Pelande Aijatar

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  1. Pelande Aijatar

    Pelande Aijatar

    Full Name: Pelande Aijatar Nicknames: “Pelly” Date of Birth: Aug 21 Age: ~10,000+ Race: Nightborne Gender: Female Hair: White, hints of faded blue Skin: Lavender Eyes: Lavender Height: 6’10” Weight: 205lb. Place of residence: Suramar Place of Birth: Vashj’ir Known Relatives: Maela Aijatar (sister) Religion/Philosophy: None Occupation: Warrior, mercenary, former guard Group/Guild affiliation: None Guild Rank: N/A Enemies: Night Elves, Legion Likes: Stiff liquor, exotic landscapes Favorite Foods: Anything with eggs Favorite Drinks: Fermented black tea Favorite Colors: Navy and gold Weapons of Choice: Spears, but mildly competent with a sword and shield Dislikes: Birds of any kind, wine Hobbies: Dance Physical Features: N/A Special Abilities: None Positive Personality Traits: Enthusiastic, focused, principled Negative Personality Traits: Prideful, reckless, judgmental, holds grudges Misc. Quirks: Wears light protective plating on her forehead and ears Theme Songs: “Are Things Still Burning” by Em Harris History: Born into a family proficient in magic, Pelande always lagged far, far behind her siblings in terms of arcane ability. She was surrounded by prodigies and yet struggled to cast the simplest cantrips. One of over a dozen children to busy parents and viewed as a consistent disappointment, she received the smallest share of affection by far. This led to a strong inferiority complex that has her always projecting a prideful air. Now that she’s part of the Horde, Pelande has decided she must find out what this means to her. On top of that, she has reason to believe she isn’t the only survivor of her family line, and the clues point to the Alliance...
  2. Pelande Aijatar

    Sins of a Patriot: Act 1: Rise of the Shattered Son

    Maela would have never ended up like this. No, perfect Miss Maela wouldn’t have ever let this happen to her. Pelande found herself wishing the demons had just killed her. Instead, the Nightborne had been dragged out of her city and brought down into a reeking pit surrounded by impossible obsidian walls. Her first steps out of Suramar in over ten thousand years hadn’t been the joyous occasion she had desired them to be. They hadn’t even been of her own volition. It had been a delirious walk in chains alongside kinsmen who didn’t raise their eyes from the ground; a parade of defeat. The demons had held her half-conscious body up by her hair, snapped a heavy collar around her neck, and affixed it to a chain. Then her hair was released. Pelande slumped forward, held up only by the demon grasping her chain. All her weight fell into the metal around her throat and the resulting agonized choking snapped her into full awareness, instinctively grasping at the collar as she coughed and gasped. Her captors gave her no pause to breathe. Pelande was pulled along, feet dragging in the befouled dark earth and struggling with the ounce of strength she had left. The other end of her chain was secured to a pillar a couple of hands taller than herself and the Legion’s monstrosity lumbered away to attend other business. She was alone with her thoughts. Such a proud lineage. And here she was. Leashed like a hound, her chain too short to even allow her to sit. Surely her Aijatar ancestors were turning their backs in shame. Around her she saw pitiful examples of her own kin. Some were in the stages of Withering, and all were chained to pillars identical to hers. That they had been caught made sense. But her own captivity? Inexcusable. Maela would find a way out of this. Things were always easy for Maela. Pelande was broken out of her sulking by a roar, the demon that had chained her collapsing in a heap just a stone’s throw away. A cloud of black dust rose in the monster’s wake just as she noted an elven figure pulling a pair of blades from his defeated foe, and then, there was pandemonium. Fighters-- rebels from Shal’Aran she presumed-- were suddenly all around her, felling demons and crying havoc. As the dust cleared, it revealed the aftermath of a precision strike. Not a single one of the Legion’s minions still stirred. The fighters had moved on and taken their clamour further into the pit. Initial surprise gone, they were finally meeting with resistance. Pelande tugged on her bonds. The chain snapped in two. So sudden was it that Pelande collapsed, catching herself on her hands and knees. Before she could even wonder if she had somehow willed up the strength to break her own fetters, a spear buried itself in the fel earth beside her and her gaze snapped instinctively toward its source: the elf who had led the charge himself. His appearance was Nightborne, yes, but his face had no familiarity to offer, nor was his gait what she had learned to expect of her kindred. Nevertheless, she only saw a savior before her. “I see you want to live,” he gestured to the spear beside her. “Then fight.” As Pelande wrapped her hands around the weapon, all the fatigue and pain from her ordeal seemed to, if temporarily, melt away, giving way to a rush of energy and self-affirmation. I’ve been given another chance.