Jesseira is a diminutive person, even for an elf. Standing no taller than four feet and nine inches, shes rather impish and spritely. Despite her struggles with weight due to the onset of an eating disorder, (whether this was due to abstinance from siphoning, or a simple food fetish, or both, is best left to speculation considering no woman would openly disscuss such a thing) her current form is a lithe one, settling around one-hundred and twenty two pounds. As a result of rapid weight loss since her recent return from seclusion, her muscles have atrophied a bit aswell.
Her physical complexion can be best described as well seasoned. All the scars that come with a life lived for the rush of battle evident throughout her hide, a particularly unsightly and prominent one streaking accross her left eye like a lightning bolt is her most distinguishing trait, other than her short stature. Which also seems to be a psychological driving force behind her desire for conquest and unhealthy habbit of toying with lesser foes while searching for ones she feels worthy of her attentions.
For an elf, she has recieved a rarely heard of amount of commendation for her deeds from the Horde. Most definately due to her explosive power on the battlefield. Wielding an impossibly huge sword greater in size than even herself with ease, (likely a compensation for her poor height, but effective nontheless) she is most well known for monstrous displays of carnage and feats of supernatural strength imbued in her by fanatical devotion to the light. To this day, most of the Warsong clan refers to her as a "Demon Fairy" regarding her with fierce superstition and respect. (An old camp fire tale speaks of one such "Demon Fairy" that lurked in the forests, preying on soldiers of both warring factions in the area, playing tricks on them and causing many unwary Outrider and Sentinel patrols to never return.)
Some would call her a living embodiment of contradiction, her devotion to her own fanatical ideals of the light rivaled only by her lust for battle and affinity for violence. Certainly not traits harboured by any Paladins of the traditional Utherian orders or even the newer Blood Knight Order.
By nature Jesseira is mostly a loner, having no actual blood ties to anyone living, other than a son that remains lost to her somewhere in Azeroth. It can be speculated that this contributed greatly to her current psychopathic mental decline. Despite her nature as a loner, she often takes on the mantle of leader when she is driven enough to a cause (which usually have esoteric agendas known only to herself). A carefully calculated mix of almost motherly empathy and cold ruthlessness serves her well in these roles, as does her skill in dissembling.
She can be quite whimsical and bubbly, certainly not someone without a sense of humor and willingness to enjoy herself. She can also be quite compassionate, having taken in three adopted daughters by circumstance of her failed marriages. Jesseira is not without love, but is very rarely expressive. It can also be speculated on the few occasions she is expressive, she only masks her deeper thoughts. Attempting to hide her feelings for fear of seeming weak, not wanting to betray her reputation.
Sadism is not something she is unfamiliar with, often taking delight in treating lesser foes as playthings and temporary amusements, clearly enjoying the game of cat and mouse. Even enemies who rival her own prowess would not be strangers to seemingly inexplainable acts of mercy when she clearly has the upper hand. As evidenced by her little known but intense rivalry with a warlock by the name of Lorelie, who she deeply regrets putting an end to. She is notorious for keeping her enemies closer to her than even her friends and adopted family, especially in the case of Aragonath. Who she fell in love with, inevitably causing great conflict with her faith and self loathing.
(An unfinished chronicle of the distant past.)
The circumstances of her birth were shrouded by harsh politics. Her parents a reknown husband and wife duo, famous for their skills as con artists and thieves of the rarest and most expensive things. One day, they had crossed the wrong noble however.
A powerful sorcerer and a highly influential figure among the upper caste of Quel'thalas' elite, Master Odensiron was a force to be reckoned with. He was many things, but above all else he was a recluse and a scholar. Hidden away with his wife in a heavily enchanted villa out in the wastes known as the Ghostlands in the present day.
There he toiled away in his research of the arcane and forbidden sciences, his only thought and mission to cure his wife's mysterious condition. Often she could be observed with him in public, dressed in extravogant robes, her face hidden by an ominous cowl. Often rumors would circulate among Master Odensiron's peers about her, though none dared let him catch wind.
All was well in the Odensiron manor, until the duo of thieves easily pierced the magical wards. As quickly as they came, they were gone. Master Odensiron's laments at what was taken shook the very foundation of the villa. Whatever it was, it was very important to him.
