Meet Plot Bunny #378 which insisted to be brought into reality. Technically, this isn't a crossover as it concerns no actual characters from the Wolf's Rain verse, so I'm keeping it in the Eragon section. (It's an extreme AU based off of WR/Fusion. It's not an actual crossover.)
Disclaimer: I don't own either the Inheritance Cycle or Wolf's Rain. Both belong to their respective owners and what-not. However, I do own all original material, such as original characters and other stuff you don't recognize from either canon verse.
Pairings: SaphiraxThorn? And NasuadaxMurtagh, with a few surprise pairings thrown in as well (no slash)
"People are born with
People are born without
Some people have
And others want
What some go without
As for me I got all that I need
Don't got much but I got what I need"
-Could You Bite the Hand, Yoko Kanno
Our story begins in the nation of Alagaesia. In the past, it was a land of fantastic and magical beasts. Graceful elves dwelt in the forests, as elegant and fierce as wildcats. Dwarfs bustled under the mountains, mining for precious gemstones and hammering crude pieces of metal into awesome works of art. Dragons soared overhead, the most memorable and magical of all these creatures.
Anyone that even caught a fleeting glimpse of a dragon could not forget the creature. They were powerful beings who never stopped growing, the elders of their kind were often mistaken as colorful hills. Despite their ponderous size, a dragon could easily spread its wings and take to the air, flying with the deadly grace of a high-bred falcon. When they breathed out, they exhaled fire instead of the dank air the other creatures. Their hides glittered with thousands upon thousands of scales, all as brilliant as the most precious of gemstones. And a dragon's eyes.... Deep pools of ancient wisdom that inspired countless poets... Legend had it that if a mere human gazed into those enigmatic eyes for too long, they would lose themselves in all those years of memories.
And we, the mere humans, as fleeting as a spring in the eyes of the immortal elves and dragons, were a part of the magic. We traded with the dwarfs, were invited to their unforgettable celebrations and shared in the drunken revelry. We walked among the elves in their woodland haunts, a select few of us laid eyes upon their cherished capitol city, Ellesmera. And the dragons? We were blessed enough that they even tolerated our trying presence.
But bad creatures existed among the good. There were the Urgals, hideous monsters that looked like crosses between rams and humans. They were a primitive and brutal race of barbarians, who would desecrate entire human villages in search of a worthy combatant. There was the Lethrblaka, winged demons that would swoop down upon an unsuspecting child and carry them back to their lairs, where the poor victims vanished forever. And then there were the Ra'zac, monsters frightening beyond description. One glance from their soulless black eyes would paralyze you, rendering unable to even scream your fear. Then they would begin to feast, devouring their incapacitated victims while they were still alive.
It were these demons, these few bad apples, that made our ancestors terrified of all magical creatures. Our relations with the other races gradually soured, until we were the ones to lash out with destructive force and crippling attacks. Within just a few short seasons, the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka were completely eradacated by bands of fearful humans. Urgals, their once numerous population down to only a few hundred, fled to the unchartered wilderness of the north.
While the elves could easily repulse any human attack against their numbers, they decided they did not want to live so close to a violent and hostile race. Departing upon their ships, they sailed away across the sea, presumably returning to their homeland. The dwarfs retreated deep into their underground lairs, sealing themselves away from the surface and the creatures who walked upon it forever.
The dragons were not as fortunate as their fellows. Unlike the elves, they could not simply journey across the sea, as their wings could not carry them that far. And they could not seal themmselves away from the world, as they could not survive underground like the dwarfs. Trapped in Alagaesia, they were doomed to suffer the same fate as the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka.
Dragons were hunted down, their horns and scaly hides prized upon the wealthy members of society who would do anything to get their hands upon it. Their forests were razed down, so that they were driven out of their hiding places by starvation and into the line of fire. In just a few short years, the once almost-countless dragon population dwindled down to nothing.
And with the disappearance of those three good magical races came the degradation of our own society. Anarchy reared its ugly head and the benign monarchies that had kept order in Alagaesia were overthrown, all members of the royal families slaughtered by citizens thirsty for blood. Chaos reigned, any individuals that could have ended the destruction cut down by the so-called 'rebels.'
