Scattered Shadows (Eragon)

[Harbor]

They didn’t need to know. Arya had decided the moment her plans had begun to twist that most of this did not need to be told when she returned. The cliff collapsing had been her own fault—she should have paid more attention to the health of the plants on the overhang. If she had she would have known how stressed and tense their roots had become from trying so hard to hold on to a home that would no longer support them. But instead she had been so intent upon chasing down the man carrying the information she most sought—in which direction the youth he hadn’t recognized as Eragon had gone—that she had not paid the plants the proper notice, and when the mercenary’s steps had jarred the stone, her own weight had caused it to crumble.

She would have been perfectly capable of saving herself with magic if the following events had gone in her favor, but they had not. The ground had shifted, shuddering, and the mercenary had paused on solid ground and turned. He had drawn back the string of his bow and aimed, and she had twisted to avoid the arrow. The stone had pitched down, and she had been thrown with it. She hadn’t been able to control the fall, or the stones following her or falling before. Arya still didn’t know how long she’d lain beneath the broken limestone. The farmers’ son who had discovered her had been her only spot of luck, really, and the time she’d spent in the farming family’s home recovering from the injuries she’d acquired. She had not hidden her abilities with magic from the family, only the race to which she belonged, but she couldn’t heal them completely and had enjoyed the few weeks’ repast their house had provided. Arya was strong enough to work in the fields with the family, to look after their animals, and she required no payment. Her presence had not been a burden.

How frustrating it had been, after exhausting herself saving the farmers’ son when loose stone from her own resting place had shattered and nearly killed him, that slavers had to be passing through. Arya had gone for a walk to steady herself after the vast stretch of magic she had done to save the boy, and the men had been the ones to find her. After that good fortune all but vanished for the next five months, but Arya had carried on. She always did. Her only hope was that her mother knew better than to accuse the Varden of her own misfortunes this time.

And thus, nearly six months after vanishing, approximately, Arya strode purposefully toward the camped army she saw guarding Belatona. Her clothes had seen better days—they weren’t hers—but she wasn’t about to use any more magic to prettify them. There was little point to vanity. There were lingering bruises around her jaw where she’d nearly been hanged, and one of the fingers on her right hand was in truth only an elaborate illusion, but since she knew her hands so well she knew of few who would even see the magic. Other than the bruises and general lack of cleanliness, she carried no signs of hardship left over from the previous half year. She scowled at a sentry, who, upon seeing her, abandoned his post and sprinted for the camp. Arya kept walking. There were people she needed to see.

[Quetzal]

It had not been long since Eragon and Saphira had returned to the Varden's main body in Belatona themselves. Since being discovered in the cold reaches of the north by the Urgal Urak-Thar, the elf Reimer and the king of the elves, Brenton, who he had learned unhappily was also his paternal half-brother, he had talked with the Varden and spent some time asserting his return and roaming around. When he had arrived back in Belatona a week or so ago, he had brought with him a snow leopard named Sheratan and the strange mute child who appeared to be bonded to it. The child, named Farria, was spending much of her time with Varden scholars trying to figure out why she could change forms and how this connection had formed. That left he and Saphira with little to do most of the time.

Loathing being so idle, Eragon strolled through the camp clinging to the edges of Belatona's walls. He found himself patrolling the outskirts; inside, there were far too many people asking after the reason for his absence. He only ever told the truth about it, but people extrapolated and rumours spread through the camp. He couldn't stand the constant questioning and how the soldiers all treated him differently. He enjoyed the solitude on the outskirts.

A sentry in the distance sprinted into the camp to alert someone. Eragon tensed, hand reaching for Brisingr's hilt. They would have blown a horn should their be anyone attacking. Perhaps a message had been delivered? Whatever it was, Eragon was bored and curious. He sped up his pace to a light jog.

As he got nearer, he could see a figure walking towards the camp. It was odd to see them by themselves. Why would a lone person make the sentry run back like that? They couldn't be a threat if no alarm had been sounded, and the sentry wouldn't have abandoned their post... unless they had attacked his mind and forced him to. Eragon braced himself for a fight, strengthening the walls around his mind. He drew nearer, and gradually more detail about the figure became clear. They were tall and slim - elven, he'd guess, and female. Her clothes were in tatters. Her hair looked oddly familiar.

He hurried after the woman, and was not within earshot of any human, let alone elf, when he called out to her. "Hey! Who are you and what are you doing here?!" he felt strange. She was really familiar, but from behind he couldn't be sure.

[Harbor]

When the slavers had surrounded her there had been nothing to do but to allow them to take her. She fought, because if she had simply yielded they may not have trusted her in the way that she soon decided she needed them to. Her strength had returned by the time, a week later, she and a few other captured men and women had reached the next town, and Arya used those endless hours of marching and drudgery to gradually, without notice, change the arrangement of her face so that she was slightly less exotic, less appealing, more average*. There was little work that she was unwilling to do or incapable of doing, but there was a list of jobs she could be bought for that she would not perform.

Arya ended up selling as a chamber maid, more or less. His daughter was coming of age and he didn't have the staff to appoint someone to her, nor did he have the money to hire anyone else. He schooled her firmly that she was not permitted to let on that she was a slave; he didn't want anybody else in the household to know that she had been bought, not hired. Arya nodded, and he frowned at her. She couldn't pass off the look of a meek slave, so he suspected her. As he should.