Without hesitation he made liberal use of his influence with the Magisters, courts, and Convocation of Quel'thalas. Before long an army of the Farstrider's finest hunters and trackers set out on the duo's heels. Their capture was inevitable, but these two were clever. They knew this, and so they hid the mysterious object before bieng taken into the clutches of Master Odensiron.
The Magister's played the most unspeakable and vile tortures upon them, even calling upon clergy to probe their minds, but no method proved effective. They would not relent the location of Master Odensiron's most valuable artifact. Months of futile persuasion passed, it become obvious the pair cared little for their own lives. Fortunately for Master Odensiron however, it also became obvious the woman was with child.
He now had an ends to a means, if they cared nothing for their own lives, surely they would care for their childs. Much to his dismay however, they did not. Even when threatened with the death of their unborn child, they refused. Their defiance knew no submission, and it drove Master Odensiron to near madness. He counted the days as months passed and the child was born.
The courts bustled with controversy, surely they couldn't make true to their threats and dispose of the innocent baby girl. After a few weeks of deliberation, it was decided the child would be given to Master Odensiron to be raised as a slave as reparation for what was taken. He was a hard man, but not a heartless one. He agreed and took her in, dubbing her 'Jesseira De'Odensiron.'
At a loss for the ability to have children of their own, Master Odensiron and his wife raised her as their own until she was old enough to serve as a housemaid. Her true parents long forgotten in the depths of Silvermoon's pens. For one-hundred and twenty years she served, untainted by the outside world and sheltered.
What she knew of it was limited to shopping trips to the shining jewel capitol city of Silvermoon. Lady Odensiron would often send her off with a bag of coins and a list, avoiding venturing out in public personally whenever possible. Jesseira loved going to the city, it let her get out on her own for a short time to explore and see new things.
There were no chores to worry about, and no Lady and Lord to govern and dictate her every action. She loved her masters and ignorantly enjoyed her lot in life as a servant. They were the closest things she had to parents, but something about the freedom on her trips to the city gave her what she thought was a perverted joy.
Strange and almost unwelcome thoughts creeped into her mind, little flights of fantasy she usually dissmissed. Except whenever she passed Farstrider square. There she could catch glympses of Lady Sylvanas, the strong and proud Ranger General of Quel'thalas. She couldn't help but stop and watch her instruct and command Farstrider initiates.
She almost swooned, wishing that someday she could be just like Lady Sylvanas. She knew in her heart however, her fate was to ensure the happiness and comfort of her Lord and Lady. She always dissmissed the temptation of not returning, despite almost always bieng scolded for her tardiness.
She always maintained a stupid grin while Lady Odensiron yelled at her, always an odd hiss in her voice she grew accustomed to, it was worth it. Day in and day out, she mulled about her mundane life. But then she heard the rumors of an approaching plague devastating all in its path. Her mind was wrought with confusion and worry. She didn't even know what a plague was, let alone why it wanted to hurt people.
Master Odensiron assured her the wards would drive back any and all invaders, and the ones protecting their home would destroy any who dared tresspass. His words gave her comfort, she trusted him, but as the armies of the Scourge approached that trust was betrayed.
Great explosions rocked the Odensiron manor, siege machines hurling great projectiles to crumble its walls. For the first time in her life, Jesseira knew terror. With the walls breached and wards destroyed the living dead poured in. With his most powerful spells Master Odensiron held back the tidal wave of rotting bodies, but his mana reserves were quickly depleting, his strength waning.
With the last bit of power he had, he redirected the teleportation stone in the main hall to Sunsail anchorage and bade his two loved ones to leave. Gripped in terror and panic, Jesseira pressed her hands to the stone without hesitation. Not stopping to see what became of Lord and Lady Odensiron.
On the docks of the harbour she waited and waited. In the back of her mind she knew they wouldn't be coming, but she waited anyway for her masters, her eyes glazed over with silent tears. Refugees began arriving at the harbour in droves, great plumes of smoke and the sounds of battle reaching to the sky over Eversong woods.
They swept in to occupy every vacant space on the trade ships docked, droves of people desperately seeking asylum. Jesseira didn't want to leave, she wanted to be with her Lord and Lady, but the crowds swept her off her feet. Before she knew what was going on she was forced onboard a trade ship by the waves of terrified bodies.
Unable to work up the will to resist in her state, she simply surrendered to the whims of the crowd. She could hear the Captain yelling for the refugees to get off his boat before it capsized from the weight, but as approaching undead came into sight he quickly barked the order to set sail.
