New Recruits [Harbor]

[Quetzal]

"Farria, we've come to the conclusion that the reason why we can't find any cases like your is because you're the first of your kind. You and Sheratan, you're something new."

Farria heard the words but did not like them. The girl looked down and chewed her lip, hand firmly planted in the soft comforting fur of the snow leopard resting its head in her lap. She was sat cross-legged on the floor of one of the Varden's many worn tents, listening to three scholars who'd researched her unusual bond and abilities in their spare time tell her about their findings. Before they'd told her maybes and perhapses, but this was a firm conclusion. She was grateful for their efforts, she really was, but she wished they had found at least just one person who'd been bound to an animal and gifted some weird magic.

"Farria, do you understand? This isn't all bad. You aren't alone, you have us. We can figure out what you are together. From what we can see, your abilities seem linked with nature. That's a start. You have a long time to learn about yourself, and who knows? Maybe others like you will emerge soon. Nothing about this in the history books means there are no rules for you! You get to decide how the history of people like you-"

"Wargs," interjected a different scholar. "That's what the others have taken to calling what she is. Dunno where they got the name from, some story I think."

"OK, wargs. You get to decide how the story of the wargs starts. Isn't that exciting?" the first scholar finished.

Farria shook her head sullenly. She didn't want to have to take ages learning. She wanted to know now.. She needed to know what she was capable of so she didn't hurt anyone again. She'd avoided going into her snow leopard form since the first day, aside from one occasion that had convinced her not to try it again. She still couldn't control herself in that shape, and had nearly hurt someone badly. On that first night, she'd probably even killed someone. Shouldn't there be someone to tell her how to deal with that? How to stop people dying? She decided she'd had enough of the scholars. They meant well, and she liked them, but this news wasn't good. Pushing Sheratan off her lap, she stood and left wordlessly as ever.

Warg. At least she had a name for what she was now, and it was as good as any. Not that words did her much good. She felt so alone. She was surrounded by people, and she knew they cared for her, but that only made the loneliness all the more confusing. Eragon had become like a brother to her when he'd taken her to the Varden. He was busy with war too often now. In their journey to Dras-Leona, she'd come to like Isrydia, a friend of his who had taught her about the stars and had shown her complicated equations about moving light with lenses. She hadn't understood, but she'd been treated like an adult which she liked. She had liked to go to Isrydia when the soldiers got too noisy, since the Rider would speak excitedly but calmly about her work. It was nice to listen to someone who would keep things more quiet and not raise their voice.

Sheratan was as great a comfort as a dragon to a Rider, and helped ease the loneliness. The snow leopard nuzzled the seven-year-old's shoulder. She realised then that her eyes were hot and blurry with tears. Wiping them away furiously, she ran to the shade of a tent further out, by a large space, and sat down. No one would notice her here. It made her feel safe. Sheratan lay down beside her and she stroked the large cat with one hand, hugging her knees with the other. She was good at blending in. People couldn't usually find her unless they looked hard enough or she wanted to be found. No one was around to look for her now, but if they were she took comfort in the knowledge that they would probably ignore her completely.

[Harbor]

Fasail packed only a few changes of clothes—all sturdy things, except for one actual dress in case she was forced to dress up—for the long-awaited trip out to join the Varden. She had made a point both by her and Aroure’s choice and others’ council to delay their revealing journey, to give the enemy less time to prepare themselves. The clothes were practical, years old and worn. She had designed them herself. Loose shirt and shirtsleeves that buttoned at the cuffs, a decent leather vest to go over that and protect it from the worst of everyday damages, and comfortable-fitting, thick cotton breeches. The skirt was what she had put thought into, really. It was split in an overlap both in the back and the front, to give her ease in riding, and could even be clipped back or swiftly removed. She didn’t need it in elven or urgalgran lands, but the dwarves preferred their women skirted, and she knew the humans did as well. With the bronze buckles hidden by the long hem of the vest nobody would know without her sticking her leg out from underneath that the skirt wasn’t just unusual in design. It was a small deception that somewhat amused her. She couldn’t wait until someone tried to make her ride a horse sidesaddle. Or Aroure. Aroure hated when Fasail sat sideways while she was flying—it unbalanced her.

As she ran her hands over the last of the straps and buckles for Aroure’s saddle, the lavender, with tints of red, dragon twisted her neck to peer down and over at her. You’re not twitching today. It’s a nice improvement.

”Oh hush, you,” Fasail chided good-naturedly, patting the last buckle and leaping nimbly up between two pale spine spikes. ”You know how I am.”

Utterly unable to cope with idle time and likely to begin destroying things without any organization whatsoever but an admirable attention to efficiency when confronted with it, yes. I do know how you are.

”I’m glad we’ll be able to participate in the world more,” Fasail lightly defended as she dropped into the saddle. Aroure stretched her wings up behind her, rolled her neck and shoulders, and leaped for the sky.

Fasail had never intended to be a Rider. She’d preferred artistry, greatly, to the thought of dedicating her life to a patriotic and worldly duty. But she’d quickly—in a few decades—begun to learn that the idle life was becoming harder and harder for her to hold onto. Her sanity began to slip every time she tried. She required absolute exhaustion to relinquish herself to the sedentary nature of sleep, and anything less left her irritable and short. In short, artistry simply wouldn’t let her live in a healthy manner. Thus her application to prepare herself for presentation to the pale violet dragon egg they had found hidden in the cliffs decades ago.

Of course, Fasail couldn’t see that Aroure was lavender. The misfired spell she’d done to improve her eyesight had seen to that. Tones of black and gray were all that was left to her.

Have you lost a little bit of detail? Aroure gently wondered, slipping briefly into Fasail's mind to see through her damaged eyes. Fasail's pushed her out. I can see as fine as ever, she mulishly insisted. But over the last decade she had noticed the tiny changes, had denied them, and they had begun to grow like tendrils of poison in the back of her mind. She was losing the rest of her sight, too. Not just the color. The edges of her world were creeping over her. The corners of her eyes had misted black as her peripherals very slowly closed in. And Fasail wouldn’t admit it.

Flying dragonback to the Varden’s present location took only a couple of days, stopping frequently to give Fasail the opportunity to sprint for a few hours while Aroure hunted. At last they landed just outside of sight range for the average-sighted person within the camp, though perhaps not any vigilant sentries. They didn’t want to raise any undo alarm. A small girl was huddled not far from her, whom Fasail hadn’t immediately seen, and as she dismounted she hoped they hadn’t terrified the girl. Clipping her skirt forward on her belt again so it closed over her legs, and flipping the edge of her vest down to hide the dull shine of the clips, Fasail started toward the girl—and leopard, she noticed with some interest—and stopped a fair distance away. Perhaps fifty feet. Best not to surprise a leopard. ”Hello, child,” she greeted with a small dip of her head. ”Who must I speak to in regards to joining the Varden?”

[Quetzal]

Farria was too lost in thought about what she was supposed to do to notice the dragon flying closer. Sheratan's hearing was sharper. Her head snapped up to look at Aroure, tail flicking warily. Her ears were pointed directly at the strangers. Farria looked up too. That was a pale purple kind of colour, with a bit of red here and there. There wasn't a dragon like that with Varden. Was this a raid? She had her snow leopard form for defence but there was no telling what she might do like that. Sheratan could help protect her, but what use were two leopards against a dragon? Sheratan was fully grown, but not quite a year old all the same. If she ran for it, she'd be seen for sure. Her best bet was to stay where she was and hope to not be noticed. Should things go badly, there was a whole camp of soldiers including some other Riders. She could find Eragon's mind and call him, he'd come and save her.

