#gil'ead

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Grip (Title to be figured out later) (Trigger Warning)

(TW: Allusions to and metaphors for SA/Attempted SA, pinning by someone in a position of power, torture, Durza being Durza. The usual besides that.)

Everything hurt.

That wasn’t new. Durza being the one to take her back to her cell was unusual, but it wasn’t new. He kept his hand wrapped firmly around the wild start of her braid, tight against the base of her skull. Half pushing, half pulling her forward as the cracked bones in her left leg forced muscles to give out every other step. 

The fact that he had stopped the torture before she had gone unconscious even once…that was new. And it wasn’t like it hadn’t been ‘productive’ for him. Arya’s throat was raw from screaming, the lingering feeling of red hot iron pushing against bone pulsing through her body. It had been difficult to stay awake, even more difficult to struggle onto her hands and knees and try to stand after he released her restraints.

Always get up. Her rule for surviving this place. Spitting in Durza’s face was a close runner up to that, but it wasn’t always feasible, water being withheld and all.

The cell door crashed shut. Everything flared white and searing when her body hit the ground, shocking her back to a brittle alertness. 

She took a few moments to breathe, bands of muscle and ribs clamoring in protest of the deep inhales and tight exhales, and then forced herself to roll onto her back. The cell floor was always cool. It would take some time for the chill to seep through the tunic, he hadn’t left the snaps open this time, but it would reach the wounds that lined her back eventually. Some modicum of relief.

Arya froze a split second. 

Durza was looming over her. Still inside the cell. 

That was definitely new.

She tried to rise up on her elbows, start clawing her way back to upright. Get up. Always get up.

He pounced. Slammed her back to the floor with an animalistic growl. Her raw wrists were clamped in one of his pale hands, pinned above her head, his other palm pressing hard into her collarbone. His weight settled on her hips, knees tight to her sides, jamming into the bruised flesh.

Arya snarled and thrashed, tried to lift herself against his hold. He pushed back, squeezed tighter, leaned closer. Closer….

His eyes. There was something different about his eyes. 

A cold jolt of lightning struck in Arya’s belly. It made her still, eyes wide, teeth locked and lips tight. 

What was that look? That…that wasn’t there before when he looked at her. He’d always been predatory, always regarded her with a certain calculating gaze that bordered on gleeful, amused, hungry even. Bloodlust dominated it, thrilled at having such a resilient plaything at his disposal.

But this was…this was an altogether different gleam of hunger.

His perch on her hips was suddenly much more alarming. 

She turned her head away, tried to free her wrists as blood slickened his grip. He responded by digging his nails in deep, her bare flesh giving way as easily as if he had pierced her with blades. 

“Now, now.” Arya jerked involuntarily, fingers trying desperately to claw at empty air, anything to loosen his hold. His breath was cold against her exposed neck, suddenly very close. “None of that. Where would you go, little elf? There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.” Fuck, she could feel him smiling. 

A harsh growl rattled from deep in her chest when his free hand trailed over her throat. The soft laugh he responded with was far from comforting. His fingertips, nails pricking as they went, drifted from the near-black cut arching up from her jaw, down the soft underside and lingered over her jugular. He seemed to revel in the frantic beat of her thready pulse and leaned closer, inspecting the bright lines of blood that welled up in the wake of his touch. 

A sudden thrash of her pinned hips nearly dislodged him. The desperate twist sliced agony from the base of her skull to the bottom of her heels, a clipped cry tearing from her as fresh burns ripped open, half sealed wounds oozing blood onto the floor. 

Durza released a growl of his own at the sound, desperate and hungry. His hand found a renewed grip on her throat and tore away the prison tunic. 

The elf snapped her teeth back at him, hands finally free, scratching and clawing like a feral animal. The damp air of the cell on her bare chest was a bucket of ice water in her veins, blotting out the pain, the bile rising. 

If she could get him off, then she could fight properly. His fingers around her throat were the only thing controlling her upper body, and with them there he had to fend off both her hands tearing at his face with only one of his own. 