In time three new powerful families established leadership in the chaos, cutting down all opposition and forcing the rebelling people into something resembling nations. The leaders of each of these countries (the Empire, the Varden, and Surda) came to be called Nobles. Today, these Nobles are Galbatorix Voskian of the Empire, Ajihad Hounsou of the Varden, and Orrin Larkin of Surda.
Though there was a crude represantation of order in Alagaesia, peace was still a distant dream. The Empire was determined to rule all four corners of the continent while the Varden and Surda combined forces to stop him. The result was decades of warfare which continue today. In all of the chaos, crime runs rampant, the authorities too distracted with ratting out terrorist groups to care about the 'lesser evils' of robbery and drug-dealing.
And this is a world we live in today. Of strife and death. Of lawlessness and apathy. Of sorrow and loss. Without hope, or justice, or a real chance of peace.
Or magic and the wonders that come with it. This is a world without elves and dwarfs. Or dragons.
Ah, the wonderful city of Dras-Leona. The Inner Rim of the city was a haven compared to the chaos of the world outside. The buildings there were graceful, plants lined every street. and crime was virtually nonexistent. Oh, and there was good security. Bands of armed law enforcement officers marched down the streets of the Inner Rim daily, discouraging illegal activities with their very intimidating demeanours.
Too bad the same couldn't be said for the Outer Rim. Separated from the Inner Rim by a heavily fortified and armed barrier, the only protection the rest of Dras-Leona had from the outside world was a flimsy wall that could have been penetrated by the weakest of rebels. While the Inner Rim was the image of perfection, the Outer Rim consisted of a series of ramshackle buildings and a maze of twisting and turning narrow streets. Crime was rampant here, police nonexistent, and raiding incoming trucks of supplies on the way to the Inner Rim the only way to earn a decent living.
A small but highly successful gang who went by name of the Red Strikers was just returning from such a raid. Whooping their victory, they raised their pistols upward and unleashed a series of gunshots, the sound like a wolf howling the successful catch of its prey.
"Gods!" one of the men shouted. "That was awesome. Old Galby would never know what hit him!"
Nolfavrell, the youngest member of the Red Strikers, was grinning ear to ear. Looking at the big crates he and the other gangsters were lugging back to the hideout, he remarked, "With all these supplies we stole we have enough to live like kings for at least two entire weeks!"
Baldor rolled his cigarette around his mouth, which was his way of expression satisfaction. "Two entire weeks of just relaxing and hanging around the hideout. Man, that's what I call paradise!"
The leader of the procession of bandits, the only one of the group that wasn't carrying a single crate, whirled around at that statement, eyes narrowing. The man couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but there was a hardness to his face that belonged only to a veteran of a terrible war. His hair was tied back in a ponytail and was dark brown, but the artificial light of the street lamps gave it crimson streaks. He wore only faded jeans and a dark red sweatshirt, which concealed the massive scar that marred his chest. His name was Thorn, and he was the leader and founder of the Red Strikers.
"Don't get comfy," he replied coldly. "Another supply train is coming through the Inner Rim tomorrow night. We're going to hit that as well."
The Red Strikers, all exhausted from the night's raid and most injured in some way or another by the guards that had protected the supplies, groaned. Some grumbling under their breath and others merely glowering, the most assertive of the gang turned to face their leader, opening their mouths to protest.
Thorn turned around, shooting them an icy glare. In the glow of the street lights, his dark brown eyes burned crimson, their pupils narrow and inhuman. This look was enough to silence even the angriest of men. No one, no matter how big or tough you were, messed with Thorn and got away with it.
But Nolfavrell was not big or tough, and certainly not even close to manhood. Looking up at his leader with pleading eyes, he said in a quivering voice, "Please, Thorn, can't we just let this one slide? We're all so tired from tonight's raid. I don't think we'd be able to deal with another one so soon..."
Thorn regarded the young boy with his eerie eyes. He stepped out of the street light, his eyes darkening back to their normal color. "The raid continues as planned." A chorus of groans was elicited from the men and Nolfavrell looked down at his feet, ashamed. "Anyone who doesn't show up tomorrow night are willingly resigning from the Red Strikers... forever." He turned around, hands in his pockets, no doubt ready to continue the journey back to the hideout.