Breathing shallow to be as quiet as possible, it quickened when Tallis walked towards her. Her eyes widened as fear grew. Sheratan bared her teeth in warning as the girl pressed herself further into the tent wall. That dragon looked a lot bigger now it had landed.

The stranger greeted her pleasantly and asked about joining the Varden. Farria relaxed at once, shoulders dropping as her held breath was let out. Of course! The Varden had been recruiting people from all over to help with the fighting. Even Isrydia, who'd been determined to avoid any killing at first, had been persuaded by Eragon to fight with the other Riders. They could always use more Riders and dragons, always, Eragon and Saphira said. It was important to have as many as possible fighting for their freedom and they said they wanted them on the same side so they wouldn't argue when everything was over.

The child scrambled to her feet, eager to help. She smiled at Tallis and Aroure, bobbing in an awkward curtsey. Sheratan didn't stand up. Her teeth were no longer bared but her ears were still facing forward, alert, and her tail was flicking, a sign she was unhappy about the situation. "You're trusting them too easily, they could be lying to work their way into the camp. We need to prevent them hurting anyone," Sheratan said through her mind to Farria, watery blue eyes never leaving the strangers. Farria had a child's naivety and trusted people's words, but this was not the case with Sheratan.

Farria's own eyes, a vivid green not that Tallis would be able to tell, flickered between the ground, the Rider and the dragon. She frowned, not knowing what to do. She didn't want people to get hurt. But she also didn't want this Rider to be unable to join the Varden if she really did want to. A hand went out instinctively to touch Sheratan's fur for comfort as she struggled to decide. Eventually, she figured that if she were to call Eragon, who was the person she knew best who could deal with new Riders, out here, Tallis and Aroure could attack him while he was alone. If she led them to him and Saphira, they would be surrounded by other Riders and some of the Varden's best soldiers. She might be putting more of them at risk, but they'd be able to fight her off easily.

Not saying anything as was her custom, she turned, gesturing for Tallis and Aroure to follow. Sheratan got to her feet and stayed between them and her human, still not trusting them. Farria was confident they were fine and wanted them to be friends, but always made a point of listening to her snow leopard when she had to make a decision.

[Harbor]

The child’s curtsey was charming, really, and a small smile tugged at Fasail’s lips when she saw it. It was so hard to avoid liking the other races too much, honestly. Better all around that she didn’t, but that didn’t make it any easier when she was doing her best not to love. Love lost hurt far worse than love denied. She seemed glad enough to see them. The cat was another matter entirely, but then they separated themselves intentionally. No cat would be caught dead reacting in the same way to the same stimulus as someone else; it was a matter of pride and propriety. Fasail could be the same way sometimes, though she wasn’t above sharing her humors with others, race regardless.

She seemed to be contemplating something, the child. Fasail had no wish to interrupt her. Children tended to have much more going on inside their minds than most adults gave them credit, or space, for. Fasail wasn’t one of those adults so she was glad to silently stand and contemplate her new surroundings. She hadn’t spent much time living out of a tent but didn’t fear the prospect—she’d never needed much to feel comfortable. Standing still for this long though was beginning to give her a fidget in her lower back. A need to be productive if not useful, active if not accomplishing.

Just as the fidget was about to begin the tiny flames in her bones, the girl spun and departed, motioning for Fasail and Aroure to follow. I wonder how you’ll fare among the campfires,” Fasail mused to Aroure, eyeing the narrow lines between living spaces.

I’m more concerned about the tents, Aroure sighed. Campfires can be rebuilt.

So can tents, Fasail said optimistically.

And you’re willing to do the spells to re-stitch them, are you? Aroure archly questions, and Fasail winced. My point exactly.

Fasail was not comfortable doing magic. She only used what she must. Shaking that thought from where it itched at her shoulders, she twitched her curiosity instead to possible reasons that the child hadn’t spoken. Children who were too in awe to speak were less common than those who were simply too intimidated, so she wasn’t entirely outstanding in her silence. Something in her manner though….it didn’t fit in with the other silent children she’d passingly met. Surely someone, if not the child herself, would explain someday.

Several people reacted with an amusing violence when seeing Aroure. Fasail was clearly elven, but she wasn’t the only one in the camp. Aroure was the star of this formation, and Fasail was glad to stand in the shadow of others’ attention. The humans tended to see dragons as animals, and while Aroure was politely tolerant of that perception, Fasail knew it pleased her to receive the regard she deserved every now and then.

Several people lurched backward—off their feet in some instances—when catching sight of them. Seeing the little girl and large cat casually leading a strange elf and large dragon through the camp was quite impressive, and terribly amusing too, once you thought about it. The little girl held all the power, with Aroure and Fasail being in unfamiliar territory where all of their combined knowledge could not give them what the girl could.

”We come to join the Varden’s cause,” Fasail calmly informed a man holding a hammer, who was considering what he could accomplish if he chose to use it. He rocked back from her, white-faced, and tugged a slender woman behind him as though he thought they might cause her harm. Fasail only sighed.

[Quetzal]

The tents had to be packed close together to accommodate the Varden's vast forces, but there was still room for cleared spots where ashes sat in a well-used campfire spot or sweating men sparred with one another or dummies. Farria could see people looking at them as they went by, her leading the way through the widest path she could find, and tried to tell herself it was Aroure they were gawping at. That was true, but only to an extent. She could feel eyes on her and knew they were wondering why a child was walking so calmly with a snow leopard at her side and a dragon and Rider following behind. It must be strange for them to see the little girl was the one leading the others, the one who knew where she was going.

Farria had dealt with stares ever since she'd been showing signs of innate magic when Sheratan had been born and began searching for her. She loathed them. To her they had come to mean judgement, people she respected or who knew far more than her telling her she was different, and fear. Fear of what the others would do to her, fear of what she might do to them, and the other people feared her become she was something unknown to them, unpredictable. She shouldn't be scared now, though. She had people to protect her, but sometimes it was still all too overwhelming. Now she didn't look at any of the people, doing her best to ignore them. It helped her feel less intimidated by the attention.

Refusing to be afraid - she'd been scared for a long time now and didn't want this to be yet another thing to be a scared of - she picked her way through the tents until they reached the heart of the camp. A large area had been dedicated to the majority of the Varden's Riders and high command. The tents here were big enough for meetings with large numbers of people. There was space enough for several dragons to walk about, and places for them and their Riders to sleep. Another large area was set aside for combat training. It was surrounded by the camp on all ends, but there were a few Riders and high-ranking warriors around the edges for protection.

Farria stopped and closed her eyes. She couldn't see Eragon, so it would be easier to find his mind than search through all the tents, possibly interrupting something important. Keeping her eyes shut helped her with mental abilities, as eliminating vision freed her brain from a big complicated process, allowing better concentration on other things. It was difficult, but she hoped she would improve as she got older. Her mind tentatively reached out, brushing others so gently they wouldn't feel it until at last she found the Rider's familiar mind. Applying slight pressure, Eragon noticed her and allowed her to communicate with him. "Is something wrong?" he asked, concerned. This was as close as the mute girl came to talking, and her not liking to speak meant she seldom communicated through the mind.

