who are you, Elia

Elia Hawke. Early twenties, maybe? Oldest of three. You're tallish - tall as most men. Lean and hungry looking, not quite pretty so much as handsome, not quite handsome so much as fearsome. Large eyes in a shifty color, skin tawnier than your siblings', a shock of orange hair tied into a ponytail. Faint tattoos under each eye, because you were already your mother's least favorite child. 

You're your father's daughter, but he was dead before we started. It's you, and your mother, and your brother. You had a sister, and she was alive just a minute ago, but she was killed while we were busy thinking about your cheekbones. 

Here's some advice: you should try to get used to this sort of thing.