Eyes. Those fucking disgusting eyes. 

Arya surged forward, vision fading at the edges, lunging for his head. She felt her fingers latch on, thumbs driving up and in and

Two of his fingers. Between her ribs. 

Inside. Her ribs. 

Well, if that wasn’t a metaphor….

“Does this hurt, little elf?” His chuckle was low, deep in his throat. He knocked her trembling grasp away with a shake of his head, crimson hair wild and flashing bloody in the moonlight. 

‘Yes!’ If his other hand hadn’t been around her throat she was sure she would have screamed her response, everything in her body spasming as his clawed fingertips grazed something inside her chest. 

She could feel him searching for it again, the disgustingly satisfied noise he made when her eyes shocked wide and a strangled gurgle rose from her mouth when he made contact.

Durza eased his weight back from her neck. Licked his lips when the woman’s eyes rolled back at the influx of air, the reflexive gasp. 

The sensation of her lung pressing against his fingertips, warm, wet. The thrashing as her body tried to get away from the source of pain, pulsing the muscles to contract around him, clamp her ribs tight down on his fingers. Her ragged half screams that ended in growls of frustration, only to be replaced by new, unavoidable agony as her starved blood forced her to take another breath. Begin the cycle again.

Oh, yes. This was what he was drawn to. What he wanted. The feeling of her writhing beneath him. Corded muscle under his hand, the strength she still had, her fighting back with every ounce of it only to find a fresh reserve. Her nails, blunted, half missing from his treatment, digging into his forearm as she dragged up more and more resolve in the face of agony unimaginable. 

The Shade did nothing to hide the delighted shudder that rushed up his spine, eyelids fluttering as he inhaled. No fear. He never smelled fear on her. The sharp scent of anger, of boiling blood, of glass-shard tenacity….

This one…this one would never stop fighting. Such a resilient, resistant plaything. 

He wanted that. He hadn’t felt this in a long time.

And then the logic surged forward, drowning out the rabble and screaming of the spirits to take, take, take. 

Not now, not yet. Mustn't break such a delightful toy, ravage such a treat, so soon. He should savor it. If he pushed too far, if he took his pleasure now, all at once, gorged himself on it, then it would be gone forever. She would fight far longer than this. More, now that she had seen his intent.

Intent.

Her eyes were somehow still open. Even when he twisted the two fingers buried in her chest cavity, they stayed open. Burning. Boring into him. Unmistakable in her intent. A promise.

If he did this, and she didn’t manage to kill him, then it would be the death of her. She would do her damnedest to take him over into the abyss with her. 

No matter his fate, she would die with a smile on her lips through the screams. 

And he didn’t want that. 

Slowly, with every molecule of his mind and the spirits swirling within it screaming in discontent, Durza slid his fingers from between her ribs. Wordless spells closed the rifts left as they retreated until, with a quiet squelch of blood and crackle of cartilage, he broke the connection between their bodies. All that remained as evidence was a ragged scab. 

His arm twitched. He ripped the scab open. 

The spirits were nothing if not petty in their spite.

Arya coughed hard, the oxygen rush spotting her vision just as the frothy blood splattered the ground. He’d stopped. Why would he stop? If he was going to have his way then get it done with. If anything it could distract him enough for her to get at his eyes again. Rip them out and crush them.

The second she could feel her muscles, she tried to twist out from under him. 

All it earned her was his hand around her throat yet again, the side of his palm digging into the underside of her jaw. His thumb wandering, running over her skin as if stroking to soothe. Possessive.

Rat bastard.

“If I did not think it would kill us both,” The man-shaped monster mused, dragging his claws across her abdomen, over the silvered scar bolting from her hip, as her body flexed and tensed with her jerking movements. “I would have you for myself.” 

He was suddenly at her neck again. Faster than she could suck in a breath his filed teeth sank into her collarbone. It splintered like old wood, snapped to pieces under the force. 

