A Night Out On The Town

This is a tribute to one of my least favorite series of all time, Inheritance Trilogy, and the numerous pairings few have yet mentioned. Enjoy and review.

Disclaimer: I don't own the books or the movies. Or the video game or the merchandise or anything the author unoriginally came up with.


It was a night for celebration that Eragon had not seen since the Agaeti Blodhren, that was for certain. Galbatorix had been vanquished along with his dragon and the Ra'zac. Murtagh and his dragon had seen the light and come to the side of the good. And Arya and Eragon had been married. Dwarves, elves, humans and assorted magical animals had united together, here in Surda's capital city of Aberon, to celebrate their victory before the mammoth task of governmental reform.

The place certainly looked the part for the celebration. The entrance hall, lavishly decorated with unrealistically opulent gems to rival Tronjheim's mile-high mountain of diamond (which mysteriously was not in the movie, for some reason), sparkled like a sea of fireflies. Sky-blue walls arched over their heads, and dangling above was a chandelier big enough for Saphira to call a nest- or at least, Thorn, being a young dragon still. Trees gleaming with magical lights twinkled in recesses, and the smell of faelnirv was palpable in the air. Everybody was having a fantastic time, and the party had only started. Well, everybody except Eragon, that is.

Eragon was lurking next to the punchbowl, a common enough occurrence for him, ignored by wife, friends, family and sycophants all. He kept trying to make conversation with anybody who neared the bowl, only to sigh disappointedly as they turned around and ran away. He was the Savior of Alagaesia! He had accomplished all sorts of things without the constant aid and assistance of more experienced people! He deserved their attention! Eragon filled up another glass of punch and started as he saw a familiar face dart through the crowd.

Guiltily he looked around for Arya. Her raven hair was swept out of her normally pale face, exposing twin patches of blush in both cheeks, and her bodice was lying in a torn and mangled heap nearby. She lay prostrate in her negligee, groaning energetically while Thorn the dragon held her down, panting unintelligibly in the ancient language. Eragon caught a few choice phrases and winced; elf women must be more flexible than he thought.

Well, at least they're occupied, he thought to himself, forgetting to conceal his thoughts from those around him. Now to find that old friend I just saw. With his ninja magic skills, he registered something flying at him and ducked. It was Arya's negligee, which fell into the punch bowl and sank. He chanced a quick peek at what was happening with his wife and his dragon, tore his eyes away with difficulty, and pursued the person he thought he had seen in the crowd.

However, the sweaty, jostling pit of dancing bodies was hard to get through, much less locate somebody in. Breathing heavily, he extricated himself from the mob only to find a scene of true horror.

"Orik, what in Helzvog's name are you doing?" he demanded as the dwarf moaned. "Make her stop! That's… that's wrong!" Indeed, it was. A horde of spectators cheered as a kneeling Angela serviced Orik with remarkable ability for one so old.

"It's less freakish than what your wife was getting up to," retorted Orik, only to prove this false as Solembum the werecat crawled out of his thick beard and started licking his face. A second later he convulsed, and Angela came up for air while mopping her face with dignity.

Eragon staggered out of the part, feeling sick. What kind of cruel joke is this? We won the fight against Galbatorix, but are we all going to degenerate into frothing, barbarous lunatics? The sight of Nasuada nearby did little to encourage him. He made his way over to her, only to find that she too was involved in a… compromised situation. Specifically, she was bent over a table, shrieking with ecstasy as a masked apparition spanked her with a very thick, very wide paddle.

"Nasuada, have you seen the person I was telling you about earlier?" he asked over the bloodcurdling din. "I thought they might have gone this way…"

She straightened up, breathing hard, and turned unashamedly to face Eragon despite her lack of pants. "Sorry, Eragon, haven't seen them. Want to join us? My master's just getting started on me, I bet he could give you a spank or two if you like…"

"I've thrown out my back, Nasuada," said the 'master,' removing his mask and sitting down next to Eragon. "And my arm's tired too," he confided to the young Rider. "I never thought I'd encounter so firm a-"

"Oromis?" gagged Eragon, revolted by the depravity his role model had sunk into.

"Eragon," Oromis slurred, clearly distracted by Nasuada bending back over the table, "if there's one thing I ever teach you, it's this."

"Well, what?"

