Anaiya

Information

Player: JVNemesis

Character Full Name: Anaiya Sorrowleaf

Character In-Game Name: Anaiya

Nickname(s): “It's just Anaiya. Not Ann, or Ayia, or whatever. Stop butchering my name.” (No nicknames.)

Association(s): Horde, Silvermoon, formerly Farstriders, Scryers, Shattered Sun Offensive

Race: Blood Elf

Class: Hunter

Age: 160 years

Sex: Female

Hair: Deep red, drawn back in a ponytail at the back of her neck

Eyes: fel green

Weight: 123 lbs.

Height: 5' 7

Alignment: Neutral, minor Neutral Evil tendencies.

Appearance

Tends towards darker colors, with red and black predominant among her rather limited wardrobe. For armor, the same trend of colors continues, shifting away from her previous preference of woodland browns and greens, though she still retains her old Farstrider outfit. Though she would never admit it to anyone, Anaiya enjoys wearing full-length cloaks, liking the way they swirl and billow. She has picked up a habit of concealing a number of daggers in her clothes and armor, so she's never caught unarmed.

Other Physical Features: Anaiya has heavy scarring over most of her body, though most are concealed by her full-body armor. The most glaringly obvious are a long, thick scar that runs from her collarbone to the opposite hip, a thick line running behind her right ear down her neck, and a thinner white line crossing from her cheek to her forehead. A pale gash across her throat has recently joined the collection.

Personality

With a quick wit and sharp tongue, Anaiya is a formidable verbal combatant. She disdains cursing for the most part, because “there's always a better way to make someone feel like crawling into a hole and dying.” She considers such words a crutch for the less intelligent. She's not unfriendly, per se, just rather cool and aloof; not overtly rude or hostile unless antagonized, but she's not a people person. Her experiences have left her unwilling to get close to people, preferring to keep everyone at arm's length. She generally keeps a tight reign on her temper and emotions, but occasionally they get the better of her.

The results are generally ugly.

She's very uncomfortable and uncertain when dealing with intimacy and close friendship, losing her veneer of calm; she's been down this road before, and it didn't end well. She has no desire to repeat it.

In stark contrast to her previous nature, Anaiya has few qualms about lying and manipulating people to achieve her goals. Her feelings about killing are much the same; she doesn't enjoy it, but if someone has to die for a cause, friendly or not, then so be it. The ends justify the means.

Like all blood elves, she does not like humans, to put it lightly. In her mind, they are responsible for driving Kael to Illidan and, eventually, the Burning Legion. That being said, as a general rule she judges individuals by their actions, though there are certain ingrained racial enmities that are difficult to overcome (night elves in particular), and she does not care to put in the effort required to do so.

Though many of her race (and, indeed, most other races) do not share this view, Anaiya finds it illogical to judge an entire race based on the actions of a few individuals. This is not to say she will befriend everyone, regardless of race. Far from it; she understands that few have a similar view, and has no desire to make any friends at all, let alone get chummy with night elves.

High elves, however, are a particularly sore subject. Anaiya can't comprehend how blind and ignorant they had to be, to turn away their very kin when they needed support the most. Traitors to the only true elves remaining, at least to her, they have earned her eternal enmity.

History

Prior to the destruction of Silvermoon, Anaiya was a lively woman, quick to laugh and always up for a game or a dance. She grew up simply, living a quiet life with her parents and only sister until she decided it was time to strike out on her own. She tried and failed miserably at playing the flute, but kept at it until she could make a passable tune. She loved the peace and quiet of the woods, so, coupled with her unusually sharp senses and elven affinity for archery, becoming a Farstrider was an easy choice.

Though certainly not of the same caliber as the rangers of legend, Anaiya was no slouch either when it came to stealth and marksmanship. What she lacked in natural talent she made up for with dedication and hours upon hours of training until she got it right. She was, however, extremely quick with her hands and feet, making her quite adept at working two blades simultaneously. The rest of her skills soon developed, and she became a respected member of the Farstriders.