The girl, fifteen years old, that Arya was looking after was a boring child. As opposed to Arya's own nature, instead of reveling in her new independence, this girl seemed to fear it. She spent her days primarily in the house and rarely even left the shade of her own roof, and on the days that she did venture out she never stayed out long. Arya of course had to accompany her everywhere, and she knew that no one among the Varden would understand her reasons why.

It was clear to Arya when she turned that she recognized him but he did not recognize her. At least at first. Her scowl remained just as firmly etched as it had been before, but now that she saw he was physically unharmed, the lack of further tension prevented the scowl from deepening. So she hadn't failed yet, if Eragon was alive. She hadn't yet seen proof of Saphira's health but surely Eragon would not still have that confident stride if she had come to significant harm. Although most of the people with whom she required an audience remained in the camp, upon seeing him, she left off her previous endeavor to stalk back in his direction.

"What happened to you?" she seethed. Her first impulse when she reached him was to place both hands on his shoulders and shove but that would be hardly appropriate. There was something in the set of his brow that concerned her--she knew that expression, after having spent so much time around him, observing. There was something bothering him, but since there often was she could hardly begin to guess what this particular irritant might be. "What happened?" She left it to him to interpret what she meant--most people forgot themselves around such vaguely worded questions, they spoke their minds and told whatever was most relevant to them, whatever most occupied them at the moment. It was a useful habit of humans that she felt no guilt in utilizing. If they wanted to keep secrets they ought to try harder.

*Her features she's returned to normal by now.

[Quetzal]

The reason the woman looked so familiar to Eragon became clear when she turned around. His eyes widened and he gasped quietly. Everything took on a dream-like quality as they walked towards one another. He hardly dared to believe it was her, despite the evidence his own eyes were showing him. Disbelief mingled with overwhelming joy. That all quickly turned to anxiety when he saw how angry she was. For a moment he thought she would hit him. Thankfully she settled for a questioning instead, but her words had icicles growing off them and her expression showed her irritation with him.

Eragon wanted to embrace Arya after so long without seeing her. He had ached to see that face again. Most thought her to be dead, but he had never been sure due to his own long-term disappearance. He took a moment to think before answering her. "I... I don't know. I was in the North. Saphira was even further north than me, and woke up stranded in the vast snowy wastelands. Whoever captured us wiped our memories, so all we remember is flying then waking up four months later. I was in a cave, with my belongings and a few minor injuries. No one has a clue who did it. I hate not knowing. I want to find them, stop them doing whatever they're planning..." he didn't have much to say for his own absence. As always he told the truth, but there wasn't much he knew himself.

He didn't care about telling Arya his own story - he'd told it enough times already. She deserved to know, however. He'd been told she had gone missing looking for him, which made him feel awful. With a sickening feeling he realised she had missed all he had, and more; the Rider Branches, the Varden taking Belatona... her mother's death. Wherever she had been, he hoped she'd had news. Telling her of her mother's death would not be easy. He did not want to be the one to break that kind of news to her.

"I want some answers, too. Where have you been for these past six months, and how did you get back?"

[Harbor]

Breaking the magic that kept Arya a slave would not have given the elf woman any more trouble than a human splitting wood. It was a simple charm, really, that prevented her from leaving the grounds unless she was in her girl-master's timid company. The boredom that ensued from such a charge was stifling, but Arya had quickly found avenues around the suffocation. The girl's father was losing money rapidly, at an alarming rate really, and to Arya the reasons for the drain very soon became clear. The man was paying off Varden spies to misreport upon the empire's doings, and the spies had learned how to follow their orders while at the same time not misleading Nasuada, despite not being able to tell her what they were being forced to do, and since the information they were guarding was so very volatile, the girl's father had to spread his money like blood to keep them all quiet. For there were quite a few spies in on this game of his, not one of them understanding why the direction of some shipment or the weight of some abnormal wine cask were so important. The quantities of money they received dictated that the information must be, but what the dozens of men and women didn't realize was that each one of them held one strip of the shattered painting, and that only together could they realize the full potential of what they were holding back.

And so Arya had stayed. She had remained with the listless girl and listened, collecting meaningless threads until they began to knot into a discernible picture, and by then three months had passed. By then she had heard whispers of Eragon and Saphira's health and return, and her desperation to reach them had thus abated, overshadowed by these new breezes that could fill the Varden's sails if trimmed properly. The threads she had managed to draw together hinted of creatures this world had thought it had seen the last of....

But retrieving all of those threads had been difficult, and dangerous to all parties. Of the nineteen people she had spoken to or eavesdropped upon or stolen from, four had died of unnatural causes within twenty-four hours of divulging to her. This was regrettable, but she believed that they would have understood if they could know the cause for which they had been killed.

His expression opened into astonishment within the span of a moment. Of course he would recognize her quickly now--she had ignored his frequent glances, not missed them. She did not care for her torn, dirtied skirt and blouse, but at least she'd gotten them to fit. She looked forward to returning to her own clothes. Her expression smoothed into renewed concern when he shared their amnesia. It took skill and work to extricate entire memories, and without damaging the mind that had been stolen from. "Have Blodgharm and his spellcasters tried to find your memories?" She could not believe without further information that those who had taken their memories required stopping, but she did agree that such powerful persons constituted a respectable threat.

