Long ago before the time of men, when only dragons, and dwarves walked these lands, a new force entered Alagaesia. Coming from forgotten cities far across the great sea the elves arrived in massive ships.

It is unknown from where exactly they came, or why they chose Alagaesia, or if it was simply just dumb luck. However, these seemingly immortal creatures with their fierce magic, and superior weaponry soon spread across the country building their wondrous living cities.

The elves were prideful, they believed themselves superior to the lesser races. The dwarves stayed in their underground caverns caring less, and less about the surface walkers above them. The dragons being a peaceful race did not stop, or hinder the elves progress, for land to them belonged to no one and nature was plentiful and was shared in harmony.

The elves flourished for many a year, and time moved on in Alagaesia, decades passed peacefully and would have continued to be so, if not for the foolishness of one young elf.

Ignorant, and eager to prove himself to his immortal ancestors the young elf slayed the greatest foe of all, a Dragon. With teeth as long as his arm, and scales harder than armor the task was no small feat, amazed the elves celebrated in his victory.

The dragons mourned for the loss of one of their own, and retaliation was fierce and unforgiving. The young elf was the first to die, his village quickly followed in the dragon's fury. The elves unknowing of the dragon's intelligence quickly raised arms against them. The war that followed was long and bloody, both sides losing many lives. The few elves that remained retreated to their forest cities hoping the large canopy would safeguard their people.

A young elf by the name of Eragon disheartened by the death of his family ventured out in search of the dragons to beg for forgiveness.

It is unknown how he came across the egg, or if he rescued an orphan from the war, but Eragon returned with a baby dragon and raised it as his own in hopes of bringing peace and understanding. The small drake named Bid'Daum grew fast and carried Eragon across Alagaesia, together working as emissaries between dragon and elf.

The war came to an end, and both sides created the Guild of Dragon Riders to keep peace, and to prevent future misunderstanding from happening again.

Thus, a new age began.

"shut your trap old man" a gruff voice broke through the silence of the inn. The old storyteller's eyes flickered to the table that held the idiot who interrupted him. Four men dressed in red coats. Glittering with shiny new buttons, and fresh leather boots marked new soldiers in the king's army. Clearly inebriated they had been there for a while. Carvahall was a pit stop for such members of society. Every year the king's men gathered poor fools eager to spill their own blood for glory. Sons of farmers, and blacksmiths with little knowledge of swords and fighting. Often these men would return crippled, useless for the work of their fathers, if they returned at all Brom mused.

The fire crackled in the corner of the inn, warm light bathed the darkened windows and people stirred as they began gathering their belongings. The show was over. While storytelling was not forbidden in the king's law, it was not wise to push those who enforced it. Ignoring the words of petty new troops drunk on power would lead to bloodshed, attention Brom did not need in his life.

The red soldier sat back down satisfied to keep drinking his stolen ale. The innkeeper at the bar pursed his lips. Soldiers were bad for business no doubt, with their bottomless stomachs and penchant for scaring away paying customers.

Brom grabbed his cane and rose to his feet. The crowd was thinning, none eager to stay and become new entertainment for the king's fools. Tapping his way to the door Brom exited into the cold night. Carvahall was a small town, not quite a village, placed on the edge of Alagaesia between the spine and large hills. The only stable means of travel was to head south past Utgard and beyond, the closest towns being Therinsford, and Yazuac. The war of the king was far from here and besides the few unfortunate visitors, and tax collectors the king's men stayed far away.

With a long winter and only one annual visit from traveling merchants Carvahall was quite secluded. But then again Brom thought taking his first step into the street, that is why I decided to stay here.

Mourning over his lost supper in the inn, Brom hunched against the cold and began his slow trek home. "Bloody freezing" he grouched as he walked along. "just couldn't find a town further southyou old fool". Just as he was musing the logic of using a small warming charm, a figure barreled past him knocking him into the frozen mud.

He stared at the girls back as she continued past. "Sorry sir!" she shouted behind her as she continued her sprint. Brom stumbled to his feet grinding his teeth. "no respect" he spat "No respect at all these days". Heading into his house he continued to mutter about the brainless youth and the lack of hope for the future of humanity. As he settled in for the night, he could not help but wonder what life would have been if he had just protected his precious Saphira.