"Come." the child's voice was odd for Eragon to hear. He never heard any of the dragons speak aloud, obviously, but it was different with Farria. She was human(ish), and he'd only ever heard her say a handful of words, if that, through a mental connection. Her word was accompanied by an image of Fasail and Aroure. It was easier for her to explain the situation with that picture, and easier for her to explain what she wanted from him with the one word. Single words via the mind were all she said these days. No one aside from Sheratan could really know what she was thinking as she never spoke her opinions or thoughts, and she liked that. She didn't think people really cared about what she had to say - she was only a child, as well - and preferred keeping things to herself.

It didn't take Eragon long to join them. Saphira was stretching her wings outside the camp, but would return soon enough to meet the new Rider and dragon. He smiled and bowed his head to the two. "Greetings. I am Eragon. Saphira, my dragon, should be here shortly. You wish to join the Varden?" he asked, guessing what they wanted. Farria took a step closer to him. He glanced at her with kindness in his eyes, but he had to be more formal and respectful of the newcomers until he could figure them out a little. Farria understood, having seen it loads of times before.

[Harbor]

Sensing the presence of knots at the tapering ends of her hair where they brushed the backs of her thighs when she walked, Fasail reached back and pulled them underneath her arm to begin the tedium of untangling them. It was a tedium she tolerated, since she knew that if she wanted to avoid it all she had to do was sharpen her knife. The untangling was one of the few ‘small tasks’ that could envelop her mind enough to not allow it to begin to tremble. Best put your knives in view, Aroure suggested as they neared a thinning of residential tents. Acknowledging this as a good idea, Fasail paused long enough to tug the leather sheaths on her two daggers—one about five inches long and the other only the length of a finger, meant more for eating or whittling than defense—so they sat in front of her hips, in plain sight, meant to be seen.

I certainly hope they don’t think I’m challenging them with them sitting like this, she murmured wryly to her dragon. That would be just like most humans, wouldn’t it? Jumping to the conclusion they most feared or most wanted as opposed to considering that others’ actions may have been prompted by far less nefarious intentions. They did bring a lot of their misfortunes down on themselves, humans.

Or are you just setting yourself up to disdain them so you don’t have to risk loving them again? Aroure gently chastened.

Fasail briefly scowled, but cleared her face before any of their long tracks of watchers could take from her dark expression anything they might have reason to fear. You can really be quire vexing.

Most certainly, the lavender dragon equably agreed. I am balancing out your mellowing tones.

Damn straight you are. Fasail returned to the mind-encompassing task of clearing the ends of her hair of knots.

The cat and child slowed before stopping, and Fasail and Aroure took care not to stop too closely behind her; they didn’t want to worry her, and they didn’t want to concern the cat. She looked like she was searching for someone when she closed her eyes, the girl, so Fasail harvested her patience and waited. At last Eragon appeared—she had heard him described by others, though he was younger than she’d expected of his deeds. Some of his deeds did fit the age, though, that she now guessed him holding. Of course there were posters bearing his face all over the Empire as well, so missing the resemblance would have taken effort. Fasail dropped her loosened hair and folded her hands before her.

Be nice, Aroure reminded her as Fasail suppressed the mirth that welled up at his words. They don’t know you well enough to know you’re only teasing. Taking this to heart, Fasail made a valiant effort to hide the majority of her amusement, though she knew not all of it had left her face. But really, what could he have expected? Of course he was Eragon, and of course Saphira was a dragon, and of course they were joining the Varden—they were here, peacefully, weren’t they? He was quite charming, really.

”Yes of course,” she replied, perfectly civilly, though with the undercurrent of humor remaining. She returned the bow. Straightening, she added, ”We apologize for not arriving sooner—we had other projects to attend to and you seemed to be doing quite well on your own. Of what use can we be?”

Barely said hello—actually, I believe you forgot to—and you’re already begging an assignment? Aroure rolled her eyes at her Rider, settling to lie comfortably on her stomach, head on top of her claws. You really are desperate.

Oh hush. ”Thank you very much for your guidance,” she said to the child with a smile, feeling that an expression of gratitude for the child’s not having run off in terror was in order.

[Quetzal]

Farria liked Fasail's long hair, although she imagined it must be a right pain to sort out as shown by all those tangles. Her own brown hair reached almost to her elbows and still got annoying sometimes. It grew quite thickly, so it got tangled easily. With all the running and climbing she liked to do, it always ended up messy and people complained she should look more presentable, presumably as a representative of the wargs or something like that. Perhaps it would just be easier to cut it shorter, but she liked it long.

She'd also noticed that Fasail always found something to do. A bit of a fidget, only she'd never seen any grown-ups who fidgeted before. It seemed like a childish thing to do, and she herself was often told to sit still and stop fiddling with things. Adults never had to be told that. Not everyone was the same so there were bound to be some adults who fidgeted, but elves and Riders were supposed to have more patience. Fasail had waited for her to think and contact Eragon, so she wasn't impatient. Did she just have too much energy then? It seemed odd but she couldn't quite pinpoint why.

"No problem, everyone has their own things to do. We're always grateful to have a Rider and dragon, however long they wait before joining," Eragon was smiling now, feeling more relaxed to see Fasail's amusement at his formality. He always liked to introduce himself in case the person he spoke to didn't recognise him. Often if he was outside the Varden camp and in casual clothes, no one gave him a second thought. He was also aware that people knew his dragon was called Saphira, but he didn't like the kind of people who expected others to know all about them so didn't want to come across as that annoyingly stuck-up himself. "I'm sure you can be of a lot of use, we always need Riders and dragons. I imagine we'll get you to hunt down spies and scouts, maybe spy or scout yourself, recover a few things, search for lost people, and join in any attacks. They'll be some diplomatic stuff too. How much of any given task you perform will depend on where your skills lie. We'll need to establish your strengths and weaknesses first," he explained.

Farria didn't reply to Fasail's thanks, but nodded. As she did so, wingbeats announced the arrival of Saphira. The brilliant blue dragon landed behind her Rider and regarded Fasail and Aroure curiously, looking over the lavender dragon carefully. She was a nice colour, soft with red undertones. "Pleased to meet you," she told the pair. She'd been listening in on the conversation. "Whenever you want, we can test your abilities. Just telling us is one way, but we'd prefer to see you in action. Sparring, racing, take your pick," she was eager for some action after spending a while cooped up in meetings.

[Harbor]

Eragon’s answering smile gave Fasail leave to loosen her rein on her own, though she felt it may be construed oddly if all of her amusement became immediately apparent. After all, for what reason could she possibly be laughing? No, it wouldn’t do. Perhaps it wasn’t only humans who took people the wrong way when given the chance to do so—Fasail did her very best not to assume anything of others, but she knew she wasn’t free of guilt, of course she had made assumptions before. And it was not entirely humans in their crowd, just the majority happened to be humans.

And there lay an entirely irrelevant but entirely valid, though gradual, concern of hers. Humans did not densely populate any entire area as the dwarves and the elves did, but their population did grow faster than both, and perhaps faster than the urgals’. Humans may be considered the weakest race, but rabbits were not altogether formidable and even with all of their predators they still managed to prevail. None of the other sentient species hunted the humans, necessarily, but did that lessen the threat? Threat was too strong a word for the expanding populations and stagnant world they all lived in together, but it was a part of life, the natural order of things. Humans, elves, dwarves and urgals all resided in the same space, the same level, and the same necessities of the world. They were all competitors. Each had their own strengths and weaknesses of course, but that only meant it would be easier to destroy—by intention or simply by design—one race over another, depending on where your alliances lay.