She didn't even have the breath to scream.

And then he was off her. Staring down at the mess he had made, tracing her form with eyes gleaming in the ghostly moonlight that dripped from the barred window. Licking the blood from his thin lips slowly. Savoring it.

If she had anything in her stomach, Arya would have lost it at the sight. 

As it was she struggled to sit up. Her right arm popped and ground against its own weight, sagging limp at her side as she pushed off the floor with her left. She met his gaze with the malice of a fucking god, ignored the carnal smile that curled his lips as she shifted her good leg under and started to rise, still barechested and her body on display. 

She wore the lack of modesty as she would full battle rattle, head high, tenacity in her veins, fight on, fight on.

Get up. Always get up. Doesn’t matter what’s going on, what’s been done, what you have or don’t have. 

Get. Up. Now.

And then Durza’s stupid, shiny boot connected with her right shoulder with a resounding snap. 

The elf howled, slammed back to the ground again in bright flashes of blinding white and the smell of burning. It felt as though a landmine had gone off inside her trapezius, shredded muscle and bone and nerves and she could feel her shoulder blade in pieces pressing up against the back of her ribs and into the flesh above her shoulder. Her right side was on fire, rivaling the irons and the spells and it was all so much.

“I think that’s enough for today, little elf.” Cartilage and bone fragments crackled as Durza shifted his weight, leaned over her to pluck the discarded prisoner tunic from the bloodstained floor. “You have been most…giving, for me today.”

She couldn’t answer, not even with a glare. Her eyes were screwed shut, left hand pawing pathetically at his boot.  

He removed it after a few long moments of contemplation, reveling in the sight of the agony he had caused. A quick check and brief spell healed the tiny tears in her arteries and veins that threatened to rupture, protected them from bone shards until he deigned to heal the ruined arm. The elf lay gasping in air when he finally stepped away.

The cell door closed behind him with a satisfying clang. He waited. He knew she wouldn’t let herself stay there for long. 

It was a handful of minutes. Longer than most times he had left her conscious. But he soon heard the scuffle, the hissed noises of a creature fighting through pain. The stumbling patter of her bare feet as she staggered to the cell door and fell against it. 

Oh, how brave and foolish of her. She curled her left fingers around the bars in the window for support and glared out at him, wheezing through clenched teeth. 

The look was easy enough to decipher. It’s why he had waited, after all. One last humiliation for the day.

Durza let his face split with a languid smile, all bloodstained teeth and ill contained satisfaction. He hooked the bloodied tunic with the tips of his index and pointer fingers, held it up for her to see. “Want this back, do you?”

Her expression didn’t change, all fire in her eyes and stone on her face. A trickle of sweat fell from her temple, the effort of standing even with the door’s support taxing her to the ends of her failing strength. 

The Shade hummed. He stepped back, twisted mirth in his maroon gaze, and held her shirt out to her. Beyond her reach. And she was not quite so foolish as to put her last good arm through the bars.

The smile widened. 

He let the garment fall from the tips of his fingers. It landed on the floor in a sad pile, snaps clicking on the concrete.

Her gaze followed it. Flicked back to him and she narrowed her eyes.

Slowly, painfully, the woman unfurled just her middle finger from where it was clamped around the bars. 

Durza merely tossed back his head and laughed. 

And then his hand was through the window, fingers fisted in her hair. He slammed her face against the bars, her cheek tight to the metal as he leaned in and whispered in her ear. 

“Do not make me revisit my decision, little elf. I could have you whenever I wish.” He bared his teeth as she did. He could feel her shaking in his grip, pain or weakness or some combination of the two. 

It wasn’t fear. She still smelled of cold rage. No fear, no terror. He smiled again, renewed heat stirring in his belly. “A worthy death, taking one of your kind. And such a feisty one at that.”

She snapped her teeth and rumbled a growl pierced by the crackling of trapped air deep inside her chest. Rammed her intact shoulder into the door even harder than he had yanked her forward. It rattled on its hinges, another reserve of strength neither of them expected. 

