Many Eragon fans have tried this, and now it is my turn: how they would have written Eragon. Reviews would be appreciated, for I expect that this is going to be an extremely weird attempt at attempting Mister Paolini's work: in the style of 19th century fiction. There will be a few minor changes in plot and backstory, but they are all for the greater good of a decent piece of work.

And now, without further ado… I give you, ladies and gentlemen, The Luck of Eragon Dragonrider

Part the First: In Which the Story is Introduced, and an Ambush is Set and Made

Arya's father, like many members of the elven gentry of the time, was in to the profession of the courtier. It is without a doubt that he would have become a much esteemed figure in this, were it not for him being killed in a duel over the untimely death of some horses. Arya herself was often given to thinking about this event in future years; often coming to the conclusion that it was indeed odd how such an insignificant action could lead to the fate of Alagesia being altered in a most curious manner.

It was not, however, until a period of several months after the duel that Arya knew about his death, for she was riding, along a road between copses of pine trees, in the company of two gentlemen of the military profession. They went by the names of Faolin and Glenwig, and were respectively tall and dark haired, and shorter and somewhat paler of complexion. The party travelled armed, for the area was known to be of a nature becoming to the highwayman, the rogue, and the brigand.

This was to be proven in a most barbarous manner, for behind the cover of several of the trees lurked a man of most savage aspect and nature. He was tall, pale of face, and clad in a long, dark cape which was of uncommonly fine material; indeed, his clothing spoke of a life of former wealth and prosperity. His boots were made of leather which, were it not for the mud of the trail, would have done credit to the royal guard, and his scabbard, which contained a long, thin blade, was elegantly tooled with golden thread. The body beneath the clothing, however, was utterly skeletal, and the eyes black, the pupils having long expanded into the whites. The man, in short, resembled a corpse, given liberty to walk, speak and act, and his name was Durza.

Durza watched as the three elves walked their horses down the carefully chosen road. He smiled, showing teeth filed down to points, for the road was as good an ambush site as any he had yet seen. It twisted through several bluffs of appreciable height, which were perfect locations to position archers, and was narrow, making retreat difficult. But even then, he knew, the ambush would not necessarily be a success, for elven skill at arms was well known throughout Alagesia.

Which was why he would deny them this. He drew the sword from the tooled scabbard, wrinkled his nose in elegant distaste at the long scratch down the blade, and turned to the man on his left. "Morzanson," he said, in a strange, cold voice, "you may signal the attack. And remember," he added as an afterthought, "do not let the girl escape. D'you understand that? I've paid you enough, by gods, so you'd best do so. And pray stop those brutes from despoiling her or anything."

"Why, sir?" the other man asked. He was clad in a hooded grey cloak, which obscured his face, and was also armed; a long, hand and a half sword was on his back.

Durza thought for a moment about phrasing his answer, for it was a matter of delicacy. "She has something," he said, "that I require. It is a fragile something, I think, and not something to be stamped on by brutes with meat axes."

The man called Morzanson nodded, and strung his longbow, which he drew and shot into the sky above him. "Charge!" he called. Upon this, a great roar was let up from the tree line, as a large body of urgals poured down it at the elves, brandishing flint spears and, in a few cases, bows. An Urgal was a large, brutish creature, with ash grey skin and long, curved horns upon the head, which was often heavy browed and red eyed. The specimens making their attack upon the elves were around six feet in height, and of substantial physique.

The elves stared, panic stricken for a brief moment, but then many long years of training made good itself upon them. The two male elves drew swords and spurred towards the urgals. Their blades rose and fell, hacking into the grey mass around them. For a moment, it appeared to be the case that they would hold against their foes, but their defiance was shortly ended with a volley of arrows and a brutal cheer from the urgals, for Faolin and Glenwig lay quite dead upon the ground.

At this, Arya lept from her horse, attempting to tear her sword from its scabbard. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight of her friends being shot from their saddles, and she let out one anguished cry, before turning and running into the forest. At this, Durza let out another hiss, and gave chase, shouldering his way through the Urgals still on the road and pounding after her.

Although the pursuit was never described in any history books, it would be of great consequence for those within it and, indeed, the wider world of Alagesia itself. It was initially to the advantage of Arya, for she was a runner of abnormal skill, even for the elves, and she proved exceptionally dexterous through the woodland terrain; effortlessly leaping over roots and ducking branches. It was with difficulty that Durza even kept the elf in sight, but it was all that he required.

For, whilst running, he was slowly chanting under his breath, a long series of words which would, to a human of common breeding, sound at best gibberish, at worst make the ears bleed. After one final line, he ran his thumb down his sword, causing dark blood to run down it. He raised the blade, which was now glowing like fire, and pointed it at Arya. He gave a triumphant smile, and gave a look at the pouch that the girl was wearing. It would be his!

Which was now being held up by the elf. She shouted a world in turn, and the pouch, in a great flash of light, vanished. She then collapsed, in apparent exhaustion from her efforts.

Durza let up a great howl of rage, before reasserting himself. After carrying out the necessary action of killing the Urgals with his sword, still afire from the enchantments, he departed with Morzanson, himself on the elf's horse, the grey cloaked man on foot. It was often thus, and Morzanson didn't especially mind the arrangement, for it was an exceedingly lucrative one.

"It was in the reign of Galbatorix that the aforesaid personalities lived and quarrelled, good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now"