Eben Léralondë
Eben Léralondë
The town of Strahan had never been more than an inconsequential smudge on a map for centuries, its population meager, its reputation unremarkable. Predominantly human, Strahan welcomed diversity through travelers, encouraging them to stay to little result. It simply was not profitable, only familiar, offering the resources for self-sufficiency but not much of anything in terms of growth or change.
But for Eben, that was just perfect. It wouldn't stir the interests of others in the province, wouldn't trigger backlash against his people. Who would miss one or two or ten little humans among them? That was the reasoning in choosing Strahan, and it was little more than his position in Alpin that had him doing the gruntwork, though he hardly considered it as such.
In the beginning the elf had merely come as any other visitor might, his presence well-received, welcomed wholeheartedly and with all the more enthusiasm when he did not immediately depart as others did. However, in the weeks that passed since Eben's arrival, enthusiasm gave way to suspicion, his strange socialization habits falling under scrutiny. He showed no real pattern in who he fraternized with, young and old, male and female. He ignored social standing, disregarding even the most authoritative figures of Strahan, if only because his own influence was more powerful than any of them had anticipated. The elf had a certain magnetism that drew others to him, if for nothing else how refreshingly different he was. Little did they know that Eben was not seeking companionship. Soon enough strange marks began appearing on a small number of the townsfolk, subtle red blotches beneath the skin that soon began showing more distinct patterns as the stamp repeatd from person to person.
It was not until Cyran, a bookish but ambitious young man (and son of the town's night watchman, no less), researched the elf and his culture that he realized Eben was marking them, one by one, for sacrifice to Elralan, his tribe's most infamous god. It was believed the blood of their sacrifices nourished their god-given soil, and that without it, their god would be displeased, the land would dry up, and famine would destroy their numbers. Eben was also a rare product of elves, dark-haired and grey-eyed, believed to be anointed with this divine 'gift' in choosing this god's sacrifices. If the humans destroyed Eben, it would only invite an ugly assault from the elves, and Strahan could not build an army large enough in time to defend their meager territory against the elves' numbers. Relations between the two species were already strained.
Cyran confronted Eben himself, but the elf dismissed his accusations, offering little more than obliviousness and a satisfied smile. The elf merely shook his head, the rings and jewels lining each of his long ears, glinting in the dim light beneath short but choppy sable hair as he chuckled quietly to himself. He drummed fingertips against the wood of the table, one and two and three then a pause-- the index finger of his left hand missing just beyond the first knuckle. As if aware of his dismal monochromatic features, he often dressed with color, and it was to the cuff of his powdery blue coat he now peeked, disinterested in further conversation by comparison. Even if he could prove it, what could Cyran do about it? Eben left him no choice but to make a bid for help.
The town of Strahan had never been more than an inconsequential smudge on a map for centuries, its population meager, its reputation unremarkable. Predominantly human, Strahan welcomed diversity through travelers, encouraging them to stay to little result. It simply was not profitable, only familiar, offering the resources for self-sufficiency but not much of anything in terms of growth or change.
But for Eben, that was just perfect. It wouldn't stir the interests of others in the province, wouldn't trigger backlash against his people. Who would miss one or two or ten little humans among them? That was the reasoning in choosing Strahan, and it was little more than his position in Alpin that had him doing the gruntwork, though he hardly considered it as such.
In the beginning the elf had merely come as any other visitor might, his presence well-received, welcomed wholeheartedly and with all the more enthusiasm when he did not immediately depart as others did. However, in the weeks that passed since Eben's arrival, enthusiasm gave way to suspicion, his strange socialization habits falling under scrutiny. He showed no real pattern in who he fraternized with, young and old, male and female. He ignored social standing, disregarding even the most authoritative figures of Strahan, if only because his own influence was more powerful than any of them had anticipated. The elf had a certain magnetism that drew others to him, if for nothing else how refreshingly different he was. Little did they know that Eben was not seeking companionship. Soon enough strange marks began appearing on a small number of the townsfolk, subtle red blotches beneath the skin that soon began showing more distinct patterns as the stamp repeatd from person to person.
It was not until Cyran, a bookish but ambitious young man (and son of the town's night watchman, no less), researched the elf and his culture that he realized Eben was marking them, one by one, for sacrifice to Elralan, his tribe's most infamous god. It was believed the blood of their sacrifices nourished their god-given soil, and that without it, their god would be displeased, the land would dry up, and famine would destroy their numbers. Eben was also a rare product of elves, dark-haired and grey-eyed, believed to be anointed with this divine 'gift' in choosing this god's sacrifices. If the humans destroyed Eben, it would only invite an ugly assault from the elves, and Strahan could not build an army large enough in time to defend their meager territory against the elves' numbers. Relations between the two species were already strained.
Cyran confronted Eben himself, but the elf dismissed his accusations, offering little more than obliviousness and a satisfied smile. The elf merely shook his head, the rings and jewels lining each of his long ears, glinting in the dim light beneath short but choppy sable hair as he chuckled quietly to himself. He drummed fingertips against the wood of the table, one and two and three then a pause-- the index finger of his left hand missing just beyond the first knuckle. As if aware of his dismal monochromatic features, he often dressed with color, and it was to the cuff of his powdery blue coat he now peeked, disinterested in further conversation by comparison. Even if he could prove it, what could Cyran do about it? Eben left him no choice but to make a bid for help.