I'd often thought my life would end in a more spectacular way, to be honest. I mean, I'm not a hero. Never have been. I guess my life has been pretty fulfilled. I met some awesome friends, had some adventures, fell in love…or at least, so I thought. Then that 'love' turned out to be some psychopathic lady who would end up throwing me off a bridge later.
Huh. So maybe it did kinda suck.
People often say I'm one to jump head-first into danger, without a thought of my own wellbeing. I guess, in a way, they're kind of right. "A hero is oft one part brave and three parts fool," as the saying goes. Yet, that has not exactly turned out very well for me now…not with imminent death just a few heartbeats away.
And to think, this particular adventure started off so normal.
Algaesia. A vast and desolate waste land filled with bards, mages, maidens and knights...adventure and a new treasure-trove of secrets to uncover at every turn. It had not always been this way. Perhaps a century before, heroes and riders were rare. People did not live among dragons, and rather lived in fear, trapped under the controlling hand of the dark King Galbatorix.
But no longer. The land had been freed, the people spared, and the dragons reborn. The world was anew, and everything was grand.
But maybe not everything.
As the world changed and grew, expanding with new life and new opportunity, things were not the same as they once were. Scaled wings rising before a clouded sky were seldom an uncommon thing. For dragon riders now ruled the earth, and of them were plenty. Yet, it took a special person to become a rider. One must be true of heart, strong of will and, overall, one must have the qualities of a hero.
And it would come that a particular rider, Sadon Shadeslayer, hero and adornment treasure of the town of Carvahall, would marry upon the mark of winter. Not but many months later she would bear him her only son, whom they dubbed by the name of Bayard, son of Shadeslayer Sadon the First. What they did not account for, however, was the shadow the boy would always dwell under. No matter who he was he would always be known as the boy who had been born from a dragon rider hero and a lowly tavern local girl. And it might be fate, persay, that upon the boy's tenth year he would run his hand across the shell of a gold-encrusted egg and have the very shell to split. A golden hatchling would spring forth from the remains of the egg and, as a result, the boy would be deemed a dragon rider as his father before him had been.
Thus, begins the tale.
It had long since been that the ground had been covered with a blanket of freshly fallen snow. The bite of winter had left the air to be replaced with a simple spring breeze. Yet, the nights remained cool. The silver stars hung above in an eerie silence, winking to one another as the previously busy town was lulled to sleep.
Though, not every inhabitant was quite asleep. This town was Bullridge, though it mattered little to Bayard Bladeseeker. To him, it was merely another stop on the way of his journey to become noticed. And, as though it appeared, his chance to become noticed may just have arrived.
He had been for perhaps several hours been walking down the quaint streets of Bullridge, and weighing his options on moving on. In appearance, he was a fairly tall boy, not yet his full-height, with somewhat wavy blonde hair that grew up about ear-length. If anything he had an attractive face, though one that someone may consider oft be thinking of mischievous deeds. True, Bayard was frequently one to cause trouble. However, not often intentionally. He was truly a boy of good heart, though seemed to be attracted to bad luck and misfortune. He was often associated with mischief and many thought him to be up to no good. His eyes, though brown, took on a more green appeal in good light. At this time, Bayard was nearing his seventeenth year. He had not yet reached his full height or stature, and retained a somewhat skinny form that was lacking in any prominent muscle or physical form of strength.
As he came to a bend in the curb, Bayard's attentions were drawn elsewhere. There was a noise of impact and the startled scream of a lady's voice from far down the street.
"Help! Please, get away!"
At the woman's cries, Bayard did what instantaneously came natural to him. He whirled in the direction of the screams and took off without a second thought or a minute's pause. The streets were empty as of this time of night, so he needn't worry of running into any pedestrians or civilians. He reached a point where, just where the street turned down another lane, a woman and two men stood. The woman, a pretty girl who was approximately Bayard's height, seemed to be fending off their advances. The men were quite large, with burly arms that could only mean danger for a somewhat scrawny boy such as Bayard. Yet, he was undeterred, as he still had his own trick up his sleeve.
"Leave her alone!" The boy called out, stepping forth from the shadows of the buildings so he may be seen. The men snapped to attention and stared over at him, as though in perplexity. They seemed to be very startled by his presence; as they should.
"What?" The first man, a burly bald fellow, barked. His ugly pit-black eyes were fixated upon the blonde rider, as though his comprehension of this new stranger had simply given way. His mouth hung part way open, forming the word 'who'.
Bayard, who had affectively drawn the men's attention, boldly strode forth and put himself in between the men and the lady. "Lay off. She doesn't want you to touch her, get it?" He looked back with concern to the woman they'd been pestering. She seemed unharmed overall, despite her looking quite stunned. "It's alright, I'll get you out of this."
Her mouth formed a perfect: 'o' in confusion. She started, "What are you-?"
At this, the other man's face dawned with realization. "Oh! You think we're...no, pal. That's not it. This is-"
The man's voice was cut abruptly short as the younger boy suddenly lurched forward and, with a savage intention, struck him square in the stomach with a balled fist. The man doubled over with a groan, clutching at his stomach where he'd been hit. Bayard pulled back, shaking his wrist from the strain of striking a full-grown man in the gut.
"What are you doing?!" The woman from behind him exclaimed in a sharp and high-pitched note. Bayard felt her hand suddenly reach out and seize his shoulder, the sharp nails digging into his soft skin. Before he could react or tug away she had suddenly pulled him, effectively turning him to face the opposite end of the street where the corner curved to. And, only then, could Bayard see exactly what he had interrupted.
"…Oh." Bayard said dumbly. Before him sat an array of people, perhaps half a dozen. They were seated upon the cold street, staring up at Bayard and the three other people with a look of befuddlement. Only then had Bayard realized what was going on: a street play, and he had just crashed it.
Once several heartbeats of sheer awkwardness had passed, obvious displeasure had started to show on the faces of the locals. One of them had suddenly cried out: "Boo!", cupping his hands to his mouth. The others picked up the cry until, quite startled and flummoxed, a confused Bayard backed away from the man he had struck. Then, with the boo's ringing in his ears, he whirled around on a heel and bolted back down the street.