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modern-inheritance · 3 years

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What are some headcanons/MIC Canon things about Arya as a kid?

Soooo many! Unfortunately my brain isn't cooperating now (or for the weeks since you asked this, sorry for the delay Books!!) but I've put in the ones that stick out the most. I'll definitely revisit this and add more via reblogs as time goes on!!

Young Modern Inheritance!Arya

Arya frequently climbed out of windows and into the trees instead of leaving via doors. It drove Islanzadí crazy, since if there was an argument between them and she was distracted in any way for a millisecond Arya would scamper out the window with a parting shot and wouldn’t be back for hours.

Glaedr frequently compared Arya to (and called her) a wild hatchling. Oromis and others who had contact with dragon hatchlings tended to agree with that comparison.

Arya played with Faolin a lot, forming a strong friendship with him well before she left for the Varden. He was around 4-5 years older than her and lived in one of the smaller villages not far from Ellesméra’s outskirts. While not quite as much of a wild child as Arya, they both were rambunctious and got into all sorts of adventures and trouble together when they weren’t occupied with lessons. They tended to spend nights outside just to keep playing in the morning.

Young Arya hated brussel sprouts. Like it was a physical fight for islanzadi to get her to eat them. But if Oromis made them, she’d eat them. Neither Arya nor Islanzadi know why his tasted better.

It’s hit on in The Promise, but smol Arya seemed to have two different almost personas. The first is when she’s with her mother out in public: Quiet, wide eyed and drinking in everything around her, always trailing a respectful step or two behind. Paolini mentions in his (I think) Post-Brisingr audiobook interview that one of the reasons Arya is so quiet at times is because her mother would speak for her when she was younger, overruling or speaking over her (I think he was saying Islanzadí was extroverted while Arya was just naturally more introverted). Islanzadí in MIC does the same, but Arya balances this by approaching people directly when her mother isn’t around to speak her mind, set the record straight, and started doing this from a very young age. When able to be herself, young Arya was a wild child, asking questions, climbing all over everything, making things.

Arya was taught primarily by Oromis and Glaedr in general education as well as swordplay, but much of her swordplay was taught by Brom and she developed her own initial style by mixing theirs while practicing on her own. Her firearms training was more taught by Brom and a few other elves.

Rhunön learned pretty quick that she couldn’t chase Arya out of the forge. She mostly let Arya watch as she worked, occasionally letting her help with refueling the forge, making charcoal, and other small tasks before teaching the kid how to do basic repairs on equipment. As a side note, Rhunön was the one who helped develop Arya and Elf Squad’s spidersilk jackets. In Arya’s case she also implemented the remains of a very battered armored leather jacket that someone in the Varden had gifted her. Rhunön has a soft spot for Arya, but she’s not ever going to admit it. Arya learned a LOT of mechanical and engineering stuff from Rhunön as a kid, leading to her future successes in sabotaging Broddring artillery and helping build artillery for the Varden and helping to maintain some of the remaining dwarvish tanks that the Varden had at their disposal.

It’s not solid yet, and not exactly young Arya, but there is some sort of relationship between Islanzadí’s side of the family and one of the Forsworn. I’m not trying to be cliché! Lords-of-the-Empire had a good idea for it and it’s been in the works a long time to iron out the cliché bits. No promises on when or if that will ever be out.

As mentioned in The Promise, Arya constantly followed Brom around when he would come back to Ellesméra. Asking him stuff about the war both current and past, examining his gear, getting stuff like books and materials from him from the outside world, and as she got older they would spend hours talking out the most recent issues mechanical and political that were plaguing the Varden.

Arya’s skill with teleportation spells started young. Young elves and elflings are very strongly connected to magic, their emotions and states of mind occasionally bleeding out through subconscious spells (Again seen in The Promise). Arya’s first (accidental) use of the spell nearly killed her, and to prevent such an accident from happening again Oromis taught her the theory behind it and the words so that it would be less likely to slip. Despite her age Arya understood it and, after years of carefully supervised practice, became a master at pinpoint teleportation. Which is why she’s so miffed about ‘messing up’ when Saphira’s egg appeared to Eragon, and relieved when it was later shown to be meddling that caused the massive deviation.

Glaedr occasionally ‘babysat’ for a toddler/young Arya. It reminded him of watching over the hatchlings during the Rider years, especially with the girl’s wild streak.

Thanks for the ask as always, Books!! :D Always appreciate your support and questions!! I'll definitely keep adding to this as time goes on, so keep an eye out!