His defensive tone made her lower her chin a fraction, resisting the urge to remind him that he did not need to demand his answers from her; she always told him what was relevant to his and Saphira's knowledge. "I was delayed," she answered with a frown of frustration, recalling how her own carelessness had led to everything after. "I placed myself poorly and sustained an injury that required time to heal, but that time was interrupted." She would prefer to only tell the story once, or at least the bones of it, as the flesh did not need revealing. "Let us go," she said, turning toward the camp again, "and by the time I have finished questioning you Nasuada, Orrin and Blodgharm may be ready to do the same to me." She suppressed a sigh.

[Quetzal]

Blodgharm and the other elves were among the strongest spellcasters Eragon knew and the Varden had the best healers he had seen, yet none of them had thus far been able to recover his memories. It was something that annoyed and disturbed him greatly. He had no idea who had done such a thing to him, but whoever it was must have been powerful in the extreme and must have spent years training and perfecting their manipulation of the mind. He shook his head to Arya's question. "They found where they should be. There's a gap - our captors quite literally took our memories, or destroyed them. Everything else appeared in order, but for that gaping hole where someone neatly removed," he was deeply angry with the mystery captors, but controlled himself for the sake of the conversation.

'I was delayed' was hardly a satisfactory answer to Eragon, but he knew better than to press her further. The injury he had guessed at, but he was curious about the cause of the extra delay she had experienced. He could see she was frustrated. It must have been at least partly her fault, then. He knew how she could blame herself for things if they might have been prevented in any way, even if she hadn't had the knowledge to prevent them at the time. He followed her back towards the camp.

She was no less prepared for question than he. The number of times the most powerful members of the Varden had questioned him, grilling him on every tiniest detail and scouring his and Saphira's minds for any more answers was annoying, and part of the reason he'd decided to leave to reintroduce himself to the world after he'd first arrived. Now things had settled down a bit more, but he still experienced intense questioning. They were always the same questions, too, as if he'd remembered something and not told anyone or had suddenly dramatically changed the past.

"I imagine they will. They mean well, though. It's annoying, but they might be able to help," he wasn't sure if Arya needed helping. He didn't know whether or not people were on her tail. If so, she'd be safe in the Varden. "I'm sorry about what you went through. You'd never have been there if I hadn't gone missing, so I really am sorry," he did truly feel bad that whatever he'd done had resulted in other people getting hurt, especially Arya. He couldn't meet her eyes, focusing instead on what was in front of him. This part of the camp wasn't that lively, but up ahead there was more noise, probably where the sentry had headed earlier.

((Should we find someone to play Nasuada/Orik/Blodgharm/Orrin for this thread?))

[Harbor]

Arya had not spent as much time as she'd thought she would chasing down the scraps she needed. By then she had a fairly strong conviction that the hoard of treasures Galbatorid had collected was being divided for its own safety and moved. Arya was chasing the man who had killed the woman she'd last spoken to when his friends descended upon her. There had been four of them. She would have been well able to handle them if only they had acted as she had expected them to. Arya was not equipped to fight a man carrying a chain, and when she had finally woken up she had been slumped against the wall In the bottom of a ship with four other women.

And she'd had absolutely no way of going home.

The head cook had seen that Arya was awake and had told her what had happened. Apparently Arya was considered a criminal of the state, but on account of the yawë they'd seen on her shoulder they knew they couldn't incarcerate her, nor could they kill her. So they had sent her where she could do no more harm. And Arya was utterly trapped.

As soon as the cook had discovered that Arya had fewer feminine skills than masculine, and that she was strong enough to do a man's work, so she had sent Arya to work with the men. She'd wrapped Arya's long hair up in a bland scarf and dressed her in the most shapeless men's clothes she could find. Then she had sent Arya into the rigging.

Arya sympathized with his justified frustration. In his position she too would struggle with anger that had no outlet, no way to do anything but grow hotter in the face of its own helplessness. Although she would ask in person later, she inquired, "How is Saphira responding to your dilemma?" A dragon's fury was much more troublesome to contain than that of a human, even a Rider. Most people just didn't want to involve themselves, and they shouldn't.

She made an effort not to allow him to see the snow in her expression when he referred to help--it wasn't directed at him. Eragon had not yet done anything wrong. The anger belonged only to her. She was the one who had done herself wrong, and it was her own fault if she couldn't hide the results. She had never known him to be observant, so the fault lay with her. "I am not in need of help," she politely assured him. She just wanted time for proper rest and she would feel much better once she'd had it.

A crowd had appeared in the wake of the sentry's plunge back into the camp. Arya avoided them. Blodgharm appeared out of a range of tents and looked her over, just as observant as she wished he wouldn't be, and Arya abruptly stopped, and allowed him to greet her, returning it. "Arya." She saw him find her missing, illusioned finger, and hoped he would have the discretion not to mention it. "How are you?"

Wasn't that an excellent question. "Well."

[Good plan. ]

[Brenton]

((I can RP Blodgharm or any of them really but I am most comfortable with elves. If you need someone to RP him then I will for you.))

