Andlátkyn; Vandr Sanses unin Alagaësia

Roran

A lone, haggard human dragged his feet up a hill, squinting at the sun heading for the horizon.

Five hours till sunset. I won't be able to stay long. He sighed, continuing past long grass and a series of elms.
His first visit since he and seven others had salvaged everything they could from the wreckage of the house and ashes of the barn.

He stood, rooted in place, shaking every once in a while from memories as he studied the fields of dandelions, wild mustard, grass, beets and turnips that had once been a farm. He was filled with grief.

Groaning, he turned away and headed back to the road, quickly becoming lost in thought. He blamed his cousin, the boy named Eragon, for the destruction and death of his father, Garrow. Because Eragon had brought a blue stone out of the Spine, attracting a dangerous pair of individuals, the bastards destroying everything he treasured and murdering his father.

That wasn't even what ticked him off.
It was the fact that Eragon had simply left. Taking off after the old, scatterbrained storyteller named Brom on some ridiculous journey, Brom having left Gertrude the healer in town a letter that just sounded so preposterous.

And then, there was the matter of rebuilding that farm so he could marry whom he loved. A butcher's daughter named Katrina. He had never been on best terms with her father, Sloan. Rebuilding his barn and home was going to be difficult, most certainly, but he was going to do it.

He arrived at a small village in the evening, a grouping of structures with clotheslines strung between them, fields of wheat surrounding them. A great waterfall cascaded down behind it in the distance, providing a beautiful backdrop to the ordinary village.

Singling out a house on a hill, he sauntered inside the already open door, entering the kitchen. Horst, his heavily pregnant wife Elain, and two sons by the names of Albriech and Baldor noticed his entrance.
"What's going on?" The guest asked.
Elain glanced at her husband before getting up. "Here, let me get you something to eat." She placed cold stew and bread at the table and stared the newcomer in the eyes.
"How was it?"

He shrugged. "All the wood was either burnt or rotting- nothing worth using. The well was still intact, and that's something to be grateful for, I suppose. I'll have to cut timber for the house as soon as possible if I'm going to have a roof over my head by planting season. Now tell me, what's happened?"
"Ha! There's been quite a row, there has." Horst began. "Thane is missing a scythe and he thinks Albriech took it."
Said person snorted. "He probably dropped it in the grass and forgot where he left it."
His father smiled. "Probably."

The newcomer bit into his bread. "It doesn't make much sense, accusing you." He told Albriech. "If you needed a scythe, you could just forge one."
"I know." He plopped into a chair. "But instead of looking for his, he starts grousing that he saw someone leaving his field and that it looked a bit like me… and since no one else looks like me, I must have stolen the scythe."

Which was true. Albriech was a large man with blonde hair, a trait being rare in Carvahall, this village. He got it from his mother.
"I'm sure it'll turn up." The other, quieter son spoke up. "Try not to get too angry over it in the meantime."
Albriech scoffed. "Easy for you to say."
The guest, Roran, finished the bread and started on the stew, addressing Horst. "Do you need me for anything tomorrow?"
"Not especially. I'll just be working on Quimby's wagon. The blasted frame still won't sit square."
"Good. Then I'll take the day and go hunting. There are a few deer farther down the valley that don't look too scrawny. Their ribs aren't showing, at least."
Baldor was suddenly excited. "Do you want some company?"
"Sure. We can leave at dawn."
Roran then stood, cleaning off his face and hands before leaving and heading for the center of town.