It gave her all the more reason not to get too attached to anyone not guaranteed a lifetime at least comparably long as her own.

You’re being morbid, Aroure warned, and Fasail had to agree that she was.

She grinned to Eragon’s statement of assessment. ”Excellent. We’ve been stuck either sitting or flying for hours, so can think of nothing better.”

Aroure disagreed. She had been at work most of those hours, while Fasail sat and squirmed, so she would prefer an hour or two of rest, if possible.

”Well, I am perfectly content to spar or otherwise, at any rate,” Fasail amended, after first passing along Aroure’s polite decision to wait for her own ‘examination.’

The ever-familiar sound of flight brought Fasail’s chin up until she gazed at Saphira’s pale underbelly passing over them, beaming to see another dragon. Admittedly, neither Fasail nor Aroure ever had. They too had been secluded, for their own reasons. Fasail felt her heart reach out as though to absorb all that it could, but simultaneously parts of it quelled with a seeded, silent unhappiness. She knew that Saphira was blue, but she had no way of knowing what kind of blues, and she knew there had to be dozens of them reflected in her scales.

Aroure stretched to touch her mind against Fasail’s, filling it with the colors that she could see. They had never seen color quite the same way, Fasail and Aroure, but it was so much better than seeing only gray. They knew there was at least one other pair of Riders on the Varden’s side, but had never met them. Being able to see and hear this pair was monumentally gratifying. Fasail took a single step back to lay a hand on Aroure’s throat in thanks for allowing her to see their colors, if temporarily. Aroure couldn’t show her all the time.

She may have to someday, though. Fasail’s smile faltered before returning, only a shade more muted than it had been before. After watching Saphira pass before the bright sun, her eyes had taken much longer than they ought to have to adjust to the shadows of the earth. Eragon was only a smudged shadow for several seconds, Saphira a larger one, before she was able to see their individual distinctions and textures again.

Fasail stepped forward again, bowing now to the second half of the Rider pair, and giving them the traditional greeting required, fervent with genuine gladness at their introduction. ”I am overcome with joy to see both of you in good health,” she added. In all honesty, Eragon was only one—if unique—individual among a race of thousands. Saphira was, presently, one of only a handful. Fasail knew she was racially prejudiced here more than anywhere else, but she didn’t have to make it apparent.

”I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” Aroure added as well, for the three of them to hear. ”Fasail is entirely ready to exhaust herself but I myself must rest a while first. If you aren’t busy in an hour or so I would be glad to compete with you.” ‘Compete’ wasn’t the word she wanted for their structured learning of each other, but it was the best word in their language that she could find.

Fasail briskly returned her two small knives to their preferred positions just behind her hips, where they wouldn’t impede the flexibility of her back, and began firmly braiding her drifting hair back so it was less likely to fly about when she was moving. She’d pin it in coils around her head in a moment, where it would provide less of a hand-hold as well. It wasn’t that she expected Eragon to resort to grabbing her hair—or having the opportunity to—but it made a good impression, she had realized years ago, to make the effort to show others that her hair was not a hindrance. ”Are you free to spar now or shall I find another avenue at which to amuse myself until you are?” She knew before she said it that she had come across as pushy, but diplomacy was not one of Fasail’s strong suits, and he ought to know that from the beginning. She was not ashamed of her weaknesses. Or at least not of most of them.


{Woo muse!}

[Quetzal]

Farria has expected Fasail to be pleased with Eragon's offer of starting some activity straight away after seeing how energetic she was. She had ended up feeling pretty worn out and sleepy after a long time travelling when Saphira had taken her back to the Varden with them, even though she wasn't doing any work herself. Travel was always tiring. Not for Fasail, it would seem, but it was true of Aroure. Watching a spar was more appealing to the scrawny child than listening to the scholars get at her about responsibility or ask her annoying questions about what she could do, and she didn't have many people who would talk to her like she was on the same level as them and she didn't feel like exploring. Choosing to observe the fight, she sat down some distance away. Sheratan sat pressed against her, warm fur and fluffy tail helping keep her warm. It wasn't quite spring yet and was still very cold.

Eragon noticed the drop in Fasail's expression, but couldn't think why that was. She'd seemed genuinely happy to be here so it was odd to see. Perhaps she had been reminded of something from her past, something she left behind. A lot of Riders had put bad things behind them. It wasn't his place to question that. He'd only just met her, after all, and unless it was something the Varden needed to know it was for her to reveal whenever she chose or not at all.

"I'm free to spar now," Eragon was pleased he had someone new to fight. He'd trained with the other Riders countless times and knew all their fighting styles so well it would be hard for them to surprise him. Fasail was a stranger in the battlefield, and would be less predictable. It might even prove a challenge for him as well, and would test his abilities to pick up on how others fought and to think quickly.

Saphira shifted her wings. "It's understandable that you're tired. I'll probably be free in a couple of hours whenever you feel rested," she told Aroure before speaking to the Eragon and Fasail as well, "Go ahead and spar, I'll wait,"

Drawing Brisingr, Eragon spoke a stream of word in the Ancient Language. It was a spell he used practically every day to dull his blade against a friend. All the same, he gently pressed his finger to the blade just to make sure it really was blunt. "Ready when you are," he said to Fasail, adopting a fighting stance. He was light on the balls of his feet, sword gripped tightly in his right hand, ready to move quickly.

[Harbor]

Fasail grinned to hear those words. She couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t enjoy the burn of fatigue after knowing they had acquitted themselves well in a fight. Having filled her mouth with the curled pins that were now responsible for keeping her hair secure she couldn’t respond, but she finished with her hair quickly. ”Glad to hear it.” She turned back to Aroure and freed her staff—her height without the detachable blades, and eighteen inches taller with them—from its straps on Aroure’s saddle. While she was at it, and Saphira was talking to Aroure, she swiftly unbuckled the rest of the straps that allowed her to shake out of the saddle. Her belongings she left at Aroure’s feet. No one would disturb them.

”I heard that you were changed at the Agaeti Blodhren,” she said conversationally as she screwed the two halves of the staff together, and then the blades to each end. Warding the blades was one of the smaller spells she was entirely comfortable with, which was a relief. She disliked leaving the blades off for little apparent reason, as others would see it, and would hesitate to spar with someone she didn’t know the skill level of with un-warded blades. If Eragon were smart, he wouldn’t trust her yet to do it, either. Half of the people in the world wanted him dead, if not more—he would be a fool to allow a near-stranger to approach him with weaponry free in her hand. ”Is it true you are as strong as one of us now?” She flipped the bottom of her brown leather vest up and undid the four clips keeping her wrapping skirt off, revealing the pants beneath, and tossed it over Aroure's right paw, glad that Eragon would be familiar enough with Arya wearing trousers to not be distracted by her doing the same. 

She hoped that he was at least as strong as she, and was surprised at how much so. Not only because fighting with him would be that much more interesting, but because it did assist their chances against Galbatorix. Beyond that she couldn’t sort out why she was so glad to know that he had risen to her level of strength, if not skill or experience. Fasail could see from the bone structure of his face, and from his ears, that he was no longer purely human, but she looked forward to learning for herself where his abilities lay. He was being tested as much as she was, and she hoped he knew enough to consider that truth. He was being tested by everyone who saw him, everyone who met him, every moment he was in a public eye. Both of them were. But Saphira had the luck to be a dragon, already assumed to be spectacular and strong. Eragon had had to work for the respect he’d earned, and probably still fought for some of it.

