Pelande Aijatar

Members
  • Content count

    6
  • Joined

  • Last visited

    Never
  • Days Won

    1

Pelande Aijatar last won the day on July 25

Pelande Aijatar had the most liked content!

Community Reputation

1 Neutral

About Pelande Aijatar

  • Rank
    Newbie

Recent Profile Visitors

The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.

  1. Pelande Aijatar

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

    Suramar City was rotting away with unrest, this was undeniable. After the invading armies of the Outlanders had been lost to the might of Grand Magistrix Elisande’s magics, she had become much more ruthless. Deserters were dealt with extreme prejudice, those who remained loyal garnered more affluence to abuse the public with. Just as it was tonight. Here within the canals of the Terrace of Order where a group of Spellblades threatened the life of a suspected Dusk Lily rebel. “Dearest Marquette,” sneered the captain as her phantasmal blade of energy loomed before her victim’s neck. She was flanked by three of her followers upon either side. “I thought we exiled you last time, left to wither away like the miserable little cretin you are. Whatever are you doing in front of us now?” Before the cornered and accused could respond, another Spellblade moved casually toward the gathering and cleared her throat. Azure-tinted white hair was pulled back into a harsh bun. A scowl on her perfectly-painted lips, she looked like a harsh mother that had come across her child doing something she didn’t approve of in the slightest. “Surely,” Pelande spoke, “you aren’t planning to make a mess.” A snort. “And I don’t just mean for the street cleaners. Interrogations without recording pertinent information? Executions without magistral approval?” She shook her head. “The Grand Magistrix might suspect you have your own agenda.” “Piss off.” The captain of this septet spoke as her eyes inspected the newcomer. Marquette, whom the blade remained pointed on, slowly tried to scoot away upon the floor. “Mind your own patrol, unless you really want a mess made?” As if on cue the flanks started to move to show just how much they meant business. “You’re not alone, P.” The soft voice of the woman garbed in a veiling illusion whispered, “Just remember we need them intact if we’re going to steal their likeness.” The nod she performed passed as acknowledgement to both those in front of her and the unseen elf. She moved her hands into view, but stood her ground. “No need for savagery. I just want to make sure we’re not all bogged down with extra paperwork. I mean, I’d just hate to think all the rumors about you were true, Captain Ludrissra.” “Tsk. You talk too much.” Ludrissra’s attention was now fully upon Pelande, granting Marquette a chance to flee. “Detain our intruder, she’s likely with them.” “Um… P…?” Pelande cursed softly, following up with a quick instruction. “Behind them.” It was very swiftly turning into an unavoidable fight. Pelande hoped Marquette had enough sense to get away while she could, and that her companion had the sense to cut off any that tried to pursue. “Fine, fine.” She said aloud, meandering verbally to buy the rogue the precious seconds she needed. “It’s fine. I’ve never been good at pretending I’m all high and mighty with an ass that smells like roses.” In a singular motion she freed her hair from the bun and took her spear from her back, charging rather than letting them make the first move. It was met with a just-in-time block from her opponent and she was quickly stepping back to avoid an attack from another. As long as she kept their focus, her partner could act freely-- given her strikes were true. Her partner teleported behind their primary target with a small arcane pop, slinging her razor-like blade into the opening upon the Spellblade Captain’s back. As the dagger sunk into Ludrissra’s flesh, Isabaele realized she had missed the spine. This wouldn’t be as quick as either of them wanted, but no matter. The shadow magic that lingered would still prove useful. “What the-- Dammit all!” Screamed the Captain. She pulled away from her attacker, forcing the rogue to relinquish the shadow laden blade that still remained. “Protect me, idiots!” Pelande was busy taking the butt of a polearm to the chin when she heard it, and staggering when she saw the attention of all but one of the group leave her. Her thoughts raced as she wiped away the droplet of blood from her lips, carelessly smearing the heavy makeup. She could probably kill this one on her own. That would leave the rogue to handle the rest. But, Isabaele wasn’t clad in armor that exceeded her own weight, or hardened by millenia of servile labor. The girl was quick, that much was sure, but this was hardly the time to test her. Pelande instead slammed her boot into the street with thunderous force, destabilizing the ground beneath them all. That was enough to make them hesitate at least as they debated which of the duo was the true threat. And that heistation would be their downfall. Isabaele abandoned Captain Ludrissra to the afflictions of the shadow laced dagger, moving with another arcane pop to appear behind one of the more aggressive of the guards. As he raised his glaive to strike, the rogue’s blade found