Skies of White


Brilliant light splashed upon the portico, where cats lay sunbathing on their sides. One cat remained standing in the sun, poised just so with bottle-brush tail raised high. Solembum.

A werecat that accompanied the herbalist Angela, Solembum saw all through both his and her eyes.

Sights that were not meant to be seen.

And on this charming autumn day; as drafts of cool winter air came more often; an ungodly vision was about to commence.

Little one, awake. The sun shines and the skies call- we have much to prepare for. Saphira nudged the sleeping Rider gently with her nose, drawing a mumbled protest from him.

"Mmmph… mmm." Eragon rolled over facing Saphira as she withdrew her warm velvety wing from over him. She chuckled a bit at his reaction as he tried to curl up to her, seeking the removed warmth. You act as if you were a hatchling waking from his first sleep. Come now, wake Eragon.

Gracefully Saphira rose from the dais she slept on, and stretched, encouraging Eragon to do the same. He rose from his heavy sleep rubbing his eyelids, and yawning widely proceeded to shuffle his way down to the wash table. The water was clean and cold on his hands and face, from which he then removed the stubble with his stand-by spell. He spoke slightly clearer, though his mind was still clearly within the realm of slumber.

"'Mmm… too early Saphira. Tired." Eragon began to strip his nightclothes and stepped in the warm tub of water, sinking down into the soothing comfort. Pine-scented soap lay on a small dish beside him, along with a jar of similar-scented hair cleanser. Sighing, the youth began to tend to himself, lathering the pale green soap in his hands to wash.

Saphira sat forward over her makeshift table, and began to consume her rather large portion of the previous night's kill. Eragon, in his sleepiness, was entirely unable to identify the animal, but could only conclude that it must have been quite massive. Whatever it was, he had no inclination to discover its identity by means of taste. Master Oromis and Arya were right when they stated he would come to understand why elves did not eat meat of any kind.

And blast it all, of course he would come to loathe the very idea of eating such.

Since when was 8:00 too early in the morning? Saphira queried, not pausing to raise her head from her breakfast. The reply was nothing short of a mutter, a curse, and a few more incoherent grunts. A brief time later Eragon briskly exited the washing chamber and joined Saphira at the 'table.'

A tray had been set out just inside the entrance to his quarters, and, to Eragon's displeasure, contained nothing on it but meat and a two eggs. (He highly doubted they were un-fertilized eggs- this was not an Elven city after all.) The scent that came wafting to his nose as he lifted the tray hit him unfavorably. Eragon shuddered. Rabbit never smelled wonderful to begin with, but now it was enough to make him significantly ill. Without missing a beat Saphira turned her head towards his outstretched tray and delicately lifted the plate with her tongue, then setting it down on her own larger platter. Eragon shuffled over to the door and released the lock, and tugged it open. He threw a passing remark over his shoulder as he exited,

"I probably should have told them of my aversion to meat. I'll be right back."

A scuffle unfolded in the kitchen, as the chefs debated back and forth as to whom the blame lay with for not 'recognizing that Argetlam was no longer fond of meat, and why didn't they notice this?' Not wishing to cause any more havoc in the kitchens, Eragon cut in swiftly with,

"It's perfectly alright. Saphira wanted a little extra this morning anyways, so it worked perfectly. Besides, if you'll show me where you keep the vegetables I can make my own without any trouble to you." More insults bandied the room, accompanied with outrage.

"One so noble as Argetlam should never so long as he partakes of our hospitality be required to prepare his own sustenance!" This being the most common phrase leaping off the chefs' tongues.

"Oh forgive us noble Argetlam, and give our most sincere regards and begs of pardon to the Lady Brightscales for overlooking her additional need of sustenance!" Eragon could not but mentally curse himself. Bugger it all.

"Really, I'll take care of it. Do not trouble yourselves further- you've already gone to so much." He plastered on his most pleasing smile and began to subtly pick up little things from the minds of the chefs. Greens were kept in the fourth pantry, spice cakes fifteen cupboards to the left, etc.

As the cooks began to argue more amongst themselves, Eragon slipped out of the kitchen with a considerably more pleasing meal under his arm with a grin on his face. Only one thought possessed his mind at the moment:

He was much better at stealing food than leather.

The last comment being a reference to his escape from Carvahall in 'Eragon.'

Opening Prologue, nothing more.