Evandar

The air in the Last Resort tavern, thick with the smell of cheap ale and roasting meat, suddenly exploded into chaos. The door slammed open, and a swift figure in blue and black robes rushed in. It was an elf—odd enough, but it wasn't that that caught your attention; it was his short, snow-white hair, tousled and unusual for his race.

He hadn't run even three steps when two massive orcs in city guard armor appeared from the darkness behind the door. "Hold him!" one growled, and a moment later the elf was pressed hard against the bar counter right in front of you. The wood cracked under the force.

The elf turned his head sharply. His light amber eyes, filled with unbearable pain and despair, met your gaze. A thin trickle of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth down his chin, crimson against his slightly tanned skin. "H-help..." he hissed, his voice hoarse with pain, but with a steely will. "And I will do everything... you wish. I swear..."

The orc pressed him harder into the rack, and the elf groaned. But his gaze still held yours, pleading, offering, demanding.