It was in their ranks that she met another ranger, Veldoran. Initially they disliked each other, competing to see who was the better. To their mutual annoyance they were quite evenly matched, and neither could gain the upper hand without resorting to trickery, which Anaiya frequently did. After a while, though, it eventually developed into something more. After they had both grown out of their rivalry, of course. A year or so later, they were living together.

She served several brief (for an elf) stints of combat during the Second War, as well as helping round up the surviving orcs into internment camps after. She emerged largely unharmed, with several dozen kills under her belt and a slightly darker outlook on life, particularly after the burning of Quel'thalas. She was drawn out of her mild depression by the attention of her family and friends.

Life was good. Anaiya was happy with her place, content with her family. She had a devoted husband and they were expecting a child soon, unaware of the darkening cloud that was falling over the rest of the world.

And then the Scourge came, and everything came crashing down.

The day Arthas launched his assault upon Silvermoon, everyone Anaiya had ever loved or cared about died.

She watched Veldoran cut down, staying behind to buy her time to get to Silvermoon, to warn them of the surprise assault.

She did not make it in time.

She saw her sister Vareyn incinerated by foul magics, her corpse turning to dust in an instant.

Her friends. Her mother. Her father. None were spared. With a suicidal recklessness born of rage, hate, and grief, the ranger, already wounded, attacked the main assault force marching through Silvermoon alone.

She killed a small number of them before falling herself, laid open from hip to shoulder. She was unconscious seconds after hitting the ground.

To her shock and slight disappointment, she was not finished off, simply left to bleed out from the grievous wound as the undead continued their rush through the capital, towards the Sunwell. She only awoke after Arthas and his forces had retreated, leaving thousands dead, the city ruined, and the Sunwell destroyed. Somehow still alive, the crippled ranger dragged herself out of a pile of corpses laboriously, inch by inch. She managed to survive a day of laying in the unnatural stillness of the dead city, staunching her blood flow with the skills she'd learned as a Farstrider, until she was found by a group of surviving elves who had escaped the wrath of the undead. Through the efforts of a few healers, she survived and was eventually returned to physical health.

To her eternal grief, however, only one of the two lives in her body that survived. She lost her child, on top of everything else. Her injuries had been too severe, and the physicians only managed to save one of them.

She was utterly inconsolable for weeks following her race's annihilation. Everyone has lost someone that day; they all knew how it felt. When she requested to be left alone, they obeyed. Probably the worst thing they could have done.

She had briefly considered suicide, but waved that course away. It wouldn't do anyone any good, and she could do some good if she were alive.

When she finally emerged from her solitude, she was no longer the same, as was to be expected after such a traumatic event. No longer did she smile or dance, and her eyes had lost their cheerfulness. Her gentleness was gone, replaced with an icy indifference. She was cold and hard, her emotions kept under tight lock and key.

She refused to allow her scars to be removed, to remind her of what was lost. Since she preferred to wear non-revealing clothes and armor, most are not visible. On the exceedingly rare occasions she would have to wear something showing more skin, such as a dress, she uses a bit of makeup to conceal them. One, however, snakes from her collarbone up the side of her neck below her ear, which she doesn't bother trying to hide.

But the largest consequence is beyond mere aesthetics. The long scar across her chest, inflicted during her final charge in the invasion of Silvermoon, stretches as she moves her shoulder, causing twinges of pain with most movements. She has learned to live with it, only noticing when she's particularly tired. The worst is when she draws back her bowstring, jolting her with sharp bouts of pain. These jolts get sharper with each repeated happening if she doesn't take time to rest, forcing her to make each shot count, as she can only take so much before she simply can't handle the pain anymore.

And that scar, that pain, reminds her of everything, every day, every time she handles a weapon.

Every time she draws an arrow back, she sees Veldoran dying.

Every time the string twangs past her ear, she hears her friends screaming.

Every time her arrows strike a target, she imagines the Scourge in their place.

And every time she closes her eyes to sleep, she lives it all again.

