The Natives: The Prequel(An Eragon FanFiction)

1| Nuoli

"A hatchling, that is what you are. A hatchling struggling into the world. I may be younger than you in years, but I am ancient in my thoughts. Do not worry about these things. Find peace in where and what you are. People often know what must be done. All you need to do is show them the way - that is wisdom. As for feats, no army could have given the blessing you did."

- Saphira to Eragon

Continent: Alalëa

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Eryn

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I was immobile atop the gray boulder, still as the stone beneath me. Strung in my arms, a crisp wooden bow I had fashioned myself.

My knees were bent, the space between my feet even enough so that the boulder would not unbalance me, my right hand and the string of the bow cushioned against my cheek.

The rivets of the string bit harshly into my skin as I patiently observed the prey in which I stalked. I shifted my weight slightly, leaning against the right sole of my foot. The doe had not taken notice of me, crouching on the boulder. I had remained motionless for many minutes in the same position, patiently waiting for the doe's trust when I would take aim and shoot.

She had stared, wide eyed and ears perked, when I had first approached, but now she was bent over, grinding grass between her teeth.

Slowly, I closed my left eye, my breath becoming heavy and exhausted from clutching the string's weight for such a lengthy amount of time. I looked down the arrow, past the tip pointed at the beige furred chest of the doe.

Goodbye doe, maybe you won't be as trustful in the next life.

I released the tension on the string, releasing the grip on the swan feathered withers of the arrow. With an ominous sound, the arrow split the silence, with a high pitched whoosh as it sliced the air.

The point of the arrow embedded itself behind the doe's shoulder blade with a sloshing thud. Her eyes became wide and frightened, pain erupting from the point of the arrow. Crimson droplets sprayed from the incision and the doe's knees buckled beneath her. She collapsed to her side, her life's blood spilling on the soil pumping from the wound.

I caused her no pain, for I had struck her in the heart, I was positive. My technique never failed me, I always hit where I aimed. And although I caused her no pain, at least long term, her body writhed for moments after the impact, the grass beneath her corpse becoming stained and drenched in her blood.

The metallic smell of her blood filled my lungs, my throat constricting. I fought back the urge to vomit and stood, my knees cracking and calves screaming. I ignored my body's yelps and hopped off the boulder, stringing my bow diagonally across my chest.

As I approached the doe my buffalo hide boots became drenched with the crimson stains, flooding the soles and fur padding within. This time I did vomit. Turning in the opposite direction, I collapsed on my knees and forearms and purged, though it was short.

After I vomited, my stomach felt less queasy; I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, the black leather gauntlet that was fashioned around my middle finger catching the undesirable remnants of my purge. My mouth was left with an awful taste on my tongue and a burning, acid like sensation in the back of my throat. I ignored this.

I knelt next to the corpse, swiftly turning my head and spitting in the opposite direction. I clutched the arrow withers in my palm, between my fingers, and yanked, a perturbing squish emanating from the doe's body. The once white swan feathers that made the withers were now crimson, I would have to replace them. I cleaned the arrowhead with a bloody cloth, then returned it to my quiver.