Of Werecats and Dragons

By Commentaholic and DragonRider101

A/N:

Commentaholic: Well, here's the first chapter of our collaboration story, everyone. I wrote this prologue, but the rest of the chapters will likely contain content written by both of us. I just had the perfect idea on how to start the story, so I just had to have this first slot. Anyway... any thoughts, dragonrider?

Dragonrider101: *looks down* nope.

Commentaholic: Really? Nothing whatsoever? *looks at the readers* This little back-and-forth will be going out to the public, you know!

Dragonrider101: *walks out of the room*

Commentaholic: Get back here! *chases after him*

Dragonrider101: *walks back in* Good, he chased the wrong person. Now, the only thoughts I have on us working together are that we seem to agree a lot, and that he is the better writer. *gets tackled by an angry dragon* Here's the prologue!

Commentaholic: *walking back in* Wait, aren't we forgetting something? Oh, yeah. *adopts a professional tone* Neither Dragonrider101 or Commentaholic own anything in the Inheritance Cycle or any references we might make. The original characters belong to us, as do the changes to the plot line that might arise during the chronicles of the adventures of said characters. The world of Alagaësia and the pre-existing characters that reside within said land belong to Christopher Paolini. *looks over at dragonrider101* Need any help with that dragon?

Prologue: Legends and Prophecies

The cold wind blew past the thin-paned window of the building. Winter had come early this year, and so almost everyone in town was huddled around the communal fireplace in Quimby's tavern. Within the stone hearth of the round fireplace standing in the center of the room, dull embers burned in the darkness, sparking up a shower of flames as a new log was placed upon them. A hooded and cloaked man beside the hearth's eyes flashed with the new light, which lit up his aged, worn features. His eyes showed the weariness of countless battles and trials, and his face bore a few small scars that ran all the way down until they were obscured by the trimmed beard that he bore on his chin. The hooded man wore a cloak draped over his back that was tattered at the edges, speaking of hard and laborious travel.

A raucous babble of talk disturbed the calm isolation of the old traveler as a drunken man, a mere youth of twenty years stumbled over from the nearest table.

"Come on, old man." the man said, slurring drunkenly, "Give us a tale." He reached out and pulled back the old man's hood, revealing black hair, tinged with the gray of age. He often received remarks that he looked younger than he was. To the public, he just attributed this to healthy living, but few would know of his true methods.

"Garrow, show the man some respect." a young man named Horst scolded. He was obviously the more responsible drinker of the pair, for his mug of ale was only half empty, while Garrow's side of the table sported 3 empty tankards. The brawny form of Horst attempted to pull his friend back to the table, but Brom the storyteller laid a calming hand on Horst's insistent arms.

"It's quite alright, my friend. If young lads like you desire a story to pass the time during this cold winter's night, who am I to deny them?"

Brom had only recently arrived in the northern town of Carvahall, which was nestled among the ridges of the Spine that ran along the western edge of the Empire's holdings in Alagaësia. The small village had so far eluded much Imperial scrutiny, mostly do to its insignificance in comparison to the larger towns closer to the Empire's central city of Uru'baen. As such, the Empire's soldiers only rarely visited Carvahall, and even then, only during times of war, which hadn't occurred in the last hundred years since the last great conflict that destroyed many homes in the main cities of the Empire. Not many were still alive from that time that were left to recount the tale of those dark days, but the fear of such a thing happening again was burned into the genetic memories of the following generations.

Brom reclined in his chair, stroking his chin, deep in thought. It had to be a good story, one filled with hope to raise their spirits on this cold, dark, and lonely night. He snapped his fingers. Perfect.

He stood and faced the two young men, holding his arms wide in the traditional storyteller pose. "We all know about heroes of old, do we not?" He paused as he turned his gaze to the assembled people. Due to boredom, the majority of the room's population had turned towards the center of the room where Brom was standing. It wasn't often that they heard a story that they hadn't heard dozens of times before. As Brom had only recently come to the small village, his stories were likely new and a refreshing change. A few people nodded in response to his question. Of course they had heard about heroes that had risen throughout the years.