”I believe I forgot to introduce myself,” Fasail said abruptly, stepping forward to the clear space he stood in. Aroure had reminded her. ”My name is Fasail, and this pillar of mellow reason is Aroure.” Aroure rolled her eyes at her. ”She passes along her regrets that I lack so many social courtesies.” Fasail grinned, flipped her staff to spin it once around each wrist and once over her elbow. This ought to be fun. She had never seen Eragon fight before.

Try not to make any of our spectators wonder if you’re feral or not, Aroure said with a sigh. I doubt they’ll keep believing me forever.

As if you’d bother speaking to anyone else anyway, Fasail teased. Aroure rarely did care to speak with anyone other than her Rider.

Fasail settled into her own ready position, one end of her staff angled slightly forward, hands spread evenly over the middle, and waited several seconds to see if Eragon would press his edge first. When he didn’t she burst forward, still grinning with the sheer joy of a challenge; the genuine ones had grown less and less frequent over the last several years. She tried swinging one blade up as though to cut him from knee to groin, and followed with a slice toward the opposite side of his head. Aroure just shook her head.

”Not knowing Eragon well enough,” she said privately to Saphira, ”I don’t know if an apology is in order for the fact that my Rider would gladly prefer to wear him down to a stump of exhaustion if he let her than to remember to tell him her name.”

[Quetzal]

A staff. Not a common weapon choice, Eragon didn't often fight against a staff-wielder. Magicians occasionally used them, and often fast-moving people who walked long distances. They liked having something to lean on on long walks, and why not save carrying weight and double that up as a weapon? Staffs sometimes had hidden blades, but he hadn't seen these nine inch long detachable blades very often at all. Usually people with staffs had to be quick with good endurance, blocking easily but hitting only weakly. They could break or fracture bones if they worked really hard, but most of the time all they could hope for were a few painful bruises to make an attacker give up and look for easier pickings. The blades would make attacks more damaging while keeping the staff's ability to parry blows over a larger range.

"Yes, I was," he replied. It was well known now that he wasn't entirely human any more. A human Rider's appearance changed naturally to look more like an elf, ears becoming a little more pointed, and their physical abilities improved, but what had happened to him was more than that. "I was gifted some more elven features, and I've matched elves before in strength but you'll have to decide your opinion on that for yourself." He'd beat elves in fights and knew he was strong and fast, but he didn't want to claim he was as strong as the elves in case he then proved weaker than Fasail. While that would be embarrassing anyway, it would be more so were he to claim his strength now. He always had to look as strong as possible, and that he knew himself and his limits perfectly. There was one elf, too, who he could never beat. Admittedly Arya was talented even for an elf, but none the less it annoyed him to no end that he could rarely even draw against her.

He listened carefully to Fasail's spell when she warded her blades. The words did have the form of a spell to blunt the weapon, but he could never be too cautious. She was still a stranger. He was alarmed at first when she began unclipping her skirt, but saw she was wearing trousers underneath so let her carry on. Whatever she was most comfortable fighting in.

It was good to know her name, and Eragon committed them to memory so he would be able to put a name to a face in future. He knew all the Varden Riders quite well, and it would be best if he wasn't seen not knowing this one's name. He knew the names of a few of the lower ranking soldiers too; colonels, sergeants, lieutenants and the like. It made them happy whenever he greeted one of them by name. Raising morale was important and little things like that were worthwhile.

Then Fasail was moving. The first blow he caught with his sword, pushing the staff aside, and the second he ducked. He had to work to be fast enough. The two ends of the staff could both be used against him, and when used effectively they could be rotated to attack faster than many other weapons could. Pushing one end away from him could also pull the other towards, he noted. He had to be careful when parrying blows to not just go on instinct. After ducking, he cut upwards towards Fasail's shoulder, hoping to draw her staff up there, before swiftly cutting down again towards her lower thighs.

Saphira gave a rumbling chuckle. "Eragon can be eager for action too sometimes. He doesn't mind much about courtesies, having a lot of them in the public eye anyway," she replied to Aroure. It was true that her Rider could often be angered, even, by people being polite. He thought they were being 'false' and didn't like how they could be hiding everything about themselves from him.

[Harbor]

It gladdened her to see Eragon move just as fast as she had to block her. In truth she hadn’t fully expected that he would—he still looked too human for such speed. His deflection of her staff changed the way she spun it around to his head for her next attack, but she was familiar with the many ways of using others’ momentum to achieve her own ends. The only time she would ever stop a blow entirely would be when she had little other choice or intended to stop her opponent’s weapon and hold it there. Otherwise, especially with her weapon, it was just a waste of strength. Fun at times to expend it needlessly, but showing how quickly she could cast off energy wasn’t the point of this exercise, pleasurable as it was already.

I believe you worried him when you began taking your clothes off, Aroure observed, and Fasail was startled into a short laugh. Of course he couldn’t have known that you weren’t discarding all of them. That was a standpoint she had not considered when taking it off, and was delightedly amused to have Aroure pass it on. She hadn’t noticed.

Eragon attacked her the moment after deflecting both of her strikes, leaving her no time to press her own attack at the moment. Before his blade could touch her shoulder she caught it just enough to allow it to slide away, but he brought it around quicker than she’d expected—she still thought of him as human despite evidence that he was not entirely. As a result his blade would have chipped off a piece of her knee had it not been warded and had she not managed to change its angle just slightly, and as it was if she hadn’t bent it further it may have damaged it anyway. She wondered if he’d ever noticed the difference in damages that could be done to one’s knees depending upon what position they were in and what angle at which the attacking weapon was coming toward them. Perhaps she would mention it later.

Saphira chortled, and Fasail smiled. ”I believe our dragons are gossiping about us.” At Aroure’s throaty response she amended, ” And now I’m sure of it.”

”It’s not a matter of minding most of the time,” Aroure responded to Saphira alone. ”It’s a matter of caring perhaps too little about what others think of her to bother. Perhaps don’t make an ambassador of her.”

Fasail took one step back with the side Eragon had touched, wondering if he would pursue or wait for her to return. One step didn’t make a large difference with the range of both their weapons, but she was very curious to see more of his fighting style. ”You have native talent,” she remarked as she swung one end of her staff up between his legs, knowing it was a difficult spot to deflect from, fully prepared to stop her blow if he couldn’t. Wards could still cause serious injury when allowed to. And if no one ever fought dirty with him he would be maimed or killed by the first blackguard he came across. Not to mention most men flinched when threatened with an abuse to said area, and it was a weakness she wasn’t above pressing.

The common rules of fighting—just as the common rules of civility—were not universally useful. Fasail had always found them useful guidelines, but in a world with rules there were those who would cheat, and even honest people had to learn to cheat to protect themselves from such people. Perhaps especially the honest people required such training. Fasail had taken to it readily because falling into well-ordered lines had never suited her comfortably, and had no compunctions about using her knowledge to teach other people; her only wish was that they appreciate the use of her actions. Many didn’t, but perhaps Eragon would, especially if she didn’t use her tricks to cause him harm. She could grow to like him—he seemed a straightforward type of person. They were always her favorite.