[Quetzal]

((That would be a great help, thanks Brenton))

[Brenton]

((Okay I'll RP Blodgharm now.))

The blue furred elf stepped from the shadows of the tents while everyone else was gathering around to see what was going on with the person returning. He knew who it was, Arya Svitkona, daughter of Islanzadi and rightful heir to the throne. Funny, an elf was supposed to be loyal to their royal family but Blodgharm just did not want to follow the king's orders after his betrayal so many years ago. Still that was unimportant right now because he had to greet Arya and help her figure out what was going on exactly.

Hello Arya Svitkona, is everything alright with you now that you have returned to the Varden after your stay away? He could tell that she was missing a finger but it was better to ignore that and let the elven woman decide when to bring it up. He was surprised to see Eragon with Arya already since so very few people had been able to get to the edge of the tents until right as they were entering the city.

[Quetzal]

Eragon chuckled softly, smiling when Arya asked after Saphira. The dragon was a stubborn one, and proud too. She was used to praise, confidence, and being informed, and although she had more patience than her Rider, she certainly did have a greater tendency to hold grudges and her rages were something to behold, provided you were several leagues safely out the way. "Not well, as you'd imagine. She wanted to go straight back to the north and scour the land until we found our captors, then take answers from them and give painful deaths in return. I persuaded her it'd take too ages and we'd been away too long as it was, but she's still not happy that they've so far got away with it,"

He thought that maybe she could use a little help, at least to ease her back into current events, but knew better than to argue. At times like these he often felt concerned for Arya and worried until he knew she was safe. It was a relief to see her alive after so much time had passed, but he was still worried she might need more medical attention. There must be so much she didn't know, as well. When had she last been around? Five months ago? Six? He'd missed a lot as well, and wasn't sure what order everything had happened in. He didn't know what she'd missed and what she hadn't. What was certain was that the events she had missed were plentiful.

Eragon bowed in greeting to Blodgharm and let the elf speak. He desperately wanted to talk far longer with Arya. He'd missed her to a degree he could not admit even to himself, yet now she was back he knew he would have to wait his turn while everyone else questioned her. He wanted to tell her of all that had happened while she was gone, everything he and the Varden had achieved, all their mistakes. He wanted to spend hours and hours just talking to her and for it to never end. That would never happen. Already her attention was requested by others, and he doubted they'd get a moment alone together for quite some time from this point. Still, the others did have a right to know everything. He allowed Blodgharm his questions, remaining silent. It was Arya Blodgharm was interested in, and he couldn't possibly answer on her behalf.

[Harbor]

Blodgharm’s euphemistic turn on Arya’s absence gave her a small reason to stiffen her lips toward a smile. ”I will be perfectly well again soon enough,” she assured him. Food, water and rest, though not particularly in that order, were her primary desires at the moment. The food could wait, though the water and rest would be welcome even against the proper decorum if only decorum were not required. ”I have acquired a few threads of information that may prove very fortuitous, should we treat them accordingly.” Reluctantly, she acknowledged that Nasuada, Orrin and Orik ought to be informed of her arrival, and with a slight ache in her brow stretched out her mind to find Angela’s. She avoided Trianna whenever possible, finding the woman’s misplaced self-importance grating.

Ah, it’s you again! Angela greeted her gaily. We’d begun to wonder if you’d ever find your way back to our happy camp. I’ll tell all the relevant people, or so they think.

”Nasuada, Orrin and Orik will be arriving shortly,” Arya said with a sigh, plucking spare threads and flecks of grass out of her sleeves. To Eragon, answering his earlier remark, she replied, ”I trust the two of you will maintain steady minds. Despite their theft, you do not yet have conclusive proof of their intentions. There is always the chance they are only protecting themselves.” She knew that forced to make the choice, she would choose Saphira and Eragon over strangers, but that did not mean that they had to choose themselves. Poor figureheads they would be if they valued themselves above the people they were supposed to protect. But then again, how were they meant to protect the people when they were willing to sacrifice themselves for the few and the many were already willing to kill them?

Arya’s mind limped in dry, relentless paths that seemed to have neither end nor aim. She was not accustomed to being at the disadvantage of missing information, and she knew that the news she had heard in the last six months had been loosely passed and sparsely given. She could hardly trust what she’d overheard from most of the humans she had been eavesdropping on, before she had to avoid humanity entirely until finding the particular humans she was sworn to.

She didn’t bother to ask what she had missed—they would tell her soon enough, or she would discover on her own. Her own information was more important and had to be passed along first before her own preferences and comforts could be seen to.

[Brenton]

Blodgharm bowed to Eragon slightly while he watched the elven woman with how she would react to what he had to say to her. Maybe she had been gone for so long but she did have a right to know about what was going on. With an inaudible sigh and barely imperceptible baring of sharp teeth, the blue furred elf walked close to Arya. "All is not well in Ellesmera since you disappeared when you did. Your mother is dead, killed by Galbatorix and his riders, while your brother sits on the throne. He hides things from us and consorts with former Empire allies, even giving them refuge when they have not shown need to be protected. I am sorry that I must tell you but the elves are falling into disarray and I hear rumor that the king has resorted to dark magic but he hides it from us."