Brom continued, "As we know, it is the cycle of the world, nay, the universe, that a dark force, and evil, arises every hundred years or so. It is also just as inevitable that its opponent, an advocate or advocates of good, called from their previously unknown lives, will rise to meet the oppressive forces of evil. Evil comes in many shapes, whether it is a misunderstanding that sparks war, or a malicious being bent on the destruction of the peace we all share."

Brom closed his eyes for a moment. "Such a war was Du Fyrn Skulblaka. It may have been purely by chance that an elf, one of the fair folk, slew a dragon, or perhaps it was a misunderstanding or dark intent, we as mortals shall never know, but it sparked a war that will forever be burned into our racial memories, even if the world forgets it in its histories. The war between dragons and the world of elves and men was intense. Imagine: Dragons the size of mountains casting down towering spires of our cities, fire burning entire villages to the ground. The war turned into hell. It cost many lives and properties before it was ended by the legendary Elven hero, Eragon. This elf found a dragon egg, which hatched while it was in his possession. He raised it and they grew close together, and together they became ambassadors between the warring factions. His efforts saved the world from annihilation. The Dragon Riders, an order that arose from this alliance between elves and dragons, reigned as peacekeepers for many centuries. War became a thing that dwelt in distant memories of the elves, and it was forgotten by men entirely. The occasional uprising or quarrel arose, but was quickly brought to heel by the vigilant Dragon Riders."

Brom's face became a look of sorrow, prompting some of the listeners to do the same in sympathy, "But it not to last. It was not long before a young, rebellious rider named Galbatorix rose up in rebellion. After losing his own dragon in a battle begun by his own foolish actions, he wandered around in the wilderness, filled with the madness of half of his mind departing from him, for a Rider without his dragon is only half a man. Young Galbatorix was found unconscious by a farmer, and the Riders were summoned. After he recovered, he requested another dragon, but the Rider Council refused. He was not worthy to be trusted with another dragon. In his rage, he departed, but not before finding a sympathetic rider, one named Morzan, who would become the first of his Forsworn followers.

"A few years later, Galbatorix and Morzan returned from their exile, recruited or seduced a few more Riders to their cause by way of their dark magics, and assaulted the Dragon Rider Order. Caught unawares, the Riders fell quickly, until the last Rider, the Leader of the Riders, Vrael, was all that was left. And in the end, Galbatorix, using underhanded tricks and tactics, slew Vrael, thus ending the Era of Order, and beginning his dark reign. And so it continues to this day. The Elves withdrew into their secret havens, as did the Dwarves, never to be seen to this day. As for the large numbers of wild dragons, nobody knows what became of them. A few days after Vrael's fall, as Galbatorix was about to turn his gaze to the unyielding dragon race, they vanished from Alagaësia."

Brom's eye twinkled, though, despite the somber tone of the tale, "But it is not lost. There still remains to be a hero of this age, one destined to rise up and end the evil that has engulfed our land. It may not be in our time, or our sons' time, but it is inevitable for a person, or persons, to rise up and quell the darkness, ushering in a new era of light and peace." Brom lowered himself into his seat, leaving the rest of the room in silence. The audience was at a loss for words. There wasn't a single person in the room that had not felt a deep impact from the story. But one of them was particularly influenced, and this influence was the one that mattered.

This person sat beside her brother, Garrow. It was a young woman named Selena. Eragon... I like that name.

But little did the people of Carvahall know that the destined hero would arrive sooner than they expected, and with the help of two others, he would change the history of Alagaësia forever.

Five Years Later

Garrow watched as the man and his sister departed on horseback through Carvahall's main gate. He was sad to see her go, as many of Carvahall's residents chose to live out their lives in the small village. A few chose to leave, but they were few and far between. The handsome man had come into the town out of nowhere, sweeping Selena off of her feet. She had been lovestruck by the strong man, and they had left to get married and live together.