[Quetzal]

Fasail had been there to block the blow to her shoulder, but she'd only managed to deflect the one to her knee a little. The damage would have been weaker than if she hadn't shifted the angle had it not been shielded by the wards. He knew his attacking was quick, and Fasail's reflexes were decent. She could move quickly and knew how to judge where a hit would do less damage if it were unavoidable. It took some work to figure out how to nudge an oncoming weapon so it hit at the angle or in the spot where the least harm would come. There were all sorts of blood vessels below the skin. It was hard to pinpoint where the important ones were. Muscles and tendons were a bit easier, but even then sometimes a heavy blow near a muscle could cause damage to that muscle by shifting something else and forcing it into an awkward position.

Allowing himself a smile, Eragon paid more notice of the dragons and heard their rumbling chuckled. "I agree. I hope they aren't saying anything too bad about either of us." Saphira could tease him a lot sometimes.

"She's not alone, then. I've met a few people in the Varden who truly don't care what others think. Sometimes they can make great leaders doing what's best for who or whatever they're responsible for rather than their own image." Saphira knew that a lot of the time people strongly disliked people in charge when really they were thinking the future. Farmers, for example, often were angry when told to store more of their food than they thought they needed to, but a good leader would have done this in preparation for predicted disease, bad weather or population growth. Too often bad leaders just took the food for personal gain, though, so the farmers were right to be angry. Politics could be tough. "We won't make anyone do something they don't want to, but Riders are inevitably ambassadors of sorts - people always pay attention to them and judge them." She knew that much from experience. There was a huge difference in response when Eragon hid his identity and when he didn't.

The staff flew towards his crotch. Eragon had to admit, it came as a surprise. He hadn't paid much attention to the compliment, thinking it a nice thing to say but wanting to keep concentrating. Watching Fasail's eyes, he'd seen her start to move, but his instinct to protect that area overcame thought too strongly. Brisingr struck down as a reflex, moving quickly in a clumsy movement. The staff connected with his thigh. Better there than its target, but he was annoyed at himself for not maintaining a more calculating composure so that he might have avoided being hit altogether.

Where he'd been smacked, a throbbing pain set up residence that would develop into an impressive bruise should he decide to let it heal naturally. It was good to do that unless completely necessary to use magic, he found, as it kept his energy up, made him more used to dealing with pain and reminded his body of how to heal itself quickly.

The move had taught him a fair bit about Fasail. She clearly didn't have a sense of fighting by the book and wasn't afraid to do things normally frowned upon. That was a good thing to see in a fighter. When fighting for your life, honour wasn't high up the list. You didn't want to completely disgrace yourself, and if he did there would be consequences for himself and the Varden, but winning was still far more important than anything else. A Rider would have to be unafraid of doing things others didn't, trying different tactics, and doing things unexpected to win fights regardless of how reluctant others were to do anything of the sort. If a soldier just followed the textbook, after all, anyone else who'd done their homework could easily predict them and cut them down.

"People don't usually like that sort of strategy, well done." He complimented Fasail, stepping forward lightly to try hitting her left side. He was on the balls of his feet so to move back quickly.

[Harbor]

To Saphira’s comment on the being of an ambassador whether one wanted to be or not, Aroure merely shrugged. Fasail did do her best to comport herself well, but the common courtesies tended to slip her mind. There were worse things. Such as being seen as a fool, and that was a perception that, when misapplied somehow to her, Fasail was easily able to dispel without assistance, not that she was in the habit of accepting assistance anyway.

Fasail laughed aloud at the way Eragon’s eyes widened. He nearly hopped, he moved so quickly to block her. Good reaction time, but the habit of flinching wasn’t always a benefit to one’s battle. Loose muscles reacted more quickly than tense ones. ”I promise I wouldn’t have damaged you,” she assured him, in case he doubted her. She had no right to decide whether or not he had children, among other things. The startled face he had made though. Her insides quivered with the amusement of it. She smiled to his assessment of her lack of propriety, as some would call it. With a shake of her head, she responded, ”If good people only fight each other well they’ll never learn to defend themselves against those who fight poorly. What other people like is less important to me than what other people kill.”

As for his next attack, Fasail caught it on a shallow edge, allowing her to guide his sword up and over herself as she ducked, aiming to twist the left point of her staff around his elbow. She yanked, trying to catch his elbow and numb the arm below it or to catch his wrist and throw his sword. The old edict demanding that one never relinquish her or his weapon could not always be followed, but she supposed were it a real fight it would be left up to Eragon whether he wanted to keep his wrist intact or keep the sword in hand. Each one had its own reaction of consequences. She wasn’t looking to win just yet though, just to show him how versatile a weapon hers could be—she knew most others chose heavier, more intimidating armaments. However if he managed to prevent her from locking the staff around his arm her entire left side was protected for the seconds when her entire staff was twisted over to her right side. There were other evasions than just deflections, of course—there was never only one solution—but she wondered what he would be able to and choose to do.

Admittedly, despite it being foolish to assume, Fasail expected to win in the end of their skirmish. At least once. She had never been one to mind overmuch about losing—bets, fights, arguments—so long as she was in the same state at the end of her loss as she’d been at the beginning of it. But she had simply been fighting longer than he had, despite any talent he had been born with. ”What kinds of fighting exercises do you usually do?” she inquired, thinking along the lines of objectives he had to accomplish or simultaneous goals he needed to achieve during a skirmish. She had always struggled with the ‘game’ when she stood over some object, be it a stone or a package or a volunteer, and had to prevent others from making contact with said object while also protecting herself. Her fighting style wasn’t as conducive with the requirements of that exercise, preferring more free reign to do as she saw fit.

[Quetzal]

Eragon was feeling somewhat sheepish regarding the most recent few events. "I don't doubt you would have spared me harm. I just... didn't want to take any risks," he knew she would have picked up of how his reaction had been one of reflex, but he didn't want to make it seem like he hadn't been in control to at least some extent. If he'd concentrated harder, he should have been able to stop himself, but he hadn't and that had been his mistake.

"I agree with you there," he responded to her comment on fighting styles, "In my experience, people who will go further to win tend to get further. In battles and wars, it's the most ruthless, stubborn, and adaptable who survive. Just look at Galbatorix and Nasuada; they've each won loads of fights. Nasuada is an example that honour can still be retained when exploiting weaknesses, too, since she knows how to lessen those of allies in peacetime, too." Saphira nodded from the sidelines. A fight between dragons was a feral affair. There was little sense of noble fighting, only that glory when to the winner. An angry dragon was a flurry of claws, spikes, teeth and fire flying and twisting as fast as it could. The all-out attacking was intimidating, but in the heat of the moment that was never an issue, at least for her.

Eragon found himself in an awkward position. In one deft movement, Fasail had swiftly cast his right arm up over her body. It was pinned by her staff, sword behind her back. Her hold on him was too tight for him to try flicking his sword around to hit her without straining his bones to breaking point. He had three options here and little time. Either he took the hit to his elbow, his wrist, or dropped his sword and pulled free. There was but a fleeting moment to make this decision before Fasail made it for him. The staff looked set to strike a nerve in his elbow. That would not only jar his arm badly but would also numb it, the sort of numbing that came with a stabbing pain after as feeling returned and the neurones complained. More damage would be done to his wrist, however. The jumble of small bones, ligaments, tendons and the ends of his radius and ulna would crunch together. It was difficult to predict the outcome of that, but it couldn't be pleasant. A broken wrist was to be avoided as far as possible in a fight. If not broken, it would be in a lot of pain anyway. The third alternative, dropping his sword, would take less energy to retrieve. Brisingr would land behind Fasail as his hand was held behind her back, so she would be between him and it. No doubt she would stop him collecting it. He didn't want to be left unarmed for any length of time in this spar - there was never any telling when it was possible to be reunited with a weapon. Bare fists against a staff with blades didn't seem like an ideal situation.

