dragons portend an ill-omen. cold, spectral fingers dance up his spine, and there is a new anxious edge to his figure. the more beatrize talks, the more he realizes that it truly was a poor decision to take their break here - but if they hadn't, gods only know who or what would have tried to claw them from the sky, or what other dangerous and constricting place would have been waiting for them. despite her wariness, which is well deserved and of common sense, eragon can find reassurance in the fact that she seems halfway reasonable, not so quick to separate his head from his shoulders. such a thing would give her more problems than it would solve, though he figures, with the way she speaks of dragons, it would not serve him well to make mention of the consequences of such actions. he did not want her to think him the kind to threaten.
the title of warden-commander catches his attention. he has heard fleeting whispers of the grey wardens, though not enough to garner what their cause was or what they stood for. he will ask her more later, assuming he survives this interaction. " there is no offense. you've people to protect, a home to keep safe. i cannot fault you for your caution, " eragon replies, and though there is no warmth, neither is their any stiffness, resentment. she is only doing her job. when she rises from her seat, eragon watches, stares; there is no tense or coiled threat in her movements or the way she approaches, but just as it serves her no misfortune to be cautious, neither does it cost him anything. " we were headed east. we are β¦ looking for something. nothing pertaining to ferelden, if it soothes you. "
eragon rubs his wrists once they are free of the shackles; they do not ache, were not bound long enough to become raw or sore, but still does he fidget out of habit. " her name is saphira. " there is a note of fondness to the statement, and his voice takes on the lilt of an individual speaking about a friend, a loved one, rather than a pet. " she hatched for me - what was it, ten years ago? or has it been eleven, now? " from his tone and the way his focus shifts past beatrize, it seems almost as though he is asking someone else - someone not currently present, someone distant and listening. after a second, eyes snap back to beatrize, and he continues without faltering, " ten years. not quite as impressive as twenty-two, but we'll get there. she is my dragon, and i am her rider, and i assure you, while she is not harmless, she was not bred for war. "
he thinks about thorn. about murtagh. eragon's ears flatten slightly. he can't help it. " no dragon should be. bred for war, i mean. where we are from - " he stops abruptly, the name on the top of his tongue dissipating before he can speak it aloud. saphira, jabbing against him, warning him to be careful about what he might say, as if he wasn't already well aware. " where we are from, dragons are not beasts. they are not omens. they are intelligent as you or i, and though it changes nothing of the way things are here, i have never known them - those from home, anyway - to be bad luck. i don't know what has happened here, but i'm sorry that it has, beatrize-elda. "
and then, eragon glances towards furdinand, looks at the mabari for a moment, before asking, " what's his name? "