"Patient… as I was saying, you can't limit yourself based on other people's opinions. Some might call what Nasuada and I do wrong, but do we stop? Of course not! And if they persecute us, we hold our heads all the higher! What do you do when you fall off the horse?"

"You get back on it," Eragon muttered.

"And you ride it until it drops from exhaustion!" approved Oromis, much to Eragon's disgust. "Pass me the weighted paddle, would you? As I was saying, don't let anybody's opinion influence your actions! Where do you think Durza and your mother would have been if they-"

"WHAT?" bellowed Eragon wrathfully.

"Well, you just have to be more accepting, that's all!" Oromis said primly while Eragon turned tail and fled. "Ah well… he's such a nice boy." With that, he began to fondly thrash Nasuada in the paddle while fantasizing about pulling apart a blackberry one piece at a time.

Eragon was seething with rage as he stomped out of this odd display. Oromis must have lost his wits to old age! My mother would never play around like that with a Shade! But then, much to his shame and regret, he remembered something he had seen in Durza's mind in their last fight. His imagination filled in the blanks…

Carsaib got out of bed early to finish his chores, so he could make breakfast before Haeg woke up. Pleasuring the old man, in more ways than one, was the highlight of his day. Therefore he was surprised to see Haeg already sitting at the table with a businesslike look in his eye.

"Scummy, my boy, we need to talk," Haeg growled.

Carsaib's heart swelled with pride at the compliment. "What is it, Master?"

"You've learned a great many things when you were with me," Haeg said with a lewd gleam in one eye, "but nothing about the… female body. Luckily, at great personal expense, I have managed to obtain a slave girl… a sex slave girl, to be specific."

Pain and confusion filled Carsaib's young heart. "What is this cruelty? You're trying to get rid of me, aren't you? You're tired of me! You just want me to spend all my time with this whore so you can sneak out of the house one night, go to a bar and drink until you go blind!"

"I don't deny it!" yelled Haeg, hurling an empty bottle at Carsaib. The boy, used to these attacks, easily dodged it. "But I won't be spoken to like that! I've cared for you, raised you, given you the food off my table and the privilege of gratifying me, and for what? For you to spurn my affection? The girl's tied to the post out back! Now go see to her!"

Out of protest against Haeg's cruelty, Carsaib never touched the woman. He gave her food and water, but he avoided her at all costs. He knew she must be lonely, but he would not give Haeg the satisfaction of knowing that he had given in. But when Haeg died, and the spirits took control of him, making him Durza, his mind changed. Durza's eye fell coldly upon the woman tied to the post. She had spent many years of loneliness and abstinence tied to that post. Now she was ready…

Eragon shuddered at the thought. She wasn't my mother! My mother wasn't a prostitute! He immediately and pigheadedly concluded that because he didn't want to know about it, Oromis must be wrong. It was probably… um… some woman I've never heard of in my life. That's it. Feeling enormously self-satisfied at his own deductive reasoning, Eragon was too oblivious to notice a large white ball falling out of nowhere and hitting him in the back of the head.

The cup of punch flew out of his hand as the blow knocked him forward, sending him sprawling to the ground. He tasted sand in his mouth, spit furiously and clambered to his feet, massaging the bruise. The large white ball- a volleyball- was resting in the hands of an entirely nude and potbellied Horst.

"Horst?" yelled Eragon. Will this madness ever stop? "Why are you naked? And why are you…" Eragon realized that there was sand scattered all over the floor, with assorted naked men from Carvahall standing around. "What is this vileness? Nude… team… beach volleyball?"

"Absolutely right, my boy!" approved Thane nearby. "We've got these Urgals on the ropes! They won't be so boastful of their prowess next-"

"Urgals?!" Eragon gagged, trying not to look at the naked opposing team. However, they seemed intent on walking around and making themselves very noticeable.

"Give it the old one two, Horst!" encouraged Loring nearby. "That's right, child! Carvahall vs. Urgals! We're getting them good, but we're not evenly matched!"

"Urgals?" repeated Eragon, revolted, while Horst served the ball.

"That's right!" spat Loring with disgust, glaring at the Urgals. "We originally had six on our team- Thane, Horst, Albriech, Baldor, Sloan and I! But that… traitor Sloan ran off and now we only have five! Plus, those treacherous monsters won't sub one out so it's even!"