But the jolt was enough. The woman gave a ragged groan and sank to the ground, curled against the reinforced oak as the waves of agony overwhelmed her mind. Her consciousness faded, disappeared, as she was dragged into the darkness, away from it all.

Durza stood before the door for several moments longer, focusing deep within himself. Quelled the ache and heat and placated the spirits screaming for him to continue, to forget his higher self.  The rabble subdued to a murmur, he turned back to the stairs at the end of the hall.

Another day. He would have his prize.

[mist-the-wannabe-linguist]

Is that an elf I see, chilling with Qursuk, Tama and Daegred? How big was that elf's existential crisis upon realizing that the Ra'zac is a chill guy?

Oh I've been wanting to introduce this guy so so so bad but I wanted to wait for when he has a name and he doesn't have one yet :(

He's a half-elf! He was born from an affair between a girl from Gil'ead/Ceunon (not decided which one yet) and a member of the elven forces that occupied the city during the war with Galbatorix. They were both young and dumb (well, 60-something years "young" for the elf, which is still the equivalent of like, 20 at best), didn't think anything bad could happen at all :D By the time the girl realized she was pregnant, Nasuada had already regained control over the city and the elven army withdrew back to Du Weldenvarden and they were both left without contact. They could have remained in contact but our elven lad had the bad bad realization that if their relationship kept going, he'd have to watch her grow old and die, so he never reached out again. He did eventually scry her just to see how she's doing and, welp. Turns out he has a son. And he still did not reach out because he was completely lost on how to deal with such a situation, still afraid of having to watch his love (and presumably his son) grow old and die, and there's the problem that being a deadbeat dad in a culture that infinitely treasures children is particularly terrible, so the more time passed, the more pressure he felt to keep everything under wraps. Meanwhile the mom and son went through their own hell for some years since being a single mother with a bastard child in Northern Broddring is an unimaginable hit on a woman's honor. Eventually they went to travel and as the mom aged, they headed further south until they eventually settled in Surda in the city of Aroughs where the warm sea climate really benefited her declining health. She was in her 50s when she died (still a respectable age for an average mortal human woman in a medieval-level society) and her son, having no other family, felt no reason to move anywhere else, so he remained in the port town, renting a room at this or that inn and making money to pay for the room and daily meals by playing music for the sailors frequenting the inns. He's been their local bard for some 20 years, he's well-liked by the locals and frequent visitors, and though he sticks out like a sore thumb as a suspiciously young and odd-looking 47 years-old, he's got his place in the world and is as content as can be. For now

After he meets Tama & co. and they eventually reach Du Weldenvarden, things get really interesting when his father's secret can no longer be kept under wraps~

here's a more lighthearted moment with him & Tama at an inn in Aroughs not long after they first met

[umunschaas]

Guess there was simply no reason for it. He didn't care about the people and soldiers who died for him, he just wanted Eragon and Saphira. And he may as well just sit on the couch and wait until they show up themselves. Not to mention that he was probably busy with project number 1: finding the name and project number 2: torture Nasuada into joining him out of 'her decision'.

Basically; dude had better stuff to do than kill some lame peasants lol.

Have we considered that the reason that Galbatorix didn't just fly out on Shruikan and kill everybody himself was that he was bored and this was the most entertainment he'd had since orchestrating the Fall?

[sparklepirate]

Hey wait shit I just realized something.

So one of the big themes in this book so far is that Murtagh is super super protective over children. It, you know, makes sense that he ruminates on this a lot. He was abused... At every point in his life, but especially as a child. So, while he's extremely hesitant at the idea of having children, he knows that if he were ever to do so, he would give everything in him to be a good father. And in the meantime, he is viciously protective over the children he meets- Essie, saving her from Sarros and making sure she's safe from her father. The street urchins in Gil'ead, beating up their dad for being neglectful towards them (perhaps not the most tactful move, but still). His whole motivation for helping Carabel in the first place was purely to save Silna, because he couldn't stand the idea of a child being scared or hurt, or suffering any of the same horrible experiences that he did.