Blodgharm's voice was lowered, so quiet that even Eragon would have trouble hearing what was said if he were paying attention to the elf. Not like he was trying to hide his information from the rider but he had to make sure no one else heard either. Quickly Blodgharm stepped back from Arya and smiled faintly at the two who stood before him. "As long as you are okay and will be willing to impart the details of your journey then I am more than willing to wait for you to tell. Pray do tell how it is that Eragon returned only a short time ago and then you show up even though we thought you dead or captive to the Empire?" Blodgharm changed the subject while casting a look at Eragon and Arya to let them know not to say anything just yet where others could possibly hear it.

[Quetzal]

Eragon didn't question how Arya knew that others would be arriving shortly. He nodded in response to her comment on their situation, not entirely convinced. Protecting themselves would have certainly been their aim, or at least part of it, but it didn't help the fear of the unknown within them. He could not guess at their purpose in capturing or releasing him. There was no indicator of any gain for them in whatever had happened. He wanted desperately to know what had brought them to capturing himself and Saphira, how they had achieved it, whether he or anyone else was still at risk from them.

Having already been caught up on the vast amount of events that had occurred in the span of time since his disappearance, Eragon had heard what Blogharm said before. Straining his ears to listen would have made him feel guilty had more of that been new to him. Everyone knew of Brenton's rise to power, but he had only heard whispers of the elves falling into disarray and nothing of any dark magic. The rumours could surely not be true. He'd yet to see any conclusive proof. Knowing what the world liked to throw at its people, he feared they might prove to have a firmer basing that he would have liked. When he'd last seen Brenton the king had seemed well enough. He was about to say so, but Blogharm abrubtly changed the subject. That topic was clearly not open to discussion, at least not here. Perhaps they would be able to bring it up with Nasuada, Orrin and Orik, who would no doubt want to hear such things.

Eragon had yet to hear the tale of Arya's return, and hoped she would humour them with at least a snippet of the story. He looked to her, while in his mind a large familiar presence pressed against his consciousness. "Little one, what is the news? You seem happy, and there's a buzz of talk around where you walked," Saphira's sleepy yet excited voice played out. Eragon smiled inwardly. Instead of using words, he simply showed her what he was seeing. Any puzzlement in the dragon turned to joy. "Arya!" she exclaimed.

Eragon could see how Saphira was bursting to ask a stream of questions, but stopped her. "Arya's tired, as you can imagine. She'll be under a lot of questioning when I imagine sleep is higher up in her priorities. Best leave the questions until she's ready. Nasuada, Blodgharm, Orrin and Orik will have more important questions first," he explained.

Saphira understood, but couldn't help making her happiness known. "Arya, I've missed you," she said simply to the elf before settling back to watch through her Rider's eyes.

[Harbor]

Your mother is dead. Arya would have assumed that Blodgharm had more tact than to present such a thing in such a manner, or she would have hoped. But since he could have done far worse she accepted it. As much as she wanted, in that moment, to cease her stride, stop and turn and march back the way she came until all pursuers fell to exhaustion behind her, she couldn’t. At best she might hope for some time alone later, but there was no time for grief now. She needn’t worry; it would wait for her. Speaking past the bones she felt as though she’d swallowed, she said coolly, ”We will have to take care of ourselves for the time being, there is nothing I can do about Brenton but write to him.” She had never understood her half-brother, and after the first several attempts had given up entirely. He wasn’t one she enjoyed spending time with, being utterly too flamboyant for her taste. She would have to find some of her own information before acting upon anything however.

”No, I have information that must be passed along, if the others will show themselves in a timely manner. I don’t care for tossing it about more than I must.” ”Pray do tell….” Arya’s eyes narrowed at Blodgharm’s suggestion that she might know more about Eragon and Saphira’s absence than others may, and lifted her chin an angle higher. ”If you have further questions regarding Eragon’s disappearance I recommend you ask him, Blodgharm. I haven’t the stamina or the patience to speak any more than I have to at the present time.” Seeing a barrel of standing rainwater, she paused to fill the ladle and wet her tongue. She hadn’t managed to bring her flask this far with her and would have to acquire a new one.

Saphira’s delight in finding her safely returned brought the faintest ash of a smile to Arya’s face. ”I have missed you as well, Saphira, and am glad that you and Eragon are safe.” She opened the thought to Eragon as well, since it concerned him, and since he and Saphira were nearly a single entity anyway. Rarely did she have the need to speak with only one of them. ”Eragon,” she said then, ”by chance do you have anything to eat?” A piece of bread would suffice, and likely be the best thing to eat after a long stint of limited food supply.

They reached Nasuada’s tent, where by the number of guards present Arya guessed that Orrin was also inside, and she knew by the voices that Orik was in attendance as well. The Nighthawks announced her, and upon hearing permission granted for her to enter, Arya nudged the cloth aside and stepped though.

[Brenton]

The hostility in how Arya spoke to Blodgharm made the elf falter for a second in his stride toward the command tent. He knew that Arya would be upset about Islanzadi but she was more than upset about this, even giving him a small glare at first while he was sure she thought about leaving again. What would the elven guard do if his true queen left while upset with him for passing along information that he felt she should know? That wasn't important right now though so he kept his face neutral except a faint look of disapproval in his eyes. His shoulders straightened a bit and Blodgharm walked with the two for more time then he thought he normally would have.

