Utter, utter rubbish; this was written simply to entertain and liven a monotonous evening of endless drudgery, and includes fictional circumstances that were created in order to decorate the plot-line of this mindless one-shot. I would do well to warn you beforehand that reading this composition may leave the audience with the driving urge to maim and mutilate irritating old Hippothoe. Also, I am not funny, either; please attempt to be kind.

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Eragon sat at the table, staring as his cousin wolfed down loaf after loaf of bread, each slice dripping with honey, and butter, and specimens from a graciously large selection of preserved fruit jams that had accompanied Katrina into their family. Roran's wife sat at the chair set opposite Eragon's own seat, copper-haired and enormously pregnant, with a slight arch to her brows as she surveyed her husband with disbelief and gaped, agog, at his sudden ability to consume such immense amounts of food.

"You'd think that spending three days in the Spine left a man with an appetite, but this is ridiculous," Eragon said, as Roran reached for a biscuit layered with soft cottage cheese.

"Spending three days in the Spine without food does."

"I did tell you to take me with you," Eragon countered dryly.

"And what could you have done that I wasn't able to?"

"Wield a bow, for one."

"Oh, please."

"What? Are you saying that I'm incompetent with my weapons?"

"No, only that you wouldn't even be able to find the ties to your leggings with a mirror," Roran said smugly. The thick biscuit was quickly disposed of, and Roran reached for a sausage sizzling within its own juices.

Eragon flushed. "Excuse me, but exactly who is the Rider here?"

Roran snorted. "You hardly classify as a Rider – the Elves were the ones who defeated Galbatorix while you ran crying to Nasuada."

Katrina sighed, the gesture drowned amongst the incredulity of the uproarious argument. "Not again…" She shared a stricken glance with a similarly disinterested Saphira, who sat with her great eye pressed against the rectangular window of the kitchen.

"What! You were there, you insufferable lout! I personally dealt the final blow!"

"With the help of Arya's magic!"

"That's a lie, and coming from the one who can barely balance a pebble with a spell!"

Dangerously red, Roran raised an accusatory finger. "Don't forget – I know who stole Orrin's pipe."

"Orrin's pipe! You still remember that?" Eragon said, aghast.

"Ha! And yes!"

"It was upon Nasuada's precise orders! I am pledged to her, remember? My very life is hers!"

"Pft. That's never stopped you before."

"Why, you –"

"Mhmm."

"That still doesn't explain why you couldn't hunt for food in the Spine."

Roran hid his face behind his mug of ale. "You're such an arse, Eragon."

"An arse with a dragon, and stop trying to change the subject."

"Arses can't ride dragons."

"Yes, they can."

"No, they can't."

"Yes, they can; I've seen it."

Roran sputtered his drink. "Seen it? Where?"

"Teirm."

"Teirm! You could see a flying hedgehog in Teirm."

"And an arse riding a dragon. He'd mistaken Saphira for a filly – let's just say that she wasn't very happy."

"Ah."

"Fancy a biscuit?"

"Please."

"So? Have you learned your lesson about venturing into the Spine alone?"

"Get lost."

"No."

"Oh, shut up, the both of you!"

"What?"

"The baby's coming."

"WHAT!"

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Well, if you are not crying with joy at the blessing of relief by the final sentence of this monstrosity, I salute you.