The morning mist was slowly ebbing back through the pine trees as the sun climbed higher into the early autumn sky. There were several small, crudely built log houses arranged around a central meeting area. A fire pit in the middle of the meeting area had several embers still glowing and a narrow plume of white smoke issuing from the center. The night previous, a heated debate had occurred in which the topic of discussion was who would go to Urû'baen and go through the trial of King Galbatorix to join him in the capitol. The small settlement of Blakenford was several miles within Du Weldenvarden, ten leagues west of the familiar town of Carvahall. The vast majority of the villagers in the settlement had supported the rebellion, except several shady folks that had traveled from towns in the south. Particularly one typical young man of twenty years whose father was from the south lands, and his father glorified Galbatorix when he wasn't drunk from homemade moonshine, or recovering from yet another hang over. Growing up with false knowledge of Galbatorix made his opinions severely opposite than those who actually experienced his rule. The name of the young man was Graden, five feet ten inches tall, medium build but a bit on the thin side, grayish-blue eyes, but the distinguishing quality to him was his stark white hair. It was this unique young man who had volunteered to go. He was supported only by several people, one being his father, but his mother grew up in this the village and she did not support his choice to go because she knew what a slimy bastard that the "King" actually was. But Graden was resilient, and after much arguing and yelling, his mother decided to let him go.

That early in the morning, no one was there to see him off. He shouldered his heavy pack, his supplies being: a week's worth of food, canteen, sack of gold, hatchet, bedroll, journal, quill, ink, flint, and a tinderbox. On his pack, a bow and quiver was attached to the side as well. His father's sword was belted to his left side, and a long dagger on his right and on the back of his pack was a three-foot round shield. Graden took a deep breath, shrugging up his pack a bit more, and put on his ragged wide-brimmed hat. He traveled south for five days. At last he breached the edge of Du Weldenvarden, and the sight took his breath away. On his right, the way he would be going, lush green grasses and the occasional tree, on his left was the seemingly endless Hadarac Desert. Far over the desert, tall dark storm clouds loomed menacingly over the sand, throwing thick bolts of lightning to the ground. Low rumbles reached his ears a while after each bolt of lightning hit the ground. Graden walked to his right until he came upon a road, which ran southeast. He would take that to the lake named Isenstar, where, hopefully, he would find someone willing to sell him a rowboat or canoe, something to get him up the Ramr River, from there it would be a relatively short trek to Urû'baen. The sun was low in the sky, and Graden decided to camp on the side of the road this night. He arrowed several hares and roasted them on a spit, hanging the pelts and the leftovers from his pack. He woke up to the first rays of the sun, glaring at him from over distant mountains. He drank the last of his canteen, kicked dirt over the last heat of the fire, shouldered his pack, and headed off along the path.