Andlátkyn; Vandr Sanses unin Alagaësia

Clanmeet

Error watched in boredom as Eragon sped out of the chamber in a huff, the boy's young mind impatient and frustrated.

At some point, Error was sure he could have related to Eragon's annoyance, but that certainly would have been a long, long time ago. Impatience had been beaten from him before Alagaësia existed, he was sure.

The thought of a world he had become so familiar with not even existing yet when he was still someone full of rage sort of filled him with melancholy. It wasn't the fact that he had once been a hateful creature and had missed the chance to show Alagaësia what he once was, no, not at all. He wanted nothing of the kind. It was more of the idea that he was such a lesser being than what he once was, and had been such for so, so long.

A peep from a gradually waking Fresh snapped Error from his musings.
How are you feeling? He asked the little one with a tender smile.
Fresh blinked, a hand latching to a red phalange. Sleepy. He answered with a shake, baring his black fangs in a wide yawn.

We can have the rest of the day to ourselves instead. Error explained softly, watching as Fresh idly toyed with his phalange.
What would you like to do?
Fresh glanced at the gathered mortals continuing their discussions around them.
Fish. I haven't had fish and potatoes. I want potatoes.
You're hungry?
For potatoes.
Alright, then.

He quickly teleported away, reappearing in the hall and making his way through Tronjheim. He walked slowly, wanting to appreciate the carved surroundings while he was able to, too tired to walk needlessly faster than necessary. Fresh seemed to share the sentiment, wriggling out of the pack he'd been kept in and getting comfortable in Error's arms, flicking his tongues to taste the air.

For the most part, he ignored the dwarves that parted before him like the red sea, murmuring in fear and awe, many of the whispers being "etalthargen" and "carhrestvog".

He only understood one that meant skeleton in the dwarven tongue. Fresh was the one to explain that it was the dwarven word for Destroyer.
Error wasn't sure how to feel about that.
They knew what he was, but did he want them to?

What exactly are they debating in dere, anyways? Fresh piped up from his seat in Error's arms. He glanced down, somewhat shocked to know his own son was paying so little attention.

Well. Dûrgrimst Knurlcarathn is one of the runners that has me most concerned. Nado seems vehemently opposed to our presence and every other race that is not a dwarf in the Beors. He's backed by clans Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, Feldûnost, and Fanghur and currently holds the most votes.

Dat ain't good. Fresh noted serenely, kicking. He grabbed one of his feet in a sort of stretch and looked up at Error. We both know Orik's gonna win.
..We do, but it would be rude to ignore everything else because of our knowledge.

They found themselves entering a short cafeteria, Error forced to crouch through the doorway due to his incredible height.
Potatoes! Fresh leaned forward excitedly, ignoring the silence that passed through the dwarves upon their arrival, the hall instead echoing with his plaintive chirping.

He quietly asked for fish and potatoes from one dwarf maiden that stared up at him with bulging eyes before scurrying away to the kitchen.
Error was getting used to it.

Sure, he didn't like it, but it was a far cry from being attacked on sight, after all. If anyone or anything dared to threaten him, he'd still not care- not unless his Fresh was targeted. He cared for the dwarves, but if anyone so much as came within 6 yards of him with an intent to harm his child, they would be dead before they hit the floor.