To be honest, people had almost seen this coming. Selena had never been one to settle down quietly. She had often been seen journeying into the foothills of the Spine, almost as if daring the creatures hidden in those hills to attack. She always had been one for adventure and excitement, and Carvahall... just wasn't capable of providing that. All this was beside the fact that she was strikingly beautiful. It was often said that there was no possible way that she was related to Garrow, or anyone in the village for that matter. Selena had the grace and beauty of the women of the high court, or so it was said. None of the people in town had ever been to Uru'baen, so there wasn't really anyone to compare it against.

But as such, it wasn't surprising when the handsome warrior had come into town, immediately spotted Selena, and had set about wooing her with promises of a better life. He promised her estates, comfort, luxury. Pretty much anything that a woman could want. Then again, Selena wasn't an ordinary woman. She was aloof and feigning ignorance to his obvious advances until he mentioned his villa in the mountains. Once he mentioned that, she began to get interested, and even returned a few of his displays of affection.

Some of Carvahall's women claimed that it was too quick of a decision on her part, but, as the strong-headed woman that she was, she refused to accept that she wasn't in control of her fate. She would do things when she wanted to, and if she wanted to. To use her words, "No damned custom is going to prevent me from living my life."

And such was the way that Selena came to depart from Carvahall. Garrow was sad to see her go, but also happy that she had managed to find a life other than the quiet, calm life that she resented.

Garrow turned away from the gate as Selena and the man disappeared down the road. Marian was waiting at home, and supper wouldn't stay warm forever.

Seven Years Later

Night had fallen over Carvahall after a long, hot day. Summer had come to the small village late this year. Garrow was calmly relaxing in his chair by the fire, enjoying a good book. At first, he hadn't been much for learning how to read, but Marian had been quite a driving force. Marian had always had a healthy love of knowledge and ways of procuring it. As such, she was an avid reader. Garrow sighed as he glanced over at his wife, who sat in the chair opposite him, enjoying a book of her own.

An uneven rapping sound came at the door of Garrow's house, waking Roran, who had until now been sleeping peacefully in his cradle. It had been two years since Garrow and Marian had been blessed with a baby boy, and they were happy. The harvest was plentiful, the weather was pleasant most of the time, and everything was calm in Carvahall. Garrow grumbled as he rose from his chair by the fireplace. Who could possibly be calling at this hour? he thought.

He opened the door a few inches so that he could peek out of the crack. The person standing on the doorstep was the one that Garrow had least expected.

Selena, his sister that had left Carvahall all those years ago, swayed wearily on the doorstep, hair disheveled, the loose strands sticking out from the ornate circlet of pearls that adorned her head. Her abdomen was swollen with the bulge of pregnancy, a pregnancy that appeared overdue. "Garrow..." she said weakly, as she fell forward. Garrow managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

Garrow hollered back into the house, "Marian! Fetch Gertrude, quick! Selena needs help!" Marian swooped past Garrow and headed down the hill and into town to fetch the midwife. Garrow carried his sister inside and onto his bed. "Don't worry, Selena," Garrow said soothingly, "Gertrude will be here soon." Selena nodded weakly, sweat pouring off of her brow.

After about ten minutes, most of which Garrow spent glancing out the window to see if Marian and Gertrude had arrived yet, the two women came through the door. Gertrude immediately went over to Selena's side, while Marian stood by Garrow. The healer performed her examination of Selena. Her face was grim as she turned to Garrow.

"We need to get that child out now, or she won't make it. She's been resisting the birth, and that can be damaging. I don't know why she's done this, but it doesn't really matter right now. Fetch me some hot water and a clean sheet." Garrow and Marian scrambled around to meet the midwife's demands. The next hour was chaos as they were ordered to go here, hold this candle, hold that bucket, keep her awake, PUSH!"

A wailing cry pierced the air. Gertrude cut the cord of the newborn infant, holding him in her arms for a moment, "Congratulations, Selena, it's a boy." She handed the child to his mother. Selena's eyes wept with joy as she gazed down at her son. If Garrow didn't know her better, though, he wouldn't have caught the brief look of sorrow that flashed across her eyes before vanishing again amid the tears.

