is not about control, it's about resonance: leaving others subtly changed by having known her.
Her moral compass is not fixed but fluid, guided by empathy rather than principle. She accepts imperfection, in herself and others, and believes that kindness can coexist with cunning. To her, morality is not an absolute — it’s an art form, practised with intention and grace. She is content not to change the world — only to make her corner of it kinder, more beautiful, and filled with people worth loving.
At her core, Eve is a curator of human connection. She collects moments the way others collect art: a conversation, a touch, a shared smile in a crowded room. Her relationships — whether fleeting or profound — are her truest masterpieces. Wherever she travels, she carries “home” within her — a constellation of people, places, and stories she cannot quite leave behind.
Appearance: She is known for her understated elegance — soft fabrics in muted tones, delicate gold jewellery, and perfumes with notes of jasmine and smoke. Her fashion choices are timeless, blending nostalgia with modern refinement. Within Custody high society, she is often described as “the golden daughter” — a title both affectionate and faintly mythic. Her hair is a golden blonde which lightens in the summer, often worn short about her chin or shoulders. Her eyes are blue, and she’s 5’5’’
Other Lives: Alyona Daylar, the Dragon's Wife (2nd Age), Hestia, Greek Goddess of home and hearth (6th Age)
Eve takes heavily after her mother, the sad and beautiful model who shone like a shooting star, loved her father as she tumbled from the sky, and had the misfortune to expire into glittering dust shortly after producing a daughter. It’s impolite to discuss affairs, and Eve has never asked many questions; her place in the household was likewise accepted without comment, despite her dishevelled crown of golden hair marking her quite distinct from her brother’s shadowy magnificence. Irrespective of the obvious differences she certainly inherited the Tarasovich charm, a product of both nature and nurture, though one she wields with a softer finesse. Others are drawn to her like a moth to flame, but no trap descends, and she does not burn.
Growing up alongside the shrewd Daniil, Eve was drawn to watch their father’s machinations with equal fascination, but drew entirely different lessons. Diplomacy, influence, persuasion. Myshelov was an artist, and Eve was a willing and talented student, yet she has no aspirations to follow her father politically, nor craves infamy for herself like her brother. She’s perhaps the only one who sees through their charm to the ruthless steel beneath, but she finds no fault with it. She reconciles herself easily with moral ambiguity and does not wish to change the world, just to make it a more tolerable place for herself and those she loves dearest.
Eve adores languages, art, philosophy, history, but especially the community experience of culture. As a teenager she was often Aunt Olena’s shadow, unravelling the stories of the artefacts in their cases, and begging for a chance to lead the tours. People were her equal passion, for though she did not desire a spotlight like Danya, she did enjoy the small ephemeral connections to be found with strangers. She handles people with the same thoughtful care she always employs with the contents of the museum displays. And she always places them back just as carefully.
Cultural heritage was an interest which soon expanded, and she devoured Moscow's museums and galleries as a child. As she grew older birthday treats were nearly always trips abroad to see some famous piece or other, and she enjoyed each new experience in the different countries of the Custody just as much. Amidst it all was exposure to high society – dinner with a Patron’s family here and there, say, with each occasion subtly interspersed between the artistic exploration which was well known, by then, to delight her. Those tours were the simple indulgences of a cherished daughter, and what important, loyal Custody family would not be pleased to host her? Eve was not unaware of the gentle shaping of her father’s designs, but she didn’t seem to mind either. When Myshelov asked her about her trips, she always knew what he actually wanted to know.
At eighteen she left Moscow to study abroad, and she continued to travel between those studies, and afterwards. Yet she returned home often, and was known for hosting elegant parties and gatherings when in residence. Whether intimate family dinners, soirees with friends, or lavish government affairs in her father’s honour, it was always Eve at the heart of it. For no matter how far she roams or for how long she’s gone, home is a place that always beckons her back – and it’s always a place she deems worth celebrating with the people who make it so.
She was in London during the Alistair Grey trial, a case which was to become one of many jewels in Daniil’s career crown. By then she saw her brother only seldom, for their schedules rarely aligned, and she made the most of it when the opportunity arose. In the meantime she was at a gallery opening in the heart of the city, and that was where she saw the painting; one of a beautiful woman surrounded by an unearthly glow. By then the Sickness had come and passed several times unremarked upon – Eve wasn’t the sort to complain or linger abed if she could stand – and that night her skin was a little luminous with the fever, her mind caught on that image as though it ought to mean something to her. The artist was not in attendance, and neither was the painting for sale.
She recalls that a man came to stand at her shoulder while she was looking; tall, mild-eyed, well-dressed. He asked her what she thought it meant, an opening into which she normally would have given an eloquent answer. But for once she couldn’t quite put it into words. Home. Life. The flame that comforts. He interrupted her thoughtfulness with his own answer: one that was strange, specific, and stuck with her years after. He called it a surrender to true power; a prescient vision of a world yet to come.