"URGALS?" Eragon screamed, feeling claustrophobia and terror close in. "URGAAAAAAAAAALS?!?"

"Say, you could be on our team!"

"NO!" roared Eragon at the top of his lungs. "I REFUSE! Where's Roran?" He tried to appear physically imposing without getting close to any nude male bodies. "Where is he? Tell me!"

"I don't know… why don't we see if Katrina knows? OY! Katrina!" bellowed Baldor. "Got any idea where your fiancée might- oh." His face clouded. "Um, she looks busy…"

Eragon looked through the crowd. Katrina and Sloan, she reeking of alcohol and he of raw meat, were violently kissing on the ground while rolling around.

"Roran won't be pleased," he said, feeling sick.

"Actually, he's probably having a good time too," Thane smirked.

"He might be refereeing the women's volleyball game," Albriech interjected. "Are you sure you don't want to join us? You look like you've got a nice serving arm." He squeezed Eragon's bicep while winking saucily.

Eragon threw up all over the sand, spewing his insides with no shame. Several of the fussier Urgals clucked disapprovingly. Wiping his lips, he staggered to his feet and saw, over the crowd, another white volleyball fly. He grabbed it, remembering what Albriech had said about the women's volleyball game, and ran in the direction it had come from.

Unfortunately he did not find Roran there. Fortunately it was a little better than the nude Urgals. Birgit, Elain, Tara, Helen and Farica, Nasuada's maid, were on one side in various states of undress. From this Eragon concluded it was strip volleyball. He approached the woman wearing the most clothes, Elain.

"Elain, what's going on here? Where's Roran?" he asked, hoping Roran might know where the mystery person had gone.

"Haven't seen him," she said without looking at him. "Do you want to give us any tips? We're losing pretty badly against the elves."

Eragon looked around. Indeed, from the very limited amount of clothing the women were wearing, it appeared that they were indeed losing. Elain was wearing only her underclothes and her shoes. Birgit was the same except without her shoes. Tara was wearing the bottom half of her negligee and nothing else. Only Helen and Farica were completely nude. Farica was covering herself, but Helen wasn't, which led Eragon to believe that she must have been disrobed for quite a long time.

"Well, this looks like fun," he smirked. "What are the rules?"

"Well, depending on who gets the point, the server on the opposite team has to-"

"Hey! Eragon should be on our team, if he's going to be on any!" cried Vanir on the other team. "We're magic users, so he should be with us!"

This might be a safer bet… they only have a few shirts off. Eragon counted the people on this team. Vanir, Islanzadi, Rheunon, Elva and Trianna were on this team. In a display of horrific injustice, Elva was missing the most clothes while Islanzadi was missing none.

"Elva, this is pedophilic!" he exclaimed. "You shouldn't be doing this!"

"I have to stop people from getting hurt," she explained, her haunting eyes watching him closely. "That's the curse you put on me… and forgot to take off after the Burning Plains, as I recall…"

"Well, never mind that," he said. "So you're the permanent server?"

"Well, almost permanent," she admitted, "and I'm not very strong, but I usually get it over." She nodded at the shivering women on the other side.

"Well, I may watch for a while," conceded Eragon, sitting down on a nearby bench. Don't forget to look for Roran, though. He analyzed the situation on the field: Helen was serving on one team, Elva on the other. It was the magic user's turn.

Elva served the ball with a strong and steady hand. It looked like it wouldn't go over, and it seemed as if a collective breath had been held. But it came over, glancing the top of the net, and fell almost straight down. But Farica made a courageous diving tackle, forgetting to cover herself for a glorious moment (at least for Eragon), and knocked it over.

Eragon realized that Jeod was sitting next to him. The man looked sad and reflective.

"What's wrong, Jeod?" he comforted. "Can't find any love?"

"No, it's not that," Jeod mused. "Have you ever wonder why my wife hated me for a while?"

"Not really."

"Well, it's because of the adventure Brom and I had in Gilead," Jeod told him. "We were looking for Saphira's egg, as you know, and Brom managed to escape. However, I was caught. They couldn't prove I did anything, but they knew I was up to something. So in the end…" He sighed. "They, er, severed a tender portion of my anatomy." A tear welled up in his eye.

Eragon rubbed his back. "There, there, I'm sure it's not so bad… actually, it probably is pretty bad. Anything I can do to help?"

