The Adventures of Brom, Jeod, and Isabella

In Which the much admir'd comic writer, Awilla the Hun, takes his characters from his series concerning the continent of Alagesia (Messrs Brom and Jeod), and deposits them in Forks, Washington, with amusing results.

Well, hello everybody. As you can see, I've embarked on reading Twilight. It isn't very good. I look forward to all the teenaged fangirls complaining. I have previously embarked on several sequences involving the long suffering duo (Brom and Jeod, both of Eragon fame) struggling through several different fantasy worlds. I've done Alagesia in the past, present Alagesia, some of the Belgariad's countries, and have an eye on Lord of the Rings. Now, I intend to unleash hell on Forks, Washington. If you live there, I apologise for any inaccuracies of geography.

Now, this will be slightly different to my other parodies. You see, in Eragon, I have found an endearing element about the books; perhaps it's a form of sympathy about some fairly average fantasy adventures getting panned so much (and my personal status as a fan for the first two.) I have begun to read Twilght, however, and I have yet to find any redeeming elements at all. So, without further ado, let's begin…

((And for the more astute observers: yes, they do mostly do medieval fantasy worlds. I intend to incorporate this…))

I have never been a great fan of Forks.

This is not to mean any disrespect to the town of course; it reminded us distinctly of the old country. All the green hills and trees made it feel like Du Weldenvarden, for a while (as did the extremely attractive, but extremely malicious non humans within it, but I'll get to them later.) This was until, of course, we walked out into the roads, and caused a mass pile up of exactly ninety six of their motor cars crashing into each other and blowing their horns at us.

Brom turned, a perplexed look on his face, followed swiftly by his look of open welcome that always caused me to look for exits at the inn door. "Hello there," said he. A woman was clambering out of a bulbous looking example, and striding purposefully towards him.

"This really is most unfortunate," Brom was saying; the woman was at the front of the queue, and probably had less reason to complain than anyone else, "but-"

"Oh my god! My life is so horrible! You just wrecked it, you bast-" the girl (for it was a girl, with a plain sort of face.)

"Really, I can't apologise enough," Brom said, taking out his bag of coins (most of which we had spent buying some suspicious looking white powder from an ill favoured looking gentleman in a dirty shop. We subsequently asked ourselves why anyone would ever be paranoid about flour.) "How much is it worth?"

"Nothing! Charlie gave it away for free!" the girl seemed on the edge of apoplexy.

"Well," said Brom, offering some coins anyway (he really was being remarkably well behaved), "may I offer you some…" he turned to me in what he thought to be a discreet manner. "Shit Longshanks, what the hell do they call crowns round here?"

I thought for a moment. "Dollars or something?"

"That's the one." He turned back to the girl and gave a winning smile. (She recoiled.) "Well, whatever-your-name-is-"

"It's Bella," said she. "It's such a good name!"

"Indeed it is," said Brom tactfully. "Now, I would like to give you one hundred of dullers-"

"Dollars"

"Whatever. Dollars, and you can use them to-" he turned to be again- "Longshanks, what do they use their cash for round here?"

I shrugged hopelessly.

"Whatever the hell you want-wine or something- and let's leave this be."

"Oh my god! What the hell are you wearing?"

Brom gave her a level look. "A robe," said he. "A brown robe."

The girl turned away, holding her head in her hands. "Oh, woe is me!"

(I must add before going on that this is the first time I heard anyone say that outside of badly written romances. Which may explain a lot.)

"I get taken away from my loving mother in California to this green, marvellously beautiful dung heap called Forks. I have to drive a truck-a truck! That was given to me for free. My father is a hardworking man who isn't obsessed with me. All these weird people keep coming to me- they want to be friendly! What the hell are they doing that for? And now I'm talking to myself in front of these medieval jerkasses who can't understand that I'm too angsty and emo to-"

We never heard the next sentence, for at this point I took hold of Brom's arm, and began to steer him gently away from the accident. "I think," I muttered to him, "that we've done all we can."

Brom looked fairly close to his third emotion (drunken rage: the other two were cheery benevolence and total haplessness.) "But-" he began, reaching for his sword.

"Brom, she evidently needs some sort of mental institution or healing magician."

"She's whining about us wanting to help her. She's unhurt. And her car is totally undamaged! What the hell's wrong with her?"

"Sometimes," I said wisely, "people just want to wallow in their own self pity."

(Although, it must be noted, she did accept the hundred dollars.)

Now, you may be wondering why a guy from Dras Leona and a constantly inebriated former dragon rider decided to up sticks, and move to such a strange place as this. Well, the answer is simple, and may require some explanation.

It was part of our desperate effort to escape Galbatorix's Imperial authorities. As you may know, Brom had recently stolen a dragon egg from one of their keeps, and as a result had to flee (after implicating myself, wife, and valet in the crime.) This led to a wide variety of improbable escapades across some diverse continents, all of which I have an intention to studiously write about. The incident that led us to Forks, however, all began on a dark and stormy night.

Brom and I (my valet looking after my wife as she was giving birth) were seated comfortably in an inn, when a tall, dark stranger loomed over us.

"You wish," said the stranger, "to travel? To know of the great secret behind the workings of the world, and what lies beyond, and who really controls all the power?"

I decided to humour him. "D'you want a drink?" I asked. (Drunks like to be given these; it's in their nature, I suppose.)

He sat down by us. His skin was as black as his long coat, and he wore a strange pair of darkened spectacles. "I would like to reveal the great secret to you, Jeod."

"Excuse me, but how do you know my name?" asks I.

"That's not important," said he, shuffling his feet. A slip of parchment fell out of his pocket, and I snatched it up.

"Tyrsis Notice Board Dating Agency." I lowered it. "Exactly what are you doing frequenting those? And looking for gentlemen?"

"That's not important," said he. He produced another, larger piece of parchment out of another pocket. "The secret is this. All the worlds that you have visited-all the countries and continents, with all their magic and denziens, are nestled in the smallest corner of another, even greater world. To the occupants of this other world, our people are strange and distant. They are thought of as insane, and are rarely visited, and live in a great green wilderness, and are of no importance. They are known as 'Canadians', and all these worlds are known collectively as 'Canada.'"

I took a deep breath. Brom gave a drunken wolf whistle.

"This is quite a lot to take in," said Brom.

"It may be difficult to accept at first," said the man in the great coat. "But you will eventually come to acknowledge and embrace the true nature of the philosophical world around you."

"Yes, Mister-"

"I am Morpheus."

"Morpheus. Right. Well, you see," said I, gripped by a sudden, wholly regrettable inspiration, "my associate and I are trying to escape from King Galbatorix's secret police. And-well, we want to get somewhere they can't find us. This outer world place sounds as good as any."

Morpheus smiled a smile that I didn't like the look of, which showed altogether too many teeth. "It can be arranged," said he.

So it was that Brom and I found ourselves in Forks, Washington, with keys to the house we had been given- a bungalow on the edge of town, near their "reservation" (although for what animal, I could not guess. We only saw humans there), and some information about our strange, new world. The bungalow was comfortable enough, which led me to utter (as I settled down to a bath that resulted in a distressing amount of water being tipped on the floor) that greatest of jinxes:

"How hard can it be?"

I would find out shortly, of course, with the assistance of our truck crashing friend, Edward Cullen, their school, Edward Cullen, Brom, Edward Cullen, and (of course) Edward Cullen.