its mark with a flick of her wrist. She nicked one of his arteries, the blood loss would claim his life soon. One of the guards moved rather deftly and sought to cut the rogue off and strike her from below, but she fast found herself on the ground, facefirst, delivered and then skewered there by a sweep and then a piercing blow from Pelande’s spear. A sharp kick freed the weapon from the soon-to-be corpse. She moved her weapon behind her, the bloodied point downwards, inviting the next attack her way, and the smile on her face was more genuine than any she’d given during her failed performance. “Two down.” Isabaele leapt over the body when Pelande was done with it, “And thanks!” Her dagger pointed its shadow-laced tip at the next lackey of the Captain. He blocked. No matter, she was fast enough to correct her trajectory. Sliding under the man’s legs, she kicked at the back of his knees to create her opening for another execution. The blood spraying over her dark leather armor. “Guess that’s three?” A glaive swung at Pelande; she brought her own spear up in a block, and the two began a brief dance. Block, block, parry, block, parry… but as soon as the warrior saw her opening, she took it, twisting her opponent’s weapon right out of her hands and piercing her throat. Now both intruders were making a mess. “Four,” she amusedly shot back, unable to even remember the last time she’d experienced such excitement. “Neat, we’ve hit the halfway mark!” Isabaele dodged a glaive that came down in response of the blood end of the guard’s comrade. Instead the guard maimed the corpse, ruining it for their own uses. “Ooh. Someone’s mad.” Her turn. The thin woman used this opening to send her blade through the soft underside of her attacker’s chin. “No worries! You’ll be with him soon.” A wink, a twist, and then a retrieval of the blade. “Hey P, think you can clean up this last one yourself?” “Yea.” “Thanks, I have a blade to retrieve.” But that last one wasn’t charging, rather he seemed torn between fighting and fleeing, hands tight on his weapons and gaze shifting from Ludrissra (with more fear than concern, Pelande noted) to the attackers. The warrior watched him at the ready. He made a break for it. Her smile wavered; he couldn’t be allowed to leave, and she took no joy in murder. The excitement ended on a morose note as she cut his escape short and silenced his cry before he could give it. Leaving the last of the lackys for her stronger companion, the rogue teleported behind their primary target once more. “Miss me?” She looked down at her prey who was still desperately trying to remove the agonizing blade from her shoulder. The spell was waning, but that didn’t matter. The rogue’s leather glove firmly grasped at the Captain’s jaw to hold her in place, forcing her to look at Pelande with a look of terror as the blade rested upon her neck--a look that was only met by the warrior’s disgust. “...N-no… please…” Her begging was cut short with a simple incision. The blood flowed like a fountain from her severed veins before she was released from the rogue’s grasp. The still bloodied blade returned to its sheath. Pelande ran a messy hand through her hair, looking round as she walked back to Isabaele and Ludrissra, “Could’ve been worse.” “Yeah, the right people are dead and we’re still alive.” Isabaele kneeled before the corpse of Captain Ludrissra as she took out a small pouch from her armor. Her fingers gently went inside and pulled a ring from within before she offered the bag to her companion as her smile continued. “What do you say we wrap up and call this mission a success?” Her adrenaline wearing off, she smeared away more of her itchy, smelly makeup. Multicolored fingers accepted the pouch and gripped it tight. “The sooner the better. I feel stupid.” She gestured to the elaborate armor. “Don’t be like that, you look nice.” Isabaele smiled, looked up at her companion and slipped the ring upon the corpse’s finger. Over the next few moments the magic within the ring absorbed the information needed, “Remember, we can only use those whose bodies are still intact enough for the illusion.” Pelande gazed around at their mess once more. She’d forgotten about that rule some ways into the fray, and it showed. Still, there had to be at least one. After turning over a couple and grimacing she found it; the woman she’d stabbed in the back. She knelt. Of course she had a familiar face. They all did. It wasn’t as if she knew any of their names off the tip of her tongue, but millenia of being a contained community meant there were no strangers among them. She placed the ring on the dead woman’s finger, rose, and began looking for another, idly tapping the pouch against her hip. When the process was complete, Isabaele removed the the ring and set it within another one of her pouches. She stood up and looked up and down the canal. An empty gondola rounded the corner, ripe for capture. The rogue threw a grappling hook to ground it. As she prepared the ritual to commandeer the small boat she looked back at the warrior for a moment. “When you’re done all we have to do is load up the bodies for disposal and get out of here.” “Right,” Pelande replied, setting about the conclusion of their grisly labor.
  2. Pelande Aijatar