Which. Um. Made me wonder.

... Does Murtagh know that Eragon made Elva? Like... Like he probably knows she exists, but does he know, like, what her powers do to her, and how she got them, and that it was Eragon's fuck up that made her and made her suffer so much? Because uhhh. He would lose his absolute fucking mind over it if he ever found out. 😬😬😬😬

[lunamond]

Murtagh and a very grumpy Silna in the tunnels under Gil'ead

[alagaesia-headcanons]

I genuinely love Eragon, I think he's a good person, but his attitude towards Murtagh specifically has this distinct, almost cold lack of empathy. And it's strange he feels like that in this particular situation because Murtagh's fate- his capture, his torture, his dragon used like a hostage, their enslavement- that exact fate in its entirety is bearing down on Eragon through the whole story. Because that's exactly what would happen to Eragon if he's ever captured. That fate is snapping at his heels; it gets close enough to draw blood. Yet Eragon tends to act like he's above Murtagh's situation. He looks on it with pity, but also disgust, all with an air of distance and separation. There's never a horrified realization that this is what's waiting for him if Galbatorix captures him.

For that reason, I think Eragon's lack of empathy for Murtagh stems in part from a rather desperate optimism. He refrains from considering the worst possibilities to avoid despair over what he can't control. But that leads to this jarring disregard for the suffering of a man he is irrevocably connected to. Murtagh is a mirror of Eragon, reflecting what would become of him if the king ever gets his hands on him. Eragon is not above this; he is, in fact, so terrifyingly vulnerable to it. Even as he fails to imagine himself in Murtagh's place and understand him in that way, Eragon is the one most likely to end up in that place.

That alone should warrant empathy, but Murtagh is more than just a mirror. Eragon's luck has not held out, he has not been fortunate enough to outright avoid what Murtagh fell victim to, and the singular reason he's been spared that fate is Murtagh himself. Three times. Once outside of Dras Leona when he rescues him from the Ra'zac, again in Gil'ead when he'd been captured by Durza, and a third time on the Burning Plains when he lets him go despite his orders. Murtagh saves Eragon from capture, torture, and enslavement under Galbatorix and he does it over and over. Murtagh simultaneously exemplifies the worst fate Eragon could suffer while singlehandedly protecting him from it. And Eragon never once acknowledges it.

[azarinka21]

Art school finals – illustrations on Murtagh 💪🐉

The assignment was to create covers for audio tapes and, conveniently, I'd just finished reading Murtagh – a beautifully sad, torturous book. The Inheritance Cycle was a breakthrough read in my life when I first read it – it gave birth to my love for fantasy books, for writing, and in a way, for drawing, because I wanted to add creating with pictures to creating with words. So I figured illustrating a sequel to a series that changed my life so much and basically got me into art school in a way might be a good fit.

It's a linocut, and each of the five cassettes refers to the five parts that the book is divided into – Ceunon, Gil'ead, etc. I made extra use of the runes that Paolini revealed at the end of the book.

While it was a pain at times (I had to cut some things twice because something didn't work out or didn't look right) I'm glad I was able to create something for this series, hehe.

[everythingloveandanimated]

On this episode of Musing on Murtagh I realized something... Murtagh's relationship with fate is "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished”. (WARNING!!! Heavy feels and Heartbreak below)

Chases away the Ra'zac to save Brom and Eragon. -> Eragon gets broken ribs, Brom gets a fatal knife between his ribs.

Saves Eragon and Arya from Gil'ead, accompanies them to the Varden -> Gets locked up. (which he considers pretty good. He's alive, has a furnished room, gets meals and reading brought to him on command, so 4/5 results)

Fights with Varden against the Kull Army -> Gets kidnapped and tormented on the way back to Uru'baen where the torment doesn't stop.