She first met Guillaume at an avante garde Parisian bar, on a balmy summer evening while she was sipping red wine and sorting through various potential acquisitions to explore while in the city. She was twenty-one then, fresh from graduation and eager to spread her wings. That night she recognised the swagger of a Volthström when she saw one, which did not impress her on its own, but she smiled over the rim of her glass anyway, and he sat down, and that was that. Eve was somewhat aware of his reputation at the time, but her heart was never on the table, and she only ever shared what she was willing. Maybe it was the wine or the warm evening which cast the spell, or maybe Eve herself, but it was into the moonlight hours they spilled several hours and bottles later, still talking. Eve likes to talk, about everything and nothing, but she has a way of unpeeling the layers. Philosophy, art – your deepest secrets.
She was fascinated by the dichotomy of him; trapped by the heavy chains of familial obligations, far too heavy for such a restless spirit. He was full of the sorts of stories designed to impress, scandalise, and arrest with his charm. But they glittered like a smoke screen. Eve absorbed it all. The hints of his insecurities. The loyalty to his father. The uncertain quest for connection. In short he was a rebel, but one who knew he’d never escape the leash. Perhaps he did not want to.
She threaded her fingers through his on the dark city streets as they left, and let him walk her the long way to her hotel. At the door his eyes were shining and warm, as though the wine was not the only thing he was intoxicated by. But she didn't kiss him; instead she thanked him for his company, and allowed him to be exactly the kind of gentleman he told her so certainly he wasn’t.
For a while after that they were inseparable. The romance was slow burn, and she opened to it only slowly, but each moment was deliciously intense. Trips to Tuscany to see Botechelli and David and the Duomo basilica, vibrant evenings amongst the colourful eccentricities of Soho, log-burning fires in a Swiss hideaway, where curled under fur blankets she finally whispered her own secrets in exchange for his. They talked a lot, but she never asked what he did with the rest of his time. Paris’s infamous libertine had a secretly romantic soul, at least where she was concerned, but she didn't intend to change or tame him; she just wasn't ready to burst their bubble with reality. Not because she feared discovering infidelity, but because she was wary of commitment.
By then Eve was more than a confidant and paramour, she was a match; the weight which could promise to anchor and domesticate the Volthström heir, at least so far as Emmeline and Timothée were concerned. They loved her, welcomed her like a daughter. Eve’s poise and pedigree were indisputable, and she’d even befriended Guillaume's cold, quiet sister on trips to the family estate.
Then, quite suddenly it was over. Gossip suggested Eve had spooked at the rumour of a ring, but others said it was just Guillaume being Guillaume. That of course he would grow bored eventually.
Eve fled quite literally – all the way to America, where she was beyond the Custody’s reins at all. Myshelov was not happy for her to be so far away from home, though she soothed him with assurances of her capability using every ounce of charisma he had ever nurtured in her. America was utterly unlike Europe, its history far younger. The perfect place to breathe. She found herself exploring the art scene in Manhattan, and ultimately fell into the circles of Araminta Rosewood – a vibrant, warm artist who captivated Eve immediately. It has almost been two years, the longest Eve has ever stayed away from Moscow. But the reprieve has come to an end; her father has called her home.
Personality: Eve is thoughtful, empathetic, and unhurried in her judgements. She understands influence and persuasion but wields them with care rather than calculation. Like all Tarasoviches, she was born into a world where influence is both weapon and inheritance, but for her influence is not about control, it's about resonance: leaving others subtly changed by having known her.
Her moral compass is not fixed but fluid, guided by empathy rather than principle. She accepts imperfection, in herself and others, and believes that kindness can coexist with cunning. To her, morality is not an absolute — it’s an art form, practised with intention and grace. She is content not to change the world — only to make her corner of it kinder, more beautiful, and filled with people worth loving.
At her core, Eve is a curator of human connection. She collects moments the way others collect art: a conversation, a touch, a shared smile in a crowded room. Her relationships — whether fleeting or profound — are her truest masterpieces. Wherever she travels, she carries “home” within her — a constellation of people, places, and stories she cannot quite leave behind.
Appearance: She is known for her understated elegance — soft fabrics in muted tones, delicate gold jewellery, and perfumes with notes of jasmine and smoke. Her fashion choices are timeless, blending nostalgia with modern refinement. Within Custody high society, she is often described as “the golden daughter” — a title both affectionate and faintly mythic. Her hair is a golden blonde which lightens in the summer, often worn short about her chin or shoulders. Her eyes are blue, and she’s 5’5’’
Other Lives: Alyona Daylar, the Dragon's Wife (2nd Age), Hestia, Greek Goddess of home and hearth (6th Age)
![[Image: eve-age-banner-scaled.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/eve-age-banner-scaled.jpg)