User blog:Leea/The Tale of Voronwe, Chapter 39

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4th Era 130, 11th of Frostfall, Pyandonea
Talgando sat in his study, leaning on his desk. A tankard of cheap ale sat at one elbow, and a plate of mostly untouched food sat at the other. A few hours previously, he had performed the ceremony, and he - as well as many other Pyandoneans - still couldn't quite believe it. As the isle's sole priest of Mara, he was the only one able to perform the ceremony properly. He supposed that some of the unease he felt now had to do with his own inability to attract one of the fairer half of his species. It was not like he had not tried either: when he came of age at 17 and through the years, decades and centuries now at 210 years old. In a moment of bitter reflection, he remembered when he had been told when he was a teenager that he would be unable to attract anyone, due to the old superstition about brown hair. There were none in his family with the hair (even traced back generations), yet, when he was born, there it was. He had been treated something of a pariah since. His mother and father had been loyal to each other, so there was no question of either of them having any lovers. His head of hair either came from a forgotten long distant relative, or intervention of another sort, be it Divine or Oblivion-based. Perhaps Sheogorath; he loved to laugh at mortals.

This was stupid, he thought for what felt like the thousandth time. It probably was the thousandth time the thought had entered his mind, he mused bitterly. Just because long, long ago, way before any of the current Elves' memories - barring Orgnum, that is - some Elf with brown hair had phenomenally bad luck, all Sea Elves that were born with the rare hair color were bad luck as well? It was superstitious and primitive thinking beyond words. He had so much to give, but people could only see his head of hair. He was also not of the superficial sort to dye his hair one of the "acceptable" colors just to see what would happen; the dye would wear off eventually, and if he had gotten someone through that trick, say bye-bye when they saw his true hair color.

This rotten luck was why he had taken up being an apprentice as a young man with Peladan, the previous Priest of Mara, to try to see if the goddess of love and compassion could help him. Two hundred years of praying and still nothing. No blushing maiden appeared on his doorstep. He should have prayed for a change of hair color, he reflected, swallowing a mouthful of the ale. He grimaced and pursed his lips. Too sweet for his taste. It was, however, one of the few meads he could afford. He would not dip into the savings specifically meant for upkeep of the Temple, even though his residence was in the basement. Common bandits stole from chapels. He might have the "dreaded" hair color, but he could at least be a proper priest and keep his hands out of it. As he was about to pick up a carrot from the plate of food at his elbow, there was a knock at the door separating his residence from the stairway behind the pulpit. He got up to answer it.

* * *

He opened the door to find Alana standing there in the gloom. The stairway was not lit with the usual sconces, it being nighttime after all and the services at the Church of Mara being finished for the day. However, he was open at all hours for "counseling," which usually only the staunch devotees of the Divine of Love came for. Her mood struck him the most: it matched the light she stood in. "Sorry to bother you," Alana apologized.

He shook his head, the rich mohagany strands of his hair glinting in the light of the candles and lanterns behind him. "Its no bother. I wasn't doing much of anything, anyway. How can I help you?"

Troubled, Alana pressed her lips together. After a pause and a brief stare at her feet, she asked softly, "May I come in? There's something that I'd like to talk about."

Talgando nodded solemnly. "Of course. Step inside please," he replied, opening the door wider and stepping clear of the doorway to allow her entrance.