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

    As Pelande passed through the portal, the sights that greeted her were not what a Shal’dorei would consider pleasant. She was underground, in some ancient ruin of a circular room with high ceilings-- it looked like it possibly predated Suramar’s sealing.It all bore the familiar trappings of Suramar’s architecture but had undergone none of the meticulous maintenance. Still, it held together by virtue of its craftsmanship. There wasn’t much in terms of furniture, nor did there seem to be any natural way out. As the portal closed behind her she was trapped. The third time, by her count. Though less than pleased by this, Pelande kept her composure. “You made it.” The Eyeless commander noted, his tone flat. It was hard to get a read on the man. His head canted towards the female that had stood next to him before they departed and gave a simple command--“Pour her a drink.”--and the other Nightborne got to work immediately. Pelande set her spear aside, upright against the nearby wall, and pointedly stepped out of reach of it. A show of trust to accompany the direct inquiry, “What are you?” “A weapon against the Legion.” The Commander motioned towards the table. There were too few chairs to seat all those she had seen at the ambush. In fact there were far too few people in this room. There were dozens during the conflict, now there were but four excluding her. Scanning the room, she took this to be a council of some kind. A marksman, a man in robes next to what looked like a now inactive telemancy beacon, the female who was pouring the drink, and this demonic outlander who was seating himself. For a brief second she became anxious of her unkempt state. But the others seemed either not to notice, or simply didn’t care. “That’s not much of an answer,” she replied, settling into a chair. “but if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. You fight them; that’s all that’s important.” The ordeals began to catch up to her-- just the simplicity of sitting down was such a massive relief. Pelande let out a long breath. “So… how do we do it?” “First, you drink.” Before he finished the sentence, a mug of Arcwine was placed before the woman. The timing was eerie for a man who shouldn’t be able to see. “You are worthless to me if you Wither. Where the First Arcanist uses her rebels as an army and to inspire, we are more… specialized.” Pelande swept the cup into her hands and it was at her lips before she knew it. Her eyes opened in shock, but their illumination was already stronger than it’d been in weeks. She looked to the cup and shivered. Had she really just behaved like a starved animal in front of these strangers? Swallowing heavily, Pelande set the emptied cup back down. She tried to shift focus back to the conversation with a shaken laugh. “Extremists, then?” “Some would say so, but those would not understand the nature of war.” The Commander shrugged. “Sometimes a dagger can slip through one's armor with more ease than a sword or hammer. We give the Loyalists pause as they exploit your city, we create those openings the Dusk Lilies need by getting our hands dirty. In turn, by killing those who sell their own to the Legion, we save lives.” Idly, she tapped the side of the cup with her fingernails and let her thoughts run freely off her tongue. “They make me sick, these Shal’dorei that would rather be the kings and queens of ruins than fight. We didn’t survive all this time just to lose Suramar like this. Death is better than they deserve but all we can give them.” She looked to him curiously. There was much she wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure how to. “Does your cause have a name?” “I’ve not seen a point in naming our little group in hopes of keeping us more anonymous. But… the public has deemed otherwise and have named us for the weapons we leave as a warning for those who betray your people to the Legion. We are known as ‘the Ebonfeathers’.” Maela would probably find all this informality uncouth, but Pelande was feeling refreshed by it. After so many millenia, here she was in a new place. Speaking with new people, finding a new path, following a new set of rules... even if she wasn’t sure what they all were yet. It didn’t matter, she said to herself. As long as she was fighting the Legion, the anger that had festered for ten thousand years would find its outlet. She spoke with a smile. “As I said before, my weapon is yours. If you’d have it I would call myself an Ebonfeather.” “Then you are in luck, as we do have an opening.” His tone betrayed no hints as to how genuine he was being. “You made your choice when you stepped through that portal. Before we talk about your first mission; you should know that as one of us, our resources are available to you. This includes wine, our beacon, arms and armor-- tell me what you need and I’ll see to it.” “Some plate and a proper spear is all I could ever want--” She paused, “and, rations of wine, naturally.” This last part was spoke with a touch of shame, quickly masked with a clearing of the throat. “From there just tell me what to skewer… er...” Pelande trailed off, blinking… and then laughed. “...it just occured to me. I don’t know what to call you yet.” “Kal’une Danteur will do for now. As for your mission, you come to us at a critical conjecture. The First Arcanist marched three elven nations worth of armies into Elisande’s trap, including my ‘Brother’ who tried to warn them. This has left the rebellion in shorter numbers than we would prefer, so we will have to supplement for them. And while we don’t have the time to forge you into a weapon such as myself, I know where to find my Illidari brethren. The problem is, we need to get them inside the city undetected.” He motioned for the other woman to take a seat next to their newest recruit. “And that is where the two of you come in. We’re going to locate select targets, and replace them with those designed to Slay rather than Serve.” ‘Forge’ her. Did that mean turning her into something as twisted as himself? She didn’t care for the idea, but if he said it wasn’t happening it shouldn’t matter. But assassinating those that had turned their backs on her people? He didn’t have to ask her twice. It was apparent that he was moving his pieces into place. To what exact end, Pelande couldn’t see--she didn’t have much of a mind for planning, and the more she knew the more of a liability she’d be. She’d taken a leap of faith, and now this was the only solid ground left in sight, the only island in the storm. She had to trust in this man. With her bridges burning behind her, it was easier than expected. “Whatever it takes to liberate Suramar, Commander Danteur.”
  3. Pelande Aijatar