Jeod smiled. "Well, perhaps there is." They began to canoodle under the bench, tittering and laughing like naughty schoolgirls. When these amorous antics had ceased, they climbed back onto the bench to watch the game. Eragon shuddered at the thought of a pecker-less man's touch.

The ball was still being served back and forth, and nobody was missing any clothes- it had been in play for a long time. Time and time again it would almost hit the sand, but Rheunon would knock it into the air with her foot or Tara would uppercut it back over the net. Eragon and Jeod were both on the edge of their seat (just one seat- it was a bench, after all), fists clenched with anticipation.

Finally Elain, with a mighty shout, leaped into the air and struck the ball. It almost hit the ceiling, then came down. Islanzadi and Trianna both ran for it, but ran into each other and fell over with an inelegant crash. Vanir was too far away. But Elva surprised everybody by punching the ball up from underneath. It barely cleared the net and fell straight down again. With a gasp of horror, Birgit lunged for it. But it was too late. It had struck sand. And it was Helen's turn.

"I don't get it," Eragon said with confusion to Jeod as Helen began to weep with shame. "She's already naked. What more can she do?"

"Normally, she would be tied to one of the posts and left there for… er… others' convenience," coughed Jeod, looking embarrassed. "But the referee devised a new rule. Any player who wishes to avoid their next step can do him a- a favor, and put it off. But they can only put off each step once."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Eragon said, feeling relieved. "But who's the referee? Not you?"


Eragon looked to his other side and saw Glaedr lying on his back, watching Helen come nervously closer to him. Glaedr? How can you… how…

"UGH! This is foul!" he yelled, getting up. "I'm not watching this… sick… depraved… depravity and sickness! I'm out of here!"

"It was just about to get good!" protested Vanir, eying Helen enthusiastically. Jeod hit him, and they got in a fight that soon degenerated into kissing. Eragon ran away as fast he could, feeling the attitude turn into that of an orgy. As he dove out, the entire volleyball court exploded in a mass of gyrating bodies and flung clothing.

"They… they never got out," he said aloud, crying.

"I did," Elva said by his side. "I don't know for sure where Roran is, but Murtagh might."

"So where's Murtagh?" asked Eragon to the little girl.

"In the gardens, I think," Elva said breathlessly, staring at Eragon. "You know, I always hated the curse you put on me… but it always reminded me of you… how wonderful you were…"

Eragon stared for a second, then turned and dashed away. He felt an inhumanly strong grip latch around his ankle, and discovered he was pulling Elva with him.

"Get- off- of- me!" he yelled, attracting everybody's attention while he ran through the crowd.

"I love you, Eragon!" wailed Elva pitifully, bracing her feet against a step that Eragon had leaped up. "I'd do anything for you! I-"

"Look, somebody about to die!" Eragon yelled for all to hear, pointing indiscriminately into the crowd. With a yelp, Elva let go of him to go save whoever it was. Seizing his chance, Eragon sprinted up the steps to the door and exited.

He was in the gardens. The sounds of couples having "fun" filled the night air, and fireflies darted between the topiary sculptures. Eragon heard his feet pad lightly on the paved path as he walked, hoping to find Murtagh somewhere.

Luckily he found his brother almost at once. Murtagh was lying on his back, shirtless on a bench, while Saphira's massive tongue slurped faelnirv off his hard, muscular abdomen. He was groaning gently, something about "don't hit me again, Father." Eragon knew he should be disgusted, but was just too desensitized at this point to care.

"Murtagh? Have you seen Roran anywhere?" Murtagh shook his head and continued to softly mutter under his breath. How about you, Saphira? SAPHIRA?

Saphira was not paying attention. Her attention was concentrated on lapping up the alcoholic feast on Murtagh's chest. Saphira! Pay attention to me! She did not.

With a growl, Eragon looked around and saw Murtagh's sword, Zar'roc, lying nearby. He pricked Saphira neatly in the haunches, inadvertently causing her to breathe fire. Unfortunately, faelnirv is a very flammable alcoholic beverage, and Murtagh ran shrieking away with his whole body in flames to douse it in the punch bowl.

Thanks a lot, the dragon groused at her rider.

That's vile anyway, Eragon thought to her. Look, do you know where Roran is?