"You inconsiderate bastard!"
Thorn whirled around, eyes flashing red. Hands curling into fists, he glared icily at the rebellious inferior. "Do have something to say to my face, Albriech?"
Albriech, Baldor's much younger and stupider brother, shoved his way out of the crowd. Facing his leader, he dropped his crate, raising a finger challengingly. "You heard me, Thorn. We listen to every order that comes out of your bitchy mouth without complaint day after day! We do your little raids, protect our turf, battle the other gangs. And you do nothing!"
Baldor grabbed his sibling's, no doubt trying to protect him from Thorn's notorious wrath. "Little brother," he said in a soothing voice. "I think it's time to drop this little rant and carry own with our-"
"No, Baldor!" Albriech shoved his elder brother off, taking a few foolhardy steps toward his leader. "We are the ones that do all the dirty work. We bribe the cops, ice the guys that are causing us too much grief, do all the physical stuff. You lead the raids and the battles against other gangs. You're just there to remind everyone who's the true force behind the Red Strikers."
Thorn's brow arched. "And you have a problem with that?"
"Considering that we're the ones you have to take the heat from the cops, yes! We're the ones that are connected to the raids, to the robberies. When the time comes when the cops finally catch on, me and the others will be the guys that get arrested. We're all just shields for your sorry ass!"
Wide-eyed, the Red Strikers silently watched the confrontation between Thorn and poor, poor Albriech. All were tense, waiting for the inevitable moment when their feared leader pulled out his gun and ended Albriech's life in a shower of bullets. Thorn relaxed, his hands slowly unfurling his hands. He opened his mouth, no doubt to say the last words his inferior would ever hear...
"It's 'the others and I'," he said mildly, with the air of a haughty individual correcting a friend's grammar mistake. Turning around, he began to walk away, leaving his stunned gang and the flabbergasted challenger behind.
"That's it?" Albriech questioned in a mixture of shock and outrage. "That's all you have to say to us?"
"Don't follow me," Thorn added almost as an afterthought. Without another word, the mysterious and rather infuriating leader (and founder) of the Red Strikers stalked down a side alley that did not lead to the hideout, vanishing into the shadows as swiftly and silently as a ghost.
The disorganized chaos of Dras-Leona was not only apparent in the squalid conditions of the Outer Rim and the lawlessness that plagued it. With the absence of police and military personel, animal control officers were also missing. Over decades of build up from rapidly reproducing strays and runaway pets, the winding streets of the Outer Rim were plagued with packs of feral dogs that prowled the city at night.
These weren't your ordinary strays. Decades of fighting for food and their very survival had made them as tough and brutal as the human inhabitants of the Outer Rim. These ferals, resembling hellhounds more than dogs, were not above attacking humans for meat. It was not uncommon that an unarmed loner was ambushed and devoured by a pack. The bones of such victims were later discovered in alleys, devoid of even the marrow.
Which made fighting such ferocious animals, if you didn't have a gun and a 'pack' of your own, a very foolish and possibly fatal past-time.
Huh. Like he cared.
The leader of this particular packs could be described as nothing less than a monster vaguely resembling a canine. With shaggy dark brown fur, a large and brutal head, bone-white fangs, and stupid and hateful little eyes, it looked more like a bear than a dog. The alpha snarled, beady eyes glittering with hatred. Fur bristling and fangs bared, his pack followed suit. They remembered him.
A small predatory smirk ghosted his lips. "How touching," he sneered. "You actually bothered to remember me."
This pack was a favorite of his. The large and brutish genes ran through the bloodlines, and the bear-dogs like the alpha were quite common. Which meant satisfying fights and ever more satisfactory prey. Perfect.
Growling deep in his throat, the alpha regarded him with stupid little eyes. His pelt was riddled with massive scars, memoirs of past encounters with him. The mongrel was a lucky one. Not many dogs could meet him in combat so many times and not yet become yet another mere snack. But tonight, all of that was going to change. Sensing his hunger, the alpha barked a challenge, his feral call echoing on the concrete and brick walls of the alley.