He chose the first option, sliding his arm back towards him as her staff twisted and rapped him hard on the elbow. Akin to hitting the funny bone (except a lot harder than when just banging it against a table or doorframe), more pain than felt necessary for what the strike was shot all the way along his forearm. Even his fingers tingled. The moment the staff had moved on its course enough for him to pull Brisingr back to himself, he passed the sword to his left hand with a flick of his wrist. Numbness was already replacing pain. It wasn't a total numb feeling. A dull ache could still be felt, in addition to the odd uncomfortable feeling warning of pins and needles coming up in the next few minutes. Any other sensations were dulled to a tickle. His right arm lost a good portion of its dexterity, hence the shift to his left hand.

"Exercises involving training up my left hand, for one," he smiled, stabbing at her stomach. He wanted to grab her staff with his right hand, but numbed as it was there would be far less strength in it, not enough to hold off the staff. His left arm wasn't as strong as his right, but the attack was aimed correctly. "I spar a lot with other Riders, generals, and so on. Practicing against living skilled warriors is helpful, as is teaching others. I practice different sword strokes and foot movements, but it's good to learn to adapt them. How about you?" he asked back. He'd tried a few weapons besides the sword since joining the Varden, too, but none had really worked for him. The bow and arrow he'd been all right with, having experience from hunting way back in Carvahall, but large weapons he was clumsy with and fast ones he could never deliver enough power with.

[Harbor]

Fasail smiled demurely at his mention of risks. ”There are many situations in which you probably shouldn’t. If you already trusted me to attack such a place without defending yourself I would question your judgment.” Trust played a much larger role in fights with strangers—and even in fights with friends—than most people ever realized, or considered realizing. Fasail trusted that Saphira wouldn’t involve herself in a mock battle between herself and Eragon; she trusted that nobody would come to them and interfere with some matter of importance; she trusted that he wouldn’t feign an injury, or illness, or try to throw his sword or a stone at her, or some other abnormal action in a skirmish. Those were the kinds of trusts that had been known to kill people. People got familiar with the simple fights they had with each other, the ones where they trusted they would walk away unharmed and not have to use their brains much to do so. It was a very unrealistic way to fight, as allowed people to forget how visceral and unexpected real battles tended to be. After all, why would one learn to fly only on sunny days if they might be expected to fly in the rain?

”My biggest concern with skirmishes just as these is that people get accustomed to fighting cleanly with one another—why fight like you’re desperate when you know you won’t die? Then they forget how to fight people who are fighting for their lives instead of sport.” Fasail admired the work the human queen had done with her rumbling army of men, dwarves, elves, and urgals, in part just because a mixed-race army was so much more flexible than a uni-raced arrangement. But more in fact because Nasuada had made an army of the poor, the tired, the sick, the frightened, the desperate, the vengeful, and the proud. As hard as it was to force different races to work together, it was universally more difficult to force differing minds to function cohesively. If Fasail would allow herself to care anything past respect for any human, she would do so for Nasuada. The woman had done well in all of the areas where Fasail struggled.

When Eragon dropped his sword for a millisecond Fasail believed she had won, but when he caught it with his left hand she swiftly disentangled her own weapon and took a step away. ”This is new,” she mused with a small smile. Rarely did she come across an ambidextrous fighter. Not many people cared, once proficient with one hand, to start anew with the discomfort of learning on the other. Fasail’s weapon, requiring both hands, didn’t lend her toward being ambidextrous, but she could draw with both hands, if that counted. Writing with both hands had never worked, however.

He made a jab for Fasail’s stomach and she twisted to the side, avoiding it, and kept her staff between herself and his sword. Attacks at one’s midsection tended to be more difficult than strikes against one’s limbs, and were often the most important to avoid. Instead of attacking this time she merely defended, allowing him to choose his next move. She stepped to the side to see if he would follow. ”Mine were more oriented around either obstacles or objectives,” she recounted. ”I had to find a leather flask where it was hanging in some tree while not allowing my instructor or instructors to defeat me while I got it down, or I had to protect some object while they had to take it from me, or reach some destination while protecting myself. I believe they were better for learning than simple drills, however when one fails certain ones repeatedly in the beginning it can be rather degrading.”

Fasail spun her staff once at her right side, regarding him watchfully. She hated to confess the first touch of boredom, but such experimental skirmishes as these were often too tame, too ‘exploratory’ for her preferences. By her best guess, Eragon didn’t want to throw all he had into a fight with anyone he was just meeting, though he may only have such a restriction when he fought with women. He truly ought to drop that perception, if he intended to continue spending time among those who rightly considered women the equals of men, but it would be unkind to press him on it at the moment. However she may press the fight into a quicker pace soon, if nothing else then to prove to him that she was not intimidated by challenges; they were in fact her greatest companion.

[Quetzal]

It was a shame, Eragon felt, that it would be new for Fasail to encounter people who could fight with both hands. More people should really learn such a skill. The risk of losing a limb was not particularly high, but it was common for an arm to be impaired temporarily as his had. In addition, there was no predicting what might happen; on a battlefield, arms could easily be struck by arrows, blows from a nearby soldier helping one of their allies, and if near any structures walls and debris could fall and maim or kill. It was definitely worthwhile having an option in case that happened, since if it did, chances were the ability to fight would be necessary to survival. It was true his left hand was weaker and less accurate in its movements than his right, and it was useless for writing and the like, but it served well enough.

Eragon knew well enough how degrading repeated losses could be. His mind went to when he'd first tried using magic, when just lifting a pebble seemed a daunting task while Brom had no difficulty using all the magic he liked. He thought also of Arya, whose sparring matches tried his patience as he lost time and time again. She was more skilled with a blade than he was, although he hated to admit that even in his own thoughts. Murtagh, again, once a friend, now an enemy, although he maintained that once the Empire was broken and Galbatorix killed there might still be redemption for his brother. He had not fought Murtagh often, but when he had, when it really counted, he'd failed.

"People often know to fight dirty based purely on instinct, but perhaps I should teach some... less noble tactics for when desperate. We give people more tasks than just sparring, but with the tents taking up so much space and developing battle plans taking up so much time it's easier to let people spar than anything else," he explained. He'd like to assign each soldier a personal trainer if he could, but of course that was ridiculous for an army. As most teachers, he did tend to stick to the more accepted styles of fighting in his lessons, and while many people were too proud to stoop to more desperate strategies, others would gladly accept the lesson. It would help people stay calm when desperate, too.

Fasail had stepped aside, actions purely defensive. That left him time to attack. Nearing her, he reached out and grabbed his staff with his right hand as soon as he was near enough. His arm was still tingling and the sense of feeling was weak, but its physical strength was not diminished so much as it had been. Hopefully speed could make up for any lack of strength. He guessed that any movements of the staff he attempted to make would be met with fierce resistance, so instead he tried to use it to move himself instead of Fasail's weapon.