The boat lurched forward and out to sea, the people on board shuffling about like cattle. She had no choice but to take refuge in a corner of the cargo hold to avoid bieng trampled, she curled into a ball and wept quietly lamenting her masters. Loud and angry voices echoed above on deck.
The Captain yelled for the refugees to divide into groups sorted by age and gender. The middle aged men would be set to sea on a lifeboat first, then the elders, and if the ship was still too weighted down, then some of the women. Not entirely pleased with this course of action, the refugees rebelled. Shots rang out and swords clashed, the Captain and his men were dead.
For weeks the ship teetered aimlessly on the seas, its new crew at a loss for knowledge of how to navigate and run it. They regretted killing the Captain in hindsight, and to make matters worse the plague was setting in among the old and young onboard. The inquisition started to sterilize the boat of refugees. They could not let the plague spread and claim everyone onboard, but at the same time people would not let go of their loved ones so easily.
For three long weeks the fighting never stopped. A miniature war waged on the tradeship, throughout all of it the slavegirl receded into her own mind. Willing the nightmare to be over with all her might. She prayed to faceless and nameless gods, and to her surprise her prayers were answered. In the midst of all the infighting a great storm struck and the ship capsized. Spilling its cargo to the mercy of the sea.
She awoke the next day to a surprisingly warm and pleasant feeling. She felt undeniably comfy as the sands of the Zoram Strand craddled her body. The sun beat down and warmed her to the core. It was as if her prayers truely were answered. The slavegirl made her way to the treeline to dry off and soon decided to explore her new surroundings.
The forests of Ashenvale were beautiful, unlike anything she had ever seen before. The deep and cool colors made her head swim as the tiny pixie like whisps of light danced about seeming to celebrate her arrival. For a moment she thought she had died and gone to some blissful elven afterlife, but the grim reality of her situation soon set in.
This forest was beautiful, but also deadly. It was as if every creature in it wanted to eat her, including the trolls at a nearby Horde outpost who visibly salivated at sight of her. She ran, she hid, she sought refuge wherever she could. Hunger pangs nipped at her belly and she remembered she had not eaten since the plague hit three weeks prior.
Weakness and hopelessness gripped her frail body. Not only did the trolls pursue her as a delicacy relentlessly, but the Kal'Dorei she observed them skirmishing with spat at her with a bitter and seething hatred when she thought they could be her saviors. She was terribly alone and on the verge of starving to death, but in a small meadow the sun pierced the canopy of the trees. Causing something metal to glint brightly and catch her eye.
A rusted but still intact scimitar poked out of the ground, a long decayed skeleton sprawled out in the grass next to it. She looked at it curiously through teary eyes, it seemed to beckon her. She gripped its handle and with no small effort pulled it free from the ground, frowning at her haggard and sickly reflection in its rusty blade.
She remembered how she had seen Lady Sylvanas hold her sword when she was younger, and mimiced the visage in her memory. A bizarre sensation filled her body and suddenly her face hardened and her eyes narrowed. It felt good to hold it, almost too good. The comfort she felt with this old battered sword in her hands made her heart swell, without a single doubt in her mind she knew if she would die, it would be with a sword in hand.
This sword became the tool of her salvation, the key to her survival. She hunted with it, defended herself with it, cut and carved clothing from animal hides with it. It became an extension of herself. As the months passed both the trolls and the Kal'Dorei whispered rumors around campfires at night, of a wild fairy in the woods wielding a scimitar who would cry at the moon like a coyote at night.
They came to regard the wild wood elf with fear, knowing she lurked in the shadows of the forests watching them. She became highly talented in the art of remaining unseen, and used that talent to observe. The former slavegirl turned wild wood elf watched and learned their language as they spoke for hours on end ignorant to her presence.
In three years her body grew hardened, swift, strong, agile, clad tightly in leather and furs. Her past was all but forgotten as her mind grew feral, kept sharp by observing her neighbors and learning. The day soon came when she saw fit to confront her trollish antagonists, who regarded her with slacked jaws as she barked at them in orcish.
She demanded tribute to please the forest gods, a sum of food and supplies. The hallowed skull of a sabrecat resting on her head gave her atleast some credibility while pretending to be an avatar of the wilds. Not wanting to anger the notorious shadow fairy, the trolls cowed their heads and obliged, setting great piles of food and fancy trinkets at her feet to please her.