Swears fealty to Galbatorix to get his soldiers to stop torturing Thorn -> Thorn gets locked in a solitary cell and his torture continues for months

Spares Eragon's life at the Burning Plains -> He and Thorn get maliciously tortured for it

Tries to preserve Nasuada's life -> ordered to assist Galbatorix in torturing her

Helps Eragon defeat Galbatorix -> Nobody (sans King Orik?) is willing to take Eragon's or Nasuada's word that Murtagh is not an enemy

Tries to do right by Thorn by fleeing north to freedom -> Loses opportunity to plead their case in the court of public opinion

Rescues Silna ->Robs Glaedr's grave, injuries and betrays a guard he befriended (using that term loosely) and Thorn torches Gil'ead in a panic attack after saving Murtagh's life

Investigates the Dreamers to get information to report back, motivation to protect Nasuada's kingdom -> gets himself and his dragon captured, tortured, enslavement experience 2.0

And! As a bonus! FAMILY/ FAMILY-ESQUE RELATIONSHIPS

Selena does good by Eragon getting him to safety, then returns to Murtagh -> gets gravely ill and dies soon after

Tornac risking his life to help Murtagh get to freedom -> DIES just outside the city in front of Murtagh

Murtagh does all these life saving favors for Eragon -> Eragon skips off continent and is unavailable to help Murtagh clear his name

Holy Heck! And he STILL wants to honor the role of Dragon Rider by protecting the land and its denizens! (okay it's a little more focused than that. He wants to protect Nasuada and her realm, not the realms of Dwarves and Elves. They can take care of themselves; unless their goals overlap then he'll consider working with them.) BUT STILL!!!! HOW?!?!?! And the scary beautiful thing is there are deeply traumatized people WHO ARE LIKE THIS!!!! They will go out of their way to protect other people they deem worthy of their help!!!

[vadergf]

ALSO the similarities between murtagh and eragon in the process of their captivity. Like eragon was saved by murtagh eventually in gil'ead from durza but murtagh had to save himself and thorn and that's just so indicative of the differences in their lives despite being parallels of each other

[tonhalszendvics]

Hey hello, it's not me again poking around the Inheritance Cycle's timeline.

The question: How old is Murtagh?

In book 1 we have a lot of reference to past events.

Eragon found Saphira's egg, and if I am not mistaken, she hatched eighteen days later. (see Ch. Dragon Tales, the hatching is in Fate's Gift) When the ra'zac came, Sloan said Eragon tried to sell the egg circa three months ago, which means she was 2,5-3 months old when Garrow died and they fled. (Ch. Strangers in Carvahall)

Murtagh in book 4 said Tornac and Garrow died around the same time. (Ch. Small rebellions) (Side note: according to Inheriwiki, this was still 7999. In Murtagh (2023) Ch. A Question of Faith placed this event to the end of winter. New Year must be in the spring in Alagaësia.)

Eragon turned sixteen on the way from Dras-Leona to Gil'ead. (Book 1, Capture at Gil’ead) During their fist night in Farthen Dûr, Murtagh said he had a dinner with the king on his last birthday, on the day he turned eighteen. (Ch Hunting for Answers) In the same chapter, it is also stated that he was three when he got his scar, and Selena vanished for months (Eragon in Ch Dragon Tales said she spent five months in Carvahall, and for that I'm angry forever, but let's not go there).

The answer: Murtagh was already at least five month past his third birthday when Eragon was born. Which means, he must have had his nineteenth birthday at the latest around the time the story started, and when he was still very much in Urû'baen.

Possible explanations:

He was talking about birthday celebrations and he didn't have any after he reached the age of majority.

His mind glitched and he forgot how old is he. (Like I do from time to time.)

Dear author's mind glitched. (It happens. No hard feelings.)

Edit: Sad Tonhal is sad. Someone already made a timeline, which makes some things clear. Others... not so much. LINK

[glbtrx]

Do y'all remember Eragon's dreams/Involuntary divinations of Arya before he met her?