On a balcony. Want me to fly you there? Or perhaps kowtow endlessly to you and your superior judgment?

Certainly. You can do it while we fly up to the balcony. Getting on Saphira's back, Eragon was just starting to bask in the constant praise Saphira was giving him when he saw Roran, roaring wildly while standing on top of a pile of something. Giving Saphira the order, Eragon flew down to the balcony, got off his dragon and walked up to Roran.

"Roran? Hello? Roran?" he called.

Roran was not paying attention. The pile he was standing on turned out to be a stacked heap of dead bodies. Brom, Garrow, the Twins, the Ra'zac, Galbatorix, Ajihad, Hrothgar, the dead baby from Yazuac, those who had died in the Battle for Carvahall, all the dead extras from all the other fights… they were all in there. Dwarves, elves, Urgals, Kull and humans alike were scurrying up the pile to fight him, but he struck them dead with his hammer.

"Now I have killed two thousand, eight hundred and sixty-three!" he hollered. Eragon found this figure rather unlikely, seeing as the pile his cousin was standing on was only about five or six feet high, but he declined comment. "Now I have killed eighty million! Now infinity to the eight thousandth power times three! Bring on the dead!" he screamed, fondling a corpse lovingly. Eragon shuddered. "Hey, you're not dead yet!" Roran shrieked, lunging at his cousin.

Eragon neatly sidestepped the lunge and Roran ran right off the balcony, screaming all the way. He landed on a pile of bodies that had been thrown off the balcony and got to his feet, howling obscenities at Eragon for "interfering." Sighing at the insanity that was unfolding around him, Eragon got back on Saphira.

Well, do you know where that person was? The person I was telling you about?

At the top of the tower. Hang on, said Saphira, and began to pump her wings. Eragon saw many strange sights along the balconies as he flew. Orrin, the king of Surda, was spinning in a circle with wild glee while members of the Varden on pogo sticks bounced around him. The dwarves that had escorted him partway to Ellesmera were writhing in an orgy, making ample use of Shrrgnien's "fists of steel." Rolf, Jeod's butler, was reverently rubbing baby oil into the surface of the Menoa tree, which had somehow relocated itself. It was surreal to see so much wanton sexuality. Eragon remembered how limited a sexual education he had received in Carvahall, and then the rather explicit one he had received from Brom on their journey to find the Ra'zac. Good times, he thought.

They soon reached the top of the tower, and Eragon hopped off Saphira's back when they reached the landing. Will they be here? Have I found this person at last? After a night of such rampant debauchery, will I find true love?

I hope so, little one, Saphira said warmly, nuzzling him with her jaw. By the way, do you know why I call you 'little one?'

Why? Eragon asked, dreading the answer.

One night I watched you and Brom, and I have to say, you are very-

SHUT UP! Eragon mentally hollered, stomping away from his dragon. I'm plenty well endowed!

Only because you got made half-elf, sneered Saphira as she flew away. Fuming, Eragon stormed through the door to his destiny.

It was dark at first, with only a few torches lit. With a mutter of "brisingr," Eragon lit the rest. He was in a circular stone room with a four-poster bed in one corner. Somebody was standing in the middle of the room.

Eragon stepped cautiously forward in the dim light. After all this searching, would he finally get his prize? Would he finally receive justice for seeing his wife have sex with a dragon, his cousin try to kill him, the dead bodies of people he knew and love be defiled, and a small girl try to molest him? He had been hit with all sorts of horrible knowledge. His dragon knew how small he had been. His mother had been a cheap sex slave. Jeod's willy was no more. He had seen people naked that he really would rather not have seen at all. He deserved compensation! He deserved glory! Now, at long last, a non-freakish relationship was in sight!

"Is that you, my dear?" he called softly. The figure did not respond. With a trembling hand he turned the figure around.

It was a statue of himself, nude, made out of the pieces of the Isidar Mithrim. The cracks were crudely covered with mud, and its hand was precariously close to falling off. But it was the most glorious thing Eragon had ever seen.

"My darling," he murmured as he cast himself into his own arms. They fell to the bed and made passionate love. They lay there for a while, and Eragon thought to himself, I'm the luckiest man alive. I really am. To be with the one I love… what more could I ask for?

Hmmm… maybe two statues.


Please review and tell me what you thought of this ungodly story.