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

    With the liberation and arming of those imprisoned by the Legion, the rebels cloaked in dark colors and wielding the signature blades of the rumored Ebonfeathers had ensured the odds were well stacked within their favor. The struggle was as quick as it was violent. But even still, they worked upon a time constraint. “With haste. Their ilk won’t let this little slight go unanswered.” The stranger didn’t appear to be the type for conversation but something drew Pelande to him anyway. Thousands of years of conditioning made her aware of just how unseemly she appeared, told her to hesitate. It felt good to ignore them. She wore the mix of blood and grime proudly. The warrior let the urge to preen loose for but a second to swipe her filthy hair out of her face so her expressions could be clearly read. “Wherever you’re fighting next, take me with you.” Half-request, half-demand, she awaited an answer with her bloodied spear held tight. “So bold.” The normally flat tone of the commander of this band of rebels edged into a dark amusement as his back remained turned to her. His head turned over his shoulder, revealing fel-green flames that licked at his eye sockets. “Are we really so eager to sell our souls from one fate to another?” This stopped her for a second; that awful flare. The exact hue of her people’s tormentors. But she was quick to put her steely facade back on and assess the situation logically. Maela would probably have this all figured out by now, but Pelande’s mind churned. She pushed the less important questions to the back of her mind and tried to focus. “My soul is my own; I’m not offering it.” She raised her spear. “But if you’re fighting the Legion, my spear is yours.” “To fight the Legion may prove less simple a task than you’re expecting. To win this war, sacrifices must be made. Consider what victory over the oblivion that has consumed more worlds than you can fathom is worth to you.” His eyeless vistage returned back to greet the Nightborne rebel that approached him. Before she could even speak, the Demonic elf before her nodded and his hand made a gesture close to his ear. “M, prepare our departure.” “I have no alternative.” Pelande asserted once she felt it appropriate to speak. She seemed frustrated at what she viewed as pointless, grandiose talk. She had offered her weapon. What more did they need? And this impetuousness was plain in her scowling lips and narrowed eyes. “What other path do I have now?” She made an aggravated gesture toward Suramar. “No city to return to, and No World, if the Legion has their way.” She punctuated her statement with a tap of her spear on the ground, “Take me with you!” “I won’t deny you the opportunity, so long as you’re aware.” The Commander said as reality folded before him into a portal. Passing through, he left the warrior one final message: “Make sure you are dedicated to this path, there won’t be any straying.” Without even sparing a glance toward home, Pelande Aijatar followed the Commander through to the unknown.
  4. 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...
  5. 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.