While traveling with Brom, Eragon had several dreams that depicted a "beautiful woman locked in a prison, sometimes bleeding". The woman was later revealed to be Arya, who was in prison at the time in Gil'ead.

But the thing is, Eragon had never seen Arya at the time.

He didn't even know who he was. Were they really just "premonitory" dreams? (in quotes, because they weren't predicting the future, they were showing him a very detailed and precise current situation)

Was it ever explained? Perhaps it was the Eldunarya of the Vault of Souls, who influenced his dreams to find her?

[modern-inheritance]

*Loooooooooom*

(When the annoying know-it-all guard pisses off the other high risk ward guards enough to have them ask him for 'help' getting the new prisoner to get up and ready for in inspection. [There is no inspection, and Durza's currently occupied, so these guys are basically hoping Arya will kill this dillweed and rid them of his presence.])

“Alright, get up.” Alek smacked his truncheon on the woman’s restraints, the dense wood making a satisfying crack when it made contact with the metal. “The others might drag you but I’m not putting up with that now. Up! Or you get the stick!”

The woman tilted her head. Wild shocks of midnight parted to reveal a single green eye sparking with annoyance. She still refused to move, slumped against the wall. Himel had warned him not to unlock both the cuffs at once, and the one chain that still held her by the heavy shackle at her wrist rattled when she moved. 

“Do you think I’m playing games? Get UP!” Another crack, this one underlain with a damp thud of flesh over bone. Alek prided himself in how deftly he could wield the heavy baton. Years of practice on the many prisoners who filtered through the ward had given him a unique feel for how to moderate the force of his blows and where to place them. This one had been tricky, but it was smooth. A twist and twirl of his wrist, dropping the tip of the club low before flicking it high. Catching under the barest lip of the woman’s shoulder blade where it was just visible under the grey tunic. Such a blow would send shocks up and down the entire shoulder and arm, radiating deep into the abdomen. 

“Was that so hard?” Alek grinned to himself as the woman shifted with a grimace, finally starting to get her legs under her. He turned to where Himel and Jost were waiting at the cell door, their riot helmet plates pulled low over their faces. “You idiots just don’t know how to get a damn woman to lis–” 

He looked back, hearing the rustle of fabric as the woman straightened.

And found himself staring at her neck. His words died in his throat as he tilted his head back, back.... 

The woman loomed over him. Her lip twitched, showing terrifyingly sharp teeth. A set of unmistakably pointed ears confirmed that the rumors flashing through the canteen were all too true. 

Alek swallowed. “Fuck me, you’re a tall one.”

The elf snorted softly, eyes cold. Alek appreciated that she tossed him through the doorway, and not into the wall.

[altarcup]

she has been collecting traces of the aching past and melting them down one by one. on some parts of the future, she embosses her own face (𝑎𝑠 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏𝒔 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜.) but now, for some reason, she cannot stop wondering if @livedtough has seen them ; if he thinks her vain for it. thoughts of 𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗, not a ruler  ‒‒‒‒‒  but when she isn't wearing her crown, one might be fooled.

𝕟𝕒𝕤𝕦𝕒𝕕𝕒 keeps one of the old coins in the satchel hanging from her belt. as of yet, nobody has asked her why. she suspects the answer won't be 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.    ❛❛  so . . .  ❜❜    the coin spins through the air, 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈. she catches and flips it. when she withdraws her hand, 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜.    ❛❛  gil'ead.  ❜❜

[iklees]

Murtagh / Christopher Paolini

Inheritance #5

When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of empty castles and locked doors and footsteps chasing him down endless corridors. And he heard his father's voice echo overhead with dreadful intent, followed by a remembered touch upon his cheek, soft and loving, and his mother saying, "Beautiful boy. My beautiful boy." Then visions of battle filled his slumbering mind: Gleadr and Oromis over Gil'ead, swords clashing upon the Burning Plains, soldiers dying at his command, banners and pennants whipping in the wind, the smell of blood and fire, and water in his nose and throat choking him as he struggled with Muckmaw. Thank you, whispered Silna, but he felt no relief, no absolution, and the nighmares dragged him further down, down, down to the cells beneath Urû'baen, where Galbatorix had bent and broken him, and throughout, he heard the growls and cries of Thorn, of his dragon, his beautiful, newly hatched dragon, suffering in the chamber near his.