She was just like her parents, whether she knew it or not as she bagged up the goods and grunted trying to lift them. She jerked at the large bag, causing her headdress to fall off. The eyes of the trolls watching her narrowed, she was just a plain ragged looking High elf! With her ruse exposed, she found herself their unwilling captive and cursed the stupidity of her plan.
At first they had intended to cook her, but as she explained to them her story they whispered among themselves. Their high shaman stepped forward, poking and prodding at the caged wild elf. He rattled a necklace of bones in some strange ritual, and miraculously bade for the elf to be released. Explaining that eating her would mean bad mojo for the trolls occupying the outpost.
She wasn't sure exactly why they set her free, but a part of her was overjoyed to have people to talk to after three long years in solitude. Even though they were trolls, she made friends with a few living on the little outpost. They shared stories of their adventures in the woods, poking fun at the neighboring Kal'Dorei and bragging of their exploits in campeigns against them with the orcs.
For a time she stayed with them, learning of their culture and people. There was a wealth of vast knowledge among these trolls she missed in her sheltered life, which she soaked up eagerly. She came to trust most of them, and when they asked her to use her skills in avoidance to assassinate a few key Kal'Dorei, how could she refuse after the kindness she had showed them?
Each head was delivered promptly, she had no real problem with killing after all she had seen. The way the Kal'Dorei had threatened her and spat in her face, as well as how the trolls had spoke of them made them seem like despicable creatures anyway. There was no doubt in their mind she was a skilled assassin, so the trolls made it a point to pay her well.
For the first time she had money of her own, it was a good feeling. Almost like the first time she held her sword. It was power and oppourtunity all in one. She decided to say her goodbyes to her troll friends and travel, exploring Kalimdor and engaging in skullduggery for the many different people she met. It seemed there was alot of conflict in Kalimdor, and people would pay lots of money for their personal problems to go away.
As she got richer from her deeds, her swords got bigger and fancier, her armor more practical and ornate. It felt good to be free to do as she pleased, though she lacked guidance and purpose. A part of her pined for her days with her Lord and Lady and she grew restless in her travels. She needed more to her life, and while at a local tavern in Theramore, she heard of a man by the name of Master Klannoc Macleod.
A grand master swordsman unrivaled, he lived on a secluded island where he trained people of all races who sought to learn. She was already handy with a sword, she even fancied herself one of the best. Without even a second thought she decided she wanted to meet this Klannoc Macleod. She asked around town for clues as to the islands location, offering to pay for passage to passing ship crews at the docks.
One after another they all refused, except for a nefarious looking fellow claiming to be a Blood sail. Hesitantly she boarded the humans ship and was on her way. A few hours of drunken fights later, the pirates crew realized they had deceived the wrong woman into boarding their ship to suit their carnal needs. At the end of a sword the ships Captain begrudgingly altered their course and angrily tossed her to the sea near a tiny island. An island she desperately hoped was Klannoc's.
- * *
A bizarre and alien sight came to Klannoc's island. A Blood Elf woman of all things, seemingly washed ashore like a half drowned rat. Her body tightly wrapped in feral looking leather chapped and worn with age, showing off her spindley and fragile looking frame. Despite her rugged appearance, her hair was extremely well groomed and meticulously maintained. A trademark of the vain Sin'Dorei. Suddenly the sounds of metal clashing as Klannoc's pupils sparred the hours away came to a halt, replaced with cat calls and whistles.
Klannoc grumbled as his peaceful hobby of writing poetry was violently disturbed by these outrageous sounds coming from his students. As he descended from his perch on the massive rock overlooking the great sea, he began thinking of a proper punishment for whomever was causing this ruckus. His eyes widened and he clenched his fists observing the piles of discarded weapons and angrily scanned around for his missing students. "What has gotten into these whelps!?" He thought as he spied a crowd gathered on the south beach, a tremendous frown deepening on his face.
He could hear garbled chatter and whistles fall to silence as he made his approach, his students stepping aside in his wake to reveal a Sin'Dorei with two scimitars drawn. A paniced look of fear and confusion on her face, her one good eye darting about the Night elves, orcs, and tauren that towered over the tiny Sin'Dorei. Who stood no taller than four feet snd nine inches herself. "What are you doing on my island little girl, are you lost? Put those weapons away before I take them from you." He barked.