Combating the blood elves' new addiction was surprisingly difficult for her, despite never having harnessed arcane energies. Lacking the mental discipline of her more magically-inclined brethren, every day was a terrible struggle, fighting the addiction's urges. After one particularly trying day during her recovery her wavering resolve broke, just once, and she fed on the lifeblood of one of the demons infesting the ruined Sunwell, sating her magical lust with its fel power. The urges eased, vanishing even as she stared in horror at her bloodied hands, feeling its dark power coursing through her veins. She never spoke of that incident to anyone, and never again touched that particular source of power. The withdrawal symptoms returned soon after, stronger than ever. This time, however, her resolve was firm, and she resisted. To her current knowledge, she suffered no ill effects from consuming the tainted blood, besides a furthering of the addiction. If anything, it seemed to accelerate her healing, her wounds from Silvermoon's invasion mending at a more rapid pace. In addition, after that incident she always had an uncanny knack for sensing nearby demons, which saved her life more than once. Whether there are other consequences remains to be seen.

Soon after returning to full (physical) health, Anaiya left the Farstriders, unwilling to be constantly reminded of her loss. That was not to say she abandoned her people, however; she flitted across the worlds, eventually venturing into Shattrath City. She joined the Scryers with her surviving friends and assisted them multiple times in their crusade against Kael'thas. The traitorous prince was an object of utter disgust and hatred for her; their race was devastated enough already. How could siding with the Legion and creating a racial civil war possibly be the right thing to do?

It was with mixed feelings that she watched him fall. Satisfaction for destroying the traitor and ending a great threat to the world, but also sorrow. Not only because of what Kael'thas's fall meant, but also because several more of her companions fell in the crusade against him, further whittling the list of people Anaiya could call friend.

The last of the Sunstrider dynasty had turned their name to muck, and destroyed any chances of having a rightful heir return to the Silvermoon throne. In her eyes, the Sunstrider line had ended with Anasterian. She held the greatest respect and adoration for the elf king, and his death was as much a blow as the demise of the rest of her family. She had approved of Kael'thas taking up Felo'melorn, the ancient runeblade of the Sunstrider line formerly wielded by Anasterian, but her opinion of that soured along with her views on the prince himself. It was abhorrent to her to leave a relic of her people in the hands of a traitor. She sought to reclaim the blade after the raid on Tempest Keep, but, to her disappointment, was unable to locate it.

As is her nature, though, she did not remain with the Scryers for long, staying only until the crisis was over. She simply vanished one night without a word of goodbye, and never returned.

She participated in the retaking of the Isle of Quel'Danas, fighting alongside the Shattered Sun Offensive against Kael'thas and the Legion again. The felblood elf prince's corruption struck particularly close to home with Anaiya, his fate being a harsh reminder of what would happen should she succumb to her addiction again. She searched again for Felo'melorn after the Sunwell was retaken, scouring the felblood prince's sanctum in the Magister's Terrace and the Sunwell Plateau. Though she has had no luck, she returns from time to time to search anew, unwilling to give up. The morale boost to her people on the recovery of such a weapon was too valuable to ignore.

To her displeasure, she made quite a name for herself with her actions for the Offensive, and quickly departed once Kil'jaeden had been vanquished.

With the restoration of the Sunwell, her addiction has nearly dissipated, along with most of her kind, but she remains no less wary of the consequences of but a moment's weakness.

When the Scourge rose again and the last two of Anaiya's friends died, rising again as death knights, she struck out again, alone this time, into the frozen north.

Since the Lich King's demise she has put many of her demons to rest, and found a new purpose in the most unlikely of places; a small Horde clan known as the Stormshade. The trials and dangers they have endured together have forged the once cold elf into a trusted mentor, guardian, and friend.

Skills and Abilities

Anaiya is a veteran of almost a century and a half of combat in one form or another. She is an expert marksman and skilled duelist, though such a term is perhaps too polite for her style of melee fighting. Anaiya has no problem employing whatever underhanded methods will give her victory, from handfuls of dirt to a retractable wrist knife to kicks in the unmentionable areas.