Eragon stood on the rise of a hill, contemplating his life. Brisingr was in his hand, the hilt cool and smooth under his fingers. He didn't know why he had drawn the sword, but something had told him to. The warm wind rustled around him, making his cloak and hair sway faintly. He wore dark cream breaches tucked into high polished black leather boots, a high-necked dark cream shirt that was tightened at the cuffs, a brown leather jerkin laced securely down the chest, black gloves, Brom's ring, Aren, a thick black leather belt, a long high-necked deep sapphire blue cloak with silver-stitched dragon scales on the bottom, and a silver circlet under his ruffled hair. His slanted eyes surveyed the land far below him with a keen gaze. His head raised as he heard the beating of giant wings far over head. He bent his knees to stay standing as he was buffeted by the gusts Saphira's wings stirred up. She landed heavily beside him.
Little one, she said, nudging him with her nose.