Already he could tell the other elven guards were getting close and starting to surround Eragon and Arya while leaving space for the three to walk. What intelligence they showed by not getting so close to them at the moment. Blodgharm looked over at Eragon and then at Arya again as the command tent got closer. Forgive me, Arya Drottningu, I was not trying to insult you or insinuate that you had some connection to Eragon going missing. I was making a simple statement that he returned and then you return a little later with the young rider already at your side. Once again, my apologies for any and all misunderstandings.

The Nighthawks announced Blodgharm as he stepped through, bowing his head slightly to get into the tent without hitting the canvas flaps. The sunlight turned into a dimmer lighting from within the tent and the elf looked at the occupants of the tent briefly. He could see Orik, Nasuada, and Orin all waiting for them to arrive and talking in hushed tones like royalty often did. Off to the corner was another guard who was watching them and Blodgharm could feel the mind of the young child marked by Saphira. She kept vigilant watch over Nasuada as well but from a more hidden area.

[Quetzal]

Eragon could see Arya was trying to suppress her sadness at the news of her mother's death. Internally he winced. When Blodgharm had said that, he'd hoped Arya had already heard the news from somewhere before. He wished he'd been a little kinder with his words. As it was, he wasn't sure if he admired or was concerned by how well Arya was bottling her pain. Had it been him in her shoes, he would have probably found some poor soul to vent his anger at. Whenever anyone close to him died, his grief took the form of anger mixed in with his sadness. Arya, on the other hand, was unnervingly calm. He suspected she must allow herself to feel something so painful at some point, probably when no one would see.

Saphira was pleased Arya had missed her, and settled back to observe through Eragon's thoughts. She wanted to join the group in the tent, but it would be impractical for the dragon to try sticking her head into a tent already packed with people.

"Yes, I'll go fetch some. I'll see you in Nasuada's tent," Eragon told Arya in response to her request for food. He hurried away at a brisk walk, a pace slower than he would have liked. He wanted to run so he could get back to Arya as soon as possible, and it was all he could do to keep himself at a reasonable pace. Should he run, the ripple of excitement at the knowledge that something had happened would only increase and questions would be asked. Rumours might spread. It was better to let the general population of the Varden find out the truth at the same time whenever they announced Arya's return officially. Sticking to the brisk walk was painful. People waved to him and smiled at the sight of him, but he didn't have the time to care much for paying them his full attention. He only nodded respectfully back, never slowing. The moment he reached his tent, he quickly grabbed some point, smiled at Saphira and gave her a gentle pat, then returned with all haste.

Eragon was waved into Nasuada's tent by the Nighthawks, and felt relieved to be back with Arya again. He moved straight to her side before doing anything else, offering her the food wordlessly. It was all fairly plain and basic stuff. Bread, a weak bland cheese, a few watery vegetables. Eragon knew that a stomach forced to live off a few scraps here and there would be especially sensitive to any slight richness in foods. He doubted Nasuada would want Arya to be sick, especially not in her tent. Sick had a certain persistent pungency that would stubbornly grace the nostrils of all who entered this tent for weeks.

[Harbor]

Arya briefly closed her eyes to Blodgharm’s response to her chastisement, which, she knew, had not been entirely warranted. ”It is I who ought to apologize, Blodgharm,” she sighed. ”Forgive me, I am out of sorts.” Out of wits, out of patience, out of many things. Thankfully Blodgharm had always been the reticent type; she knew of many other elves who would have split their tongues trying to apologize for invoking even a wisp of her ire. As it was Arya was too tired to be angry. Her body felt ill at ease with the rest of the world, as though her joints had taken on a fluidity she was unaccustomed to, and now she moved across the ground like a creature not meant for this realm. Disjointed and disconnected. Of course she knew she distanced herself from others intentionally, but the moments when she had previously felt so isolated were rare.

”Arya,” Nasuada greeted, having of course been informed by one of her sentries of the lost ambassador’s return. The young woman’s dark gaze was quick, observant, and with a gesture she called forth the woman Faria, who stood near a pitcher of wine.

Tucking back her own reminiscing, Arya lifted a hand to stop them. ”No wine, thank you.” She took a moment to greet Orrin, Orik, and Gharzvog, whom she was glad to see attend. Arya’s own dealings with Urgals was limited, but it pleased her to find that their race was just as capable of loving as hating, as she had feared in previous decades would not be the case. Nasuada then gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, as if at a loss for where to begin. ”Where have you been?”

”I’m sure we would all appreciate a thorough answer to that,” Orrin grumbled. Arya lifted her head, settling into a more comfortable position to contrast his own aggressive stance. She didn’t bother to relieve him from her arch gaze until Eragon ducked back inside the tent. ”Thank you, Eragon.” Noticing the simple nature of the food he’d brought, while Arya accepted only the bread for the moment, Faria poured a goblet of water and offered it to her. Arya nodded her thanks, and tore a slice of bread, dipping it the water, and swallowing it all before making any indication that she would answer Nasuada’s query, all for the petty intent to vex the irritable king.