Fighting clean wasn't so important, so Eragon wasn't going to fight clean. He supposed that was more like a real opponent, although many were either weak and inexperienced or had had been trained not to use such attacks. Many still went for them, and it helped to be less predictable. He twisted his arm up, trying to use the staff to swing himself behind Fasail quicker than he would have been able to himself, keeping the elf facing in the same direction. If successful, the moment he was behind her he would aim a hard kick at the back of her knees with the intention of hitting the taut tendons there with enough force to make the knee buckle with no serious damage caused. As he did so, he drew Brisingr swiftly to her neck, hoping to catch her before she could register her knees buckling but not betting on it. If unsuccessful in twisting himself around behind her, he would ram the staff at her by shoving it with his shoulder with most of his weight behind it, holding back some to avoid overbalancing. He would then try slipping his sword behind it to pull back on, possibly having an advantage if she stumbled, adding strength to a knee to the stomach.

[Harbor]

Fasail’s eyes widened when he took hold of her staff—of all the fights and practices she’d been in, no one had ever tried that before. Not with their hand, at least. Grinning, she ignored her instinct to yank back and instead stepped forward with him, sticking a foot between his as he spun behind her, another delightfully unexpected move. Using her own weapons against her—it was a terribly enjoyable challenge. She wondered if she could do the same. She had before with daggers, but it was hard to turn a sword against its wielder unless one simply turned the location against him, such as fighting in a narrow alley. The trouble was that her weapon was longer than his, and that tactic was less likely to be effective only on the sword-swinger than it was to dampen her abilities as well.

As effective and flexible as her weapon was for fighting in various situations, one of its weaknesses was her inability to defend her back with it unless she released it with one hand, which she preferred not to do. So again she circumvented her own natural instinct and fouled his kick another way, by stepping backward so his foot couldn’t find the purchase it had wanted. Being unable to see him she could only guess at where his limbs were placed, but she extended her left foot further behind herself to aid in her turn and twirled, staff held firmly level at his waist height, in the hopes of catching him either in the small of his back or side. She wasn’t sure yet what she’d do if she managed to push him to her left, perhaps just follow with a swipe toward the side of his head. It was easier for heads to move themselves than entire torsos, but people reacted differently to attacks toward the two areas. What she expected of others’ reactions and her own was half of what she relied upon in a fight, though she suspected most people did. They probably didn’t think of a match as much of a game of balance as she did, however. Playing other people’s expectations against them was risky—there was a reason people used some of the same moves and plays so often: they were effective—but the vast majority of the time she found that using perhaps a weaker gesture had more force against someone who hadn’t thought he would need to block it.

Having by now lost track of their conversation—she’d been too busy basking in the pleasure of having been surprised—Fasail started a new one. ”What are one’s daily routines or tasks like, here?” she wanted to know. ”Truly, I would hate to be left at odd ends.”

{Sorry for the lateness and shortness—it took me forever to figure out what she should do.}

[Quetzal]

Eragon noted her surprise and then determination before he swung away from her face, glad to have done something she wasn't expecting. There were always a couple of opportunities in a fight to do something the opponent would like as not have encountered rarely if every, and such opportunities gave one an advantage. However prepared an opponent may be, do something new and they would react slower while they thought about what path of action was best.

Fasail was impressively quick to respond. Her foot came close to stepping on his when she spun around to face him again. He was well aware of the staff's position, but as he had been poised to kick, one foot was off the ground. She had caught him off balance with not enough time to both regain balance and avoid being hit. The best he could do was to slam his foot back to the ground, making himself stable to take the stinging blow to his side, pushing him to her left. It hurt, but that was better than taking it unbalanced and falling. He didn't know what she was going to do now she'd pushed him. Deciding it was best if he didn't wait to find out, he tried to duck under the staff back around to her right, bringing Brisingr forward for a strong jab to the belly as he did so. The staff was long enough to cover a wide area, but perhaps he would be quicker than her moving it back to the right.

"Busy. You'll be getting up at first light, probably before. You and Aroure will be expected to train for several hours a day, some of that spent teaching less skilled soldiers or younger dragons. You're a good fighter, so we'll probably send you to fly out and pick off small Empire troops heading to gather at Uru'baen, or to help Varden citizens in trouble. They'll be the odd gathering of Riders with me or some officer or lord to inform you on what plans are. A lot of fighting, a lot of flying, a lot of hard training." It was hard work and uncomfortable, with barely a chance to rest, but Eragon left that bit out. He wouldn't lie, but he didn't want to give the impression that life with the Varden was terrible. He and many others found it enjoyable, liking the challenge despite the drawbacks. Hopefully Fasail would take to it too.

[Harbor]

Fasail watched Eragon react and respond with satisfaction—despite his short length as a Rider, and the background from which he’d come, he had adapted well to the unexpected situations his life had given him. Most people didn’t learn to accommodate their new lives so smoothly, when their new lives were so incredibly different from the past, as well as more important. Realizing that one’s past had become in many ways irrelevant to one’s present was a ruining revelation for many people; it made them believe they were rootless, made them forget who they were, and forget how to value what they had as opposed to what they’d lost. In the majority of what had been dealt to him, Eragon had done well. Better than many elves had expected upon learning of his existence, and better than many would admit.

Fasail’s internal musings cost her, and when Eragon evaded her attempt to keep him on her one side she wasn’t quite quick enough to evade his next strike in return. She hardened the muscles in her torso to take the bruise there instead of in organs or bones, and still rocked back a step both at the blow’s strength and to lessen its impact by a fraction. Aroure chortled softly to herself when Fasail grinned at the attack she hadn’t managed to avoid, snorting a stream of smoke and settling her head on her long paws. It’s a good thing full sanity isn’t a prerequisite for joining the Varden, she remarked to Fasail alone.

Or in the choosing of a Rider from your egg, Fasail peaceably replied.

Touché. 

”Sounds perfect,” Fasail replied to Eragon, entirely genuine in her pleasure. The less sleep the better. The less time to twiddle her thumbs, the less time to accidentally destroy something out of boredom. Only one thought darkened her delight. ”Will I be required for use in magical training?” That would be….tricky.

Fasail had strong magical power when she could focus it. When able to move enough to focus her mind appropriately, she could protect her mind from most attacks, even if mental agility had never been one of her strengths. But if forced to hold still, if lacking the ability to use her body to center herself mentally, her focus and her magic suffered. If she couldn’t multi-task, she lost her hold on both. Unless she was sufficiently occupied or sufficiently exhausted, her magic, when used, had the tendency to react in ways she hadn’t intended. It frightened her to an extent that she almost never willingly used it, unless it was through a spell she was excessively accustomed to using, such as in wards of various kinds, in which she had a particular talent in wording.

Fasail had taken a step back when Eragon hit her, and in her inattention had stepped poorly into the dry dirt and stony ground: her toe slipped out behind her, bringing her to one knee. Fasail ducked, expecting Eragon to take advantage of her imbalance and swing between her ribcage and head, and as soon as her toe found purchase threw herself forward. She caught herself on her knuckles on the ground, rolling behind him unless he’d managed to turn with her, and spun toward her feet—dust and cracked grass hung in her hair when she swung at him next, toward the backs of his knees in an attempt to trip him, but her balance was still off as she rose, her momentum tugging her backward just enough to lessen her ability both to attack and defend.