Chapter 3
So…fucking…lazy…
The long days and nights made the journey seem both longer and shorter than it was; the identical hours making it seem as if they were making no progress at all. When they had past the Beartooth River, they camped by a small pond, the Kull killing a large buck with his sling, from which they both ate their fill.
The immense Urgals lay down, sated, and began to drift off to sleep.
"Garzhvog."
He was awakened by the sound of Firesword's voice, low and urgent, and also slightly fearful. He bared his teeth and reached for his sling. Who dare to frighten his potential mate? He roared his challenge into the cold night air, daring anyone to come and try to harm him or his beloved.
There was a rustling in the bushes, and slowly, ever so cautiously, a Shrrg* stepped out from the forest. Garzhvog growled lowly in his throat, glancing over to Firesword. The clan chief's face became befuddled at the intensity in Eragon's eyes. He looked like he was trying to remember something…
Suddenly, his thin face lighting up, his lips parted, the musical notes of the ancient language falling from his mouth. Garzhvog tore is eyes from the sight, returning his gaze to the large gray wolf as it paused, sniffed around there camp, then snatched up the viscera littered around the camp. The monster licked its chops lazily, and then sauntered away from the camp, seemingly satisfied by the scraps.
Garzhvog remained vigilante, however, never releasing his tenseness, his readiness to spring, and his ferocity, even when his soon-to-be-mate relaxed and sheathed his weapon.
*Shrrg— giant grey wolf, if you didn't figure it out.
C'mon already, pounce on him!