Nadat Galbatorix is verslagen, verblijven Murtagh en zijn draak Thorn een jaar lang in afgelegen gebieden. Om te herstellen en omdat het hele land hen ziet als verraders, onwetend van de cruciale hulp die zij Eragon, Murtagh's halfbroer, hebben verleend. Na die beslissende slag heeft Murtagh van Umaroth, één van de eldunarí -- drakenzielen, een waarschuwing gekregen over een sluimerend gevaar in de diepte. Daar gaan hij en Thorn nu naar op zoek. Ze vinden een spoor naar de heks Bachel, in het verre Noorden. Als ze haar vinden, ontdekken ze dat het gevaar veel groter is dan gedacht, met ernstige gevolgen die het uiterste vergen van Murtagh en Thorn.

Dit boek speelt zich af na het einde van Inheritance. Op zich kan het gelezen worden zonder die eerste vier delen te hebben gelezen, maar dan mis je een hoop achtergrond van Murtagh en Thorn en hun omgeving. Ik merkte dat het zolang geleden is dat ik deel 4 heb gelezen, dat ik niet meer alles direct kon plaatsen. Het einde van dit boek laat een opening voor een vervolg; dat zou ik geen probleem vinden!

[modern-inheritance]

Poor team medic (before Glenwing joined up) Simon Withal, a 30s-40s year old jack of all trades dude that probably looks a bit like Larry from Pokemon Scarlet/Violet and Vato Falman from Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood had a tired lovechild, is sitting under the duckie with it actually on top of his head.

I'm kidding. It's a very bad reference to an accidental Featherless Biped joke I made in the end the first portion of my version of the Escape from Gil'ead:

This was fun!

What mundane items do u think the other companions would be delighted with?

[everythingloveandanimated]

Inheritance Cycle Readers, I am in need of your assistance.

I am creating an AU where Eragon and Saphira join Murtagh and Thorn on their adventure with the Draumars. I need your opinion on what you think Eragon's suspicion levels would be after he hears what happened in Gil'ead. He and Saphira arrive shortly after Thorn and Murtagh making their flagrant exit. They stay for a bit to get debriefed on what happened over the last two days before flying north to follow Murtagh and Thorn.

(The poll options won't let me write everything down so, here's the scenarios and then I'll place the percentages in the poll options for you guys to choose)

A) 100% He thought Murtagh and Thorn had changed since they helped bring down Galbatorix, but this level of mayhem destruction proves otherwise. Plus, Murtagh is the son of Morzan, so rebellious uprising runs in the bloodline.

B) 75% He worries that Murtagh and Thorn are still angry and filled with hatred over what they went through under Galbatorix. He's worried that their year alone in exile has only stoked their hatred rather than diminish it.

C) 50% He's confused and really doesn't know what's going on. Did he miss something in hoping that Murtagh was on a better path? Did he or the Eldunarya misread or misunderstand Murtagh when they saw him at the Fulsome Feast? Did Thorn lose control, or was there an actual danger to the two of them and Thorn took care of it how he saw fit?

D) 25% He's giving Murtagh and Thorn the benefit of a doubt. He wants to hear them out before making a judgement. He hopes it's something they can fix. He's not completely ruling out that Murtagh and Thorn have taken a darker path, but he's letting his hope and optimism take frontal control.

E) 0% He thinks this is all just a big misunderstanding. He believes in his brother and in Murtagh's better nature. He doesn't know Thorn well, but he knows Thorn hated being forced to do Galbatorix's bidding. He's confident in both of their better natures.

Thanks for your help guys!