”I pursued Eragon on foot northward.” She then commenced to tell, in relevant details only, of finding the man she’d overheard discussing Eragon as though having seen him recently, of misjudging the quality of the cliff she had sprinted across in following him, and of the injury she had attained through that fault. She gave just enough explanation as she believed they would require when it came to her reasons for choosing to remain ‘enslaved’, for the information she had felt nudging at the edges of her awareness like water slowly lapping with the rising tide, and of her misfortune with the men who wanted her out of their way but who had had the good sense to know better than to kill her.

From her experiences in the tree houses of Ellesmera, her work with ropes and hooks among the swaying masts was not difficult. She’d been slow at first, not knowing the proper placement of ropes and sails, or how ropes and sails were supposed to look on a good day, or how to make them more efficient—the feeling of being ignorant was not one that she was familiar to, and she loathed it. The other sailors quickly grew accustomed to the fact that she rarely spoke, but something about the way she did made all of them stop to listen whenever she had something she needed to say. They thought she was mad for refusing to eat the salted meats they kept on board, but after she threw her share in the ocean two meals in a row the cook obligingly gave her only bread or the corn mush that they all ate so often. Despite her health, within a week of poor food Arya had lost weight. This too frustrated her. Her body was stronger than theirs’; by all accounts she should keep her health longer than they. But eating the same two foods every day did not lend itself to strong health. So she ate what she was forced to and did not complain.

Only once did one of the men on board the vessel try to take advantage of an unprotected woman. If Arya had known that the ship’s healer would remove the man’s arm after she broke it, she would have restricted herself to a finger or two. But since the man had assaulted her first she decided not to waste valuable energy regretting her actions.

The first time the merchant vessel neared shore, Arya was caught unawares and chained in the bottom level of the hold to prevent her from escaping, on account of being the type of criminal that could not be punished but nor could be set free.

The second time they neared shore Arya threw herself overboard as soon as she knew she was close enough to swim without drowning. The men scrambled and shouted and struggled to recapture her, throwing ropes and hooks and even the spare anchor on a chain, deciding that if she couldn’t be caught she’d be better off killed. One looped rope, weighted in the front, splashed down in front of her and caught her under the chin, yanking her back. Her throat pinched as the noose tightened, dragging her back toward the ship, already suffocating her, and Arya stretched to reach the knife she had stolen from the kitchen. It was dull, weak and thin. Her body had already been lifted half out of the water, sliding against the hull of the ship, when she managed to saw through it, and then she let them watch her sink so they could comfort themselves with the illusion of her death. In truth it took her several seconds to regain her clarity of thought, and by then the ship was gliding by silently above her. But conscious thought did return, and she stowed the knife, kicking her way toward the underbelly of the ship. Knowing that there was only one place on the ship where she wouldn’t be seen from the deck, she waited until the rudder was drifting by her and hoisted herself up the stern, until she was clinging by frigid, greasy handholds to the wooden planks at the rear of the ship.

She let the ship tow her nearly all the way into port then, letting go only when they passed the first arm of the harbor, where she swam under water as long as she could to best avoid being seen, and slipped ashore.

Arya paused to sip at the water Faria had given her, and to tug free another bit of the bread Eragon had brought. Doing anything more than picking at the food would be improper at the present time, but she would have time later to satisfy her stomach, now that it had ceased its empty ache.

As for the rest of her tale, she glazed over it. She had made shore, she had been pursued, she had circumvented all pursuers. She had continued on foot to the last known location of the Varden. That was all that was relevant to them. They didn’t need to know the rest.

Arya had not felt herself since escaping the ship. Once in dry clothes some of her vigor had returned, but it was tainted with a strange weariness. She felt oddly unprepared for the world with her sword still lying, wrapped and protected, where she had buried it on the farmers’ property while she was recovering. It didn’t help that as soon as she reached the town she saw that there were already notices on the message boards advertising her escape as an enemy of the realm. She was soon recognized, having stood too long before her own image, and from then on she had begun to run.

Arya was accustomed to running, accustomed to being chased for one reason or many others. She was accustomed to killing. She killed the first two men who sought her, and then a guard just outside of the next town she circumvented, and at last a fourth just before reaching a run-down shack she assumed was the growling man’s home. She ducked inside intending only to find food and perhaps a blanket, and instead she found a child.

It was only an infant, the babe. A tiny boy. And looking out the window she saw the oval of newly turned dirt that showed where his mother lay. Despite her value in her own life, Arya felt her ribcage turn in on her as though barbed like spears. She gently took the boy in her arms, gingerly, as though he would reject them, and when he saw that she wasn’t his father and started to cry, she sang to him until he fell asleep again.

She knew she couldn’t leave him here. There wasn’t another homestead in sight. So Arya wrapped up a bundle of food, found a relatively clean and whole blanket, and bound him to her chest as if she had the right to pretend he was hers. She walked or jogged after that, in fear of jostling him too hard, but the boy whose name she didn’t know didn’t seem to mind the activity. Instead he smiled peaceably up at her, at the sky, and at the birds she called down to greet him whenever they paused to eat or to sleep. Growing attached to others was not something that Arya did lightly, or even naturally, but unintentionally she knew she was growing attached to the boy, ad she knew that soon she was going to have to leave him behind. She could hear, when she skirted them, the extra guards and soldiers and common men searching houses and businesses for the spying, child-stealing murderess. She knew what they were calling her. The child would be safe among the Varden, but he wasn’t safe enough with her for her to be the one to take him there. He would have to stay in the Empire, where he was less safe, but still safer than he would be with her.