The crowd of would be warriors snickered at this, and Klannoc raised his hand indicating silence in response. As he awaited her answer she planted her feet in the dirt and raised her swords in a defensive positon, with a melodic and weary voice she replied: "Are you Klannoc Mcleod?" At this he raised his brows and nodded. "The prissy prickmedaintys ere' ta train lads!" cried out a dwarf standing in the back, provoking a roar of laughter from the students. With a commanding shout Klannoc silenced them, and without a second thought bade the little elf to leave.
As he spun on his heel to walk away and beckoned his students back to training he stopped dead in his tracks, an annoyed and determined yell bellowing from the elf. "I. Refuse!" Slowly he turned and strode up to her, his hand lazily draped on the handle of his extravogant katana resting in perfect balance in the sash around his waste. His gaze met her single emerald eye and he felt a pang of curiousity, in her eye he could see battle and desperation. He tilted his head at this, and in a flash of a moment decided to test her.
He turned his sword backwards and in one fluid motion drew with a shrill cry of metal, smacking the womans knuckles with the blunt side. The scimitar in her right hand flying free as she yelped in pain, and before the noise was finished leaving her lips, he brought his blade back down on her left hand. Liberating her other sword from her grip aswell. The woman stood disarmed and seemingly helpless, the pointed knotch at the end of Klannoc's katana looming dangerously close to her neck. "Leave." The little elf scowled and to Klannocs surprise, she did not have a look of defeat in her eye.
In a daring and unorthodox attack, the woman grasped Klannoc's blade bare handed and snapped her wrist. Turning it inwards and pinning his sword under her arm. So taken offguard was Klannoc, that he failed to evade a ferocious punch that landed square on his jaw. For a moment he saw a haze of black dotted with pinpricks of light, causing him to stagger back a few steps as the elf released her grip on his blade. A collective gasp from the crowd of students was audible. Did this little elf really just deck Master Klannoc Mcleod?
The elf lowered her arms to her sides and clenched her fists, trickles of blood dripping from her right hand. For a moment this tiny elf stood like a monolith, rigid and unyielding. "I would like to train, please." She spoke with poise and humility simultaneously, and bowed as deeply as she could. Her raven hair falling from her shoulders to hang freely, wafting in the breeze. The crowd gazed in awe at the two, wondering what Klannoc would do as he blinked away the daze in his vision. To their surprise a soft smile formed on his lips and he let out a hearty good natured chuckle.
- * *
There on Klannoc's island she honed her skills as a fighter, and more importantly, learned a great deal of honor and discipline. She a took a liking to refering to Klannoc as Master Macleod with great affection, he became a father figure to her in the three years she spent there. She met all sorts of people of all races on Klannoc's island, including orcs, taurens, and soon Forsaken.
Through them not only did she learn that Lady Sylvanas still lived, but Quel'thalas had recovered! Her home still stood and her people had recently signed a pact of mutual defense with the Horde. She had to go to them, she had to return to the home she had missed for so long.
She said her good byes with a heavy heart to Master Macleod and set off once again, but the Quel'thalas she returned to was not the Quel'thalas she remembered. Things had changed a great deal. Most notably was the great scar and the plagued mess surrounding the aged ruins of the Odensiron manor. Even the people had changed.
The renaissance of the Highborne was over and the dark age of the Sin'Dorei had begun. Her joy quickly became dissapointment as she tried to mingle with her own people, they scoffed and wrinkled their noses at her outrageous accent. They dissmissed her as rabble and a street urchin. Everyone seemed bitter, angry, and even hopeless. Her heart ached as she wondered who was responsible for all this.
In the streets she saw protests and riots, people bieng silenced as they spoke out against Prince Kael'thas. In the midst of all that she spotted an elf standing on the corner. He was stoic and stood rigidly at attention, passing flyers to passersby with sharp fluid flicks of his wrist.
On his chest was a crimson tabard, the emblem of a sword over a shield outlined in white. She approached the man curiously, who promptly handed her a flyer. She looked down at it and bit her lower lip, "I.. I cannot read." She almost whispered with heavy accent. The man raised his eyebrow and spoke..
"Well, no trouble then. I am Commander Kyr Rosetalon of house Snow of the Crimson Phalanx. Are you interested in serving a greater purpose?"
The future Elder of Swords nodded timidly.