He answered back with a growl of his own, one that shook the buildings. Leaning down into a crouch, he began the transformation. Blunt fingernails hardened into lethal bone-white claws. Flat teeth sharpened into rows of sharp fangs. Ruby red scales erupted from tender flesh, covering his soft flesh in natural and nigh impenetrable armor. Clenching his jaw, he forced the transition from pathetic human to his true form to stop early. It would not bode well for his cover by the presence of a full-grown dragon lurking around a human city. Not well at all. Besides, so long as he had claw and fang, he had all the weapons he needed.
The alpha lunged first, his pack following suit. Thorn jumped back nimbly, avoiding the barrage of fur and teeth by a mile. Lashing out with a clawed hand, he caught a feral by the throat. The hit dog fell to the ground without a single protesting whimper, his throat torn neatly out. A lucky blow.
Galvanized by the blood of their fallen packmate, the swarm of dogs pounced on him with the ferocity of lions. They acted as instinct instructed them to, striking out at his week points and trying to gain a stranglehold on his own throat. Too bad their blunt claws didn't even faze him and their fangs couldn't do anything but make small dents and scratches on his scales.
But there were so many ferals, all bigger and heavier than their normal counterparts. Still partly in this weakened state, he couldn't deal with them all. Growling, Thorn vanished beneath a heap of snapping and snarling ferals.
Summoning his strength, he shed even more of his human skin. With an enraged roar, he shook the dogs off. He towered above even the tallest of the ferals, a frightening combination of dragon and man. The offending alpha was pinned under one paw, chest still and beady black eyes glazing over with the veil of death.
The dog pack, realizing they had been defeated, turned tail and fled into the shadows of the alley, fleeing back to their lair. He watched them go, red eyes burning as he glared after their hastily retreating backs. For good measure, he let a thin trail of flame pursue them, just burning the paws of the rear dogs before it died out.
That's right, he thought smugly. Though you all pretend to be so big and tough, you are nothing more than the escaped playthings of the humans. Pathetic.
But a part of Thorn was not satisfied by this display of strength. He had hunted or battled these mongrels before, whether for an easy meal or just to work off some steam. His inner beast had been infuriated by that rebellious little human Albriech and desired nothing more than to torture him until he screamed for mercy. While he was at it, why not dispose of the rest of the Red Strikers? All were humans, measly, traitorous humans who would sell off their closest friends the moment trouble came their way. Why should he continue to waste his time with the bastards?
Because this was a human's world he was living in now. The days where his ancestors lived side by side with humans were long gone. Either he learned to control his temper and deal with them in a 'reasonable manner' or else risk discovery and the slow excruciating death by scientists by reliving the incident with his first gang, the Dragon Fangs. No... Never again.
Still, Thorn could not deny the feelings he felt on a regular basis. To shed this false human form and resume the true shape he had not truly taken in ages. To fly away from the war, the chaos, the hopelessness... And search for a better place.
Hearing himself, Thorn shook his head, lip curling in disgust. Slowly his massive form shrank, taking a more humanoid form. "Listen to me," he said bitterly. "I sound like one of those damned nutjobs. Next thing I know I'll have lost my life chasing after that stupid dream."
Turning to the two dead dogs, Thorn crouched down, and ate his dinner in peace.
HELP: I need suggestions on who should be the Hige-character of the story. I've been thinking about Glaedr, but I'm saving him for something bigger. Greeni and Shruikan are also unavailable. Any kinds of suggestions except OCs are welcome (a Dragon!version of a canon character, a past dragon from canon like Saphira I, anything)
Next chapter: A mysterious blue she-dragon stirs up trouble and a fight in Dras-Leona. Meanwhile, another young dragon is just about to embark on his quest.
A few things:
1. The dragon's human disguises are different from those used in by the wolves in WR. The wolves merely projected illusions to fool the human mind into believing they were actual humans. Presumably other animals and machines were not fooled by the trick. The shadows of a wolf also revealed their true shape. Or if a person came into contact with a wolf in disguise, then the illusion would fall away and reveal themselves for what they truly were. The dragons in this fiction can actually change their shape as mere illusions would not work for a dragon as big a house. There are several ways to tell a transformed dragon from a mere human (like their eyes) in ways that will be discussed later in the fic.
2. The beginning commentary is told by a narrator of no importance so you can forget about him.
3. This story is both Thorn and Saphira centric.