Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters, locations, ect. belong to Christopher Paolini. The only things I even claim to own are the OCs, and maybe the plotline.
A/N: This chapter has been rewritten since it was originally posted. If you wish to read the original, feel free to say so, or send me a mesage.
The Hadarac Desert was not a forgiving place. That was something Miriah knew well. She had lost her mother and father to the desert, in a viscous sandstorm, when she was only three.
Since then she had lived with her grandparents, Arainia and Velarion. By now, her grandparents were in the later part of their seventh decades, and neither could work like they once had. This meant that they would not be able to support three people for much longer. Not that they had to, with the marriage they had arranged for her.
Upon her eighteenth birthday, she was to set out for the city of Carulas, a seaport on the other side of the country. Once there, she was to marry a rich merchant who had taken a fancy to her when he had traveled through Lorievi. She had not been pleased when she had found out what they were planning. Her birthday was only a few months away, and she most definitely wasn't looking forward to it, more like she was dreading it.
What annoyed her more was the fact that she knew the merchant was only interested in her looks, the talent she had for weaving what she saw in her mind's eye and for her hand at drawing.
Of course, the merchant wasn't the only one who had an interest in her, just for her looks. Many of the young men in her own village were making attempts to win her, as well as a few who were just passing through.
She could understand why, she was pretty enough. She wasn't tall, but neither was she short, her height was closer to average. She was slender, instead of dangerously thin, or overly heavy. Her hair was dark red, several shades lighter than russet, something she had inherited from her mother's side of the family, and it fell to her slim waist. It was usually held back in a neat braid, except for the rare occasion of celebration in the village.
Her eyes were a rich shade of emerald green, far darker than the usual shade of green. Those features alone made her unusual, since there were very few people in the region who had red hair, and even fewer in the entire country who had eyes like hers. Aside from the shocking color, there was another thing that people saw when they looked into her eyes, a profound sadness.
Most people who knew her couldn't remember a time when that hadn't been there, but others knew better. That look had appeared in her eyes when her parents died. Miriah had barely known her parents, she'd been only a few years old when they'd died, but she missed them every day.
She wanted something more for her life, but she didn't know what. She had no idea that her life was about to change forever, and she had no say in it…
Sandstorms were a common thing in Lorievi, they normally happened at least twice a week. It was very unusual for a week to go by without a single sandstorm, but it wasn't completely unheard of. It was just one of those days, where a weak sandstorm whipped through the village. Everyone was inside, though they all had extensive experience out in the weak sandstorms.
Miriah in particular stayed inside, she hated sandstorms, more than she hated the sand itself. While the sands and countless pebbles beat against the stone houses of Lorievi, she sat inside the farthest one from the main village, weaving on her lap loom. The image on the decorative cloth was startling, a deep blue dragon that seemed to just leap from the material. The resemblance between the image and Saphira was remarkable, particularly because Miriah had never met either Eragon or Saphira, only heard rumors of them.
She'd been weaving such cloths to sell to the merchants since the last caravan came through Lorievi, when she'd first heard of the remarkable deeds of Eragon Shadeslayer, and his dragon, Saphira. Since that, she'd been able to think of nothing but dragons and the Riders. Ever since the rumors had reached her, she'd been drawing and weaving nothing but the dragons she saw in her mind's eye.
Miriah set the loom down, removing the cloth. Silently, she stood and made her way over to the small pile of similar cloths, folding it, and setting it on top. While she was there, she pulled a few skeins of the soft yarn she used from the shelf.
One skein, a brilliant shade of orange, slipped from the shelf when she pulled a lavender skein down. The orange skein hit the pile of cloths, sending them flying. Miriah let out a frustrated sigh, bending down to pick up the dragon cloths, but something caught her eye, a glint out in the sand, barely visible through the gritty window. Slightly shocked, she dropped the cloths she had picked up – one had the image of a golden dragon, the other, a red one.
Miriah's grandmother watched her without saying a word. The clatter had gotten her attention, but the look on her granddaughter's face was enough to keep her attention. "What's wrong, Miriah?"
Miriah glanced at her grandmother, shaking her head slightly, "I don't know. I think there's some sort of stone outside. I want to go check it out. Is that alright?" She looked enquiringly at her grandmother, who nodded. "Go ahead. Just be careful." Miriah nodded in response, and started toward the door, grabbing her leather jacket, as well as her goggles.
Miriah returned about a quarter-hour later, carrying an ovular stone that was about two feet in diameter. The stone was a deep shade of violet, veined with a milky, iridescent white, and smoother than any stone that had weathered out in the sandstorms of the Hadarac. Once through the threshold, she kicked the door closed. The sandstorm was almost over.
After a moment, she crossed to the table, where both of her grandparents sat. Carefully, she placed the stone on the table, then backed away to shed her coat and goggles.
While she did so, her grandparents quickly examined the stone. They'd never seen anything like it. Miriah, out of pure curiosity, rapped the stone with her knuckles. It made a hollow sound.
The three of them exchanged glances, "What do you think it is?" Miriah asked. Her grandmother shook her head, "I don't know, 'Riah. Only time will tell."
Days later, they still hadn't figured out what it was. What they had figured out, however, was that everyone in the village was rather afraid of it, and none of the shopkeepers would take it as payment.
But by then, they had other things to worry about. Galbatorix's soldiers had come to the village to collect the taxes, and draft some of the young men into the army. Unfortunately for Miriah, they also took a great interest in her, though it was only for her dragon weavings. They questioned her greatly about how she managed such an accurate image, and they weren't satisfied with her answer – "That's just how I see them, in my mind."
Fortunately some good came with the bad, traders and merchants came with the soldiers, a few of them had even come specifically for Miriah's weavings and drawings. Hers were said to be the most realistic images on cloth, or paper, for that matter, in all of Alagaesia. That pleased her to know, but she was far more concerned by the violet stone.
They'd managed to smuggle it to a trader who specialized in the identification, cutting, and sale of unusual stones. All that he could tell them was that in the North, at a village near the Spine, Carvahall, he'd seen a very similar stone. A young man had found it while hunting in the Spine, and had brought it back. He'd never seen or heard of anything like the two stones before, and all he could tell them was that be believed that it seemed to be made of varieties of amethyst and diamond stone…
A/N: Hey, when you're done reading, review! It helps encourage me to write faster.