She had only been traveling with the boy a couple of days when she found an empty farming home to leave him in. The teapot on the warm stove told her that the owners would soon be returning, and the size of the clothes hanging to dry told her that they had a child no more than a year older than her nameless boy. She arranged the boy in his blankets where he would be quickly seen, and turned to leave.

The owner of the house stood a few feet outside the doorway, watching her. When he saw face and, ostensibly, recognized her, he raised his scythe.

Arya threw out her hands to deflect the curled blade from the infant lying behind her, and felt the pinch as it snapped through the smallest finger on her right hand. She dove for the fallen finger, across the supper table, and the farmer followed her with a howl. The blade of the scythe slammed down through the thick table and she rolled away, searching the ground and leaving small smears of blood where her quivering right hand touched, and still the farmer pursued her. She couldn’t find the finger, and she was cornered now, so Arya unlatched the window behind her, tumbled through, and sprinted in a direction she didn’t intend to go.

As soon as she was behind the nearest long hill she turned, and angled toward where she suspected the Varden might be by now. She stopped once to heal her hand and grow the illusion, then didn’t stop again until, a day and a half later, she saw the smoke from their campfires, and slowed to a walk, not yet eager to learn whether or not she’d failed.

Arya took a moment from ignoring her memories to murmur a faint line in the ancient language, to make entirely sure that they would not be overheard. ”Galbatorix has divided some of his most valued treasures,” she said, in case some of their gathering had missed the implication or she had forgotten to tell them. She couldn’t remember entirely what she’d already told them. ”Much of it has been sent out of Uru’baen. I heard implications that the last dragon egg was among the items moved.”

[Brenton]

((Okay this is going to be more to show Blodgharm's distaste for the elven king, sorry.))

Blodgharm listened to the story as he stood there, a calm manner on his face but already he was growing worried for some odd reason. Out in the world were people who wished to harm the elves and the elves were falling into disarray with their current situation of monarchy. Suddenly his head snapped around slightly to look north where he sensed a presence that curled his lip with disgust. The elf snarled slightly as his eyes flashed but he forced himself to calm down and clench his fists where the humans could not see. No sense in letting them know of what was going on when they were dealing with Arya. Yet that was not meant to be.

A sound arose from outside the tent, the crashing of metal and wood against each other, before one of the guards spoke a challenge to the person approaching. Obviously they weren't expecting them or this was some facade that could hurt the Varden. With a brief roll of his eyes, Blodgharm touched Eragon's arm lightly and let his eyes slide to Arya in a warning. No telling what she would do. After that, he walked outside to confront the man.

[Five minutes earlier]

The Varden encampment was no different than it had been the last time the king had been here for a celebration, even down to the battlements with catapults. Brenton looked around to see the faint looks of fear on the faces of several Varden soldiers just before they ran off. Of course they would be afraid of him since he was different. Brenton looked different anyhow, younger and more...exotic, for lack of a better term. His face was human with elven features in the eyes and nose as well as cheek bones. The jaw was strong and covered in a full black beard trimmed to warrior length. Brenton had his pointed ears from back when he was younger and in the Empire, before he had changed them with magic, without the hair covering them. On his head was black hair, curly and thick that hung down to just below his shoulder blades, tied back with a red leather band. Around his forehead was a red band that went upward into the cap from before Drayden was born. Over that was the golden crown.

On his torso, Brenton wore only a red leather half vest, tied loosely, and a white silk shirt without sleeves. The fact that the sleeves weren't there revealed a tattoo of an old mark on his skin from when he was in the Empire, the flames of Galbatorix. Yet on the other arm was the Elven royal crest tattooed on his skin. He wore black pants with a red and black leather sword belt. Resting on the belt were Undbitr, blue and magnificent, and Argetadurna, the ceremonial short sword. His boots were black combat boots that went up his calves halfway with a dagger in the right boot.

Brenton wore a red half cape over his right shoulder with his bow and arrows visible. Yet the most dangerous look, even with his Empire attire on, was the fact that his cruxis crystal was visible. The command tent came into view but the king only raised his left hand and showed the Gedwey Ignasia from Grazael. Grant me entrance to this tent now, guards, for I have the right to speak to Nasuada as king of the elves who aid you in this war. Or would you rather I show you my strength that has multiplied tenfold since...

Blodgharm stepped from the tent and his eyes flashed dangerously as he beheld the king who spoke for his race. You are not our king, Brenton Bromsson, for you are not even an elf. Your father was human and therefore that makes you only half elf which gives you no right to the throne no matter who your mother was. And on top of that you act like you are better than the Varden by walking in here with the Empire clearly on your body and threatening to cause them harm. If you raise your sword in any manner, or speak and spell to hurt them, then I will not hesitate to end your reign as king here and now.

Brenton bowed his head in respect, just a small motion, before he raised his hands to show peace. If you will not allow me entrance then send out Nasuada and call for Eragon, Orik, and Orrin. I have the right to speak to them about anything that I wish to as long as it does not involve me taking control of their troops or harming them.

((Ignore his request if you want but Brenton is going insane so he doesn't even know why he's here. Just impulse really.))