Andlátkyn; Vandr Sanses unin Alagaësia

Attack on Helgrind

Cicállaé returned to themselves uneasy that morning, both halves unsettled by the events they'd both witnessed and heard of from Error surrounding the strange skeleton that was Abyss.

That new and mysterious god had collided his and many other's fates with their own, becoming hopelessly entangled as he bombarded them with a sudden onslaught of unraveling mystery, every single answer leading only to a dozen other questions.
Abyss, or Soul, be as it may, was a conundrum, an annoying curiosity that begged their attention even when a world away.
It was aggravating.

Ignoring the troubling thoughts, the treeskeleton faced the humans, the trio (technically five) all regarded each other.

"If I die," Roran broke the silence, addressing mostly Eragon. "Will you see to Katrina?"
"I shall." Replied the Rider.
"Tell her that I went into battle with joy in my heart and her name upon my lips."
"We shall." This time Nightmare answered, solemnly dipping their skull at the honorable man.

Eragon quietly cast a spell before addressing Roran. "There. That will filter the air in front of us and protect us from the paralyzing effects of the Ra'zac's breath."

Then the humans began to outfit themselves in the still filthy armor they'd worn just days ago in the battle of the Burning Plains. They reeked of dead, a faint odor of rot floating about them, almost drowned by the pungent smell of sweat and undercurrents of fear.

The god of emotion bore Dream's armor, something adjusted to fit on bones snugly as a barrier to prevent breaks, chainmail guarding their ribs as padded bracers and greaves protected their armbones and legbones, particularly the more fragile sections of the ulna, radius, and fibulas.

Their slinging weapons wrapped around their limbs, loaded and ready to launch the arrowhead at the Ra'zac and Lethrblaka, despite it being likely to be useless due to wards. They held Blädrsolus and Arget Sundava in both hands, grinning savagely for a moment before putting them away and preparing for flight.

When Eragon slung his strung bow onto his back, Cicállaé took their packs and stored them in their inventory, hopping into the air as they darted to the rim of the gulch, standing there with limbs arranged like wings, waiting for Saphira.
She wasn't far behind, shale shattering beneath her talons as she leapt after them, perching on the same rim of the hollow, wings entirely vertical before she shot into the air, wings whooshing as she gave a tremendous flap, angling towards Helgrind.

The treeskeleton followed, flapping frantically as they fell in a little behind and below the dragon, a rather poor flier due to the composition of the wings. They peered across the great lake that was Leona, grey mists drifting across it's chilled surface timelessly. They noted a considerable surge of grief and rage from Eragon as they boy stared out at the passing landscape.

It occurred to Nightmare; this was the area that Brom died. The place where he and the first of those that landed in Alagaësia first arrived.
It filled the merged god with a profound sense of awe and nostalgia, tainted slightly by the depressive situation of the time.

They flew onward, the sun flaring to life upon the rim of the world, the golden rays landing on the trees and distant city of Dras-Leona and setting the mists of the lake alight in white, the waters themselves an introspective blue. Helgrind stood before them, as black as ever in spite of the grey tinge of ice on it's razor edges, reflecting faintly the gold of the sun on its blackened cliffs.

Saphira went vertical on her wings as she spun around the dark stone, diving downward to give Eragon a view of the altar, of which Cicállaé could see easily.
The slaves were gone.

This concluded, the team tilted back and flew upwards, hunting for an opening in the dark mountain, looping around like swallows. Nothing living grew or lived on the bleak ledges, the mountain standing true to it's name.