"Hello, my Eragon..." she crooned, stroking the baby's head as she lay there, obviously exhausted from the ordeal. Gertrude herded them out of the room to give Selena some time alone. Marian, holding Roran, and Garrow sat by the fireplace together as Gertrude periodically went back into Selena's room to check in on her. Gertrude was just about to go back in again when Selena appeared in the entrance to the room, fully clothed, and holding Eragon.

"Selena, what are you doing? You shouldn't be out of bed in your condition!" Gertrude scolded.

"I'm sorry Gertrude, but I cannot stay." Selena turned to Garrow, "Brother, I must ask you to take care of Eragon for me."

Garrow was dumbstruck, "What are you saying? Aren't you going to take him with you? Or at least stay in town for a bit while you recover?"

Selena shook her head, "I cannot. If I linger here much longer, they will find me. And I don't want Eragon to get caught up in all this. Please, Garrow," her voice quivered in a longing tone, "Raise him well." She pressed the blanketed bundle into her brother's arms and made for the door. She stumbled a few times before reaching it and opening it, disappearing into the night. Gertrude made to follow her, but Garrow grabbed her arm.

"Peace, Gertrude. If I know my sister at all, she has a good reason for doing this. She'll be fine." He looked down at the bundle in his arms. "Hello, Eragon." Strange name, though. He gazed out the window into the dark night, the sky studded with stars. A single comet flashed across the sky, its tail burning a bright blue before it vanished into the dark of the celestial void.

Little did Garrow know that this was the last time he would see his sister alive.

Meanwhile...

Among the towering peaks of Du Fells Nángoröth, a single torch flickered in an archway. Ancient eyes gazed up at the blue-tailed comet as it briefly streaked across the sky. It is time, the old man thought. The robed figure turned and proceeded into the mountain passageway, following the stone corridors through the labyrinth of rooms, before finally finding the hall that he sought.

He raised his torch high, allowing the firelight to illuminate the carvings upon the aged sandstone wall. Every other wall in this room was empty, their engravings erased by magic to prevent their secrets falling into the wrong hands. Most of those prophesies had either come true or been thwarted. This prophesy was ancient, probably older than the Riders themselves. No one knew who wrote it, and only this man knew where it was. A comet hung suspended over the land, two figures beneath it: a werecat and a dragon.

"So it begins," the man murmured. He chanted a short spell, and the engravings crumbled into dust and fell to the ground. He strode out of the archives, and down the mountain to the village of his people that lived nearby. Entering the main structure in the town, a roughly-hewn cathedral that stood half-ingrained into a low mountain peak that sloped into the confines of the town, the man pulled on a rope by the door.

Once he had done so, the echoing tolling of a large bell that hung in the cathedral's tower rang through the stone halls of the building. Almost immediately, a group of about a dozen robed and hooded men appeared out of various parts of the building, converging on the man who had just entered. They knelt before him, and one of them spoke, "Master, you have returned early from your meditation. Have you received a vision?"

The one that the newcomers had referred to as "master" nodded. "A sign has been witnessed, a prophesy realized. By the next time the sacred blue-tailed comet, Fal'kiv'eurr, arrives, the ritual must be prepared.

The disciple that had spoken before spoke again, "Master, which ritual are you referring to?" The confusion was understandable. In such a society as theirs, the rituals performed were numbered among the hundreds.

The "Master" spoke again, this time with finality, "It is one that was forbidden many years ago, locked away to prevent its power from reaching the forces of evil. But it must now be referred to for the last time. Bring forth the Ancient Scroll of Kuthian the Sage."

A/N:

Commentaholic: Well... it's done. What do you think? I hope I kindled your curiosity. And what's your opinion, dragonrider?

*no reply*

Commentaholic: Well, since he's not responding to my emails, I'll just put this out and hope for the best. *giggles* I don't think I've been this proud of a chapter for quite a while. Anyway, Read and Review!