#Modern Inheritance #inheritance cycle #eragon #the cyclists #Ket's Modern Inheritance Cycle #arya #arya drottningu #young arya #oromis #glaedr #islanzadi #queen islanzadi #modern inheritance lore #modern inheritance ask #modern inheritance asks #Books

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thebluemoonwolf · 3 years

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The Inheritance Cycle as Guardians

Ive been playing a lot of Destiny 2 and have also been rereading The Inheritance Cycle so this came into being. I'm fulfilling a niche, and that niche is just me. Sorry in advance I only did a few characters.

Eragon: rezed on earth, in a abandoned town somewhere in the country. He is an old light practicing both warlock and titan aspects. He is the type that probably hung with Saladin and his Iron Wolves, for a time at least. Otherwise he kept to himself. Saphira, his ghost, uses the Knights Peace Shell. Refuses to rez him for a week when he titan smashed into the side of a cliff trying to kill a Kell. The aftershock is the only thing that saved him.

Murtagh: he is a new light, found on earth in a desert. He died about five times trying to outrun some fallen. He learned how to hide his tracks soon after that,, with his ghost help of course. He is a hunter and specializes using solar, he's a gunslinger through and through. His ghost, Thorn, uses the Crimson Shell. They get along well and Thorn enjoys bring sent on missions by zavala. Thorn and Targe gossip about their Guardians to each other.

Angela: 100% one of the first warlock risen. Uses all classes and switches to what she needs. Her ghost, Solembum, uses the Nine Lives Shell. She practices in Thanatonaut. She keeps to herself and usually hangs around the old Ishtar collectives to see what information she can pull from the golden age. Currently she only comes by the tower whenever Eva Lavante is holding an event or holiday. They get along very well. Her ghost is often seen with her, but he can sometimes venture out on his own while she is busy looting old golden age tech on Venus.

Arya: An awoken, as well as a new light. Her ghost found her around old Cabal rigs in the EDZ and it seems like the place she died in suffered from a cabal attack. She specializes using Nightstalker, "The Way of The Trapper". Her ghost, Fírnen, uses the Bursting Wisdom Shell. They get along well, but Fírnen often corrects her fighting style and hates how she goes off alone without a fireteam deep in the Cosmodrome. Fírnen really hates the hive and does his best to Protect Arya when the wizards start to sing.

Oromis: A distributary born Awoken. His body was found deep in the jungle of vex overrun Venus. He is one of the Risen, and made his way out of hostile Venus with a trashy jumpship that crash landed somewhere around old Chicago. The crash had killed him, his ghost, Glaedr, who uses the Alchemical Dawn Shell revived him quickly enough only for Oromis to be overrun by a swarm of hive thralls. He is a solar warlock that uses Dawnblade Specifically "Well of Radiance". He also practices in the Thanatonaut and tries to figure out the way of the world through his death dreams. He at one point, climbed Felwinters peak much to his ghost annoyance. He keeps to himself, but his favorite place to be is the Ishtar academy on Venus. He often thinks about things back in the golden age, how they could of been and what made everything go so horribly wrong. He had an interest in Ahamkaras, and when Guardians had to kill them he stepped away from the city and the tower completely. He meet Osiris and at one point they had often shared information. When Osiris consumed himself with the vex, Oromis respected that and left the man to his devices. Glaedr and Sagira are the best of friends and Sagira often comes around to see how they are doing.

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Some vocabulary for my Inheritance Cycle peeps who I doubt know what I'm talking about lol

Ghost: a little fancy robot who was created to find their specific guardian. (Kinda like how a dragon bonds with someone, except these people can't die permanently)

Rezed: the action your ghost does to revive your horrifically dead body. Not even being blown to atoms will stop your ghost from rezing you.

Titan: a type of Guardian class that specializes in heavy hitting. They use all fists and no brain. Ironically the best titans are military commanders.

Warlock: a type of guardian class that specializes in the mind. They believe everything is linked. They often are associated with bookworms.

Hunters: a type of Guardian class that specializes in close combat. They are silent, quick, and deadly. Hunters are loners and don't stick to groups. They are known to travel alone but are the best at knowing how to kick back and cause havoc.

Awoken: A type of human that was affected by some weird dark and light hababaloo that caused them to turn blue and live in a place nobody else but them can touch. So basically, space elves.

Distributary: the birthplace of the Awoken. Only they know where this place is, and nobody but them can visit it. (Ellesméra)

Void, solar, arc: types of Guardian subclasses that people choose from. They are abilities born from using their ghost and the light.

Kell: A big ol blue alien that has quite literally eaten way too much and is way too strong and overgrown. Headbuttting a Kell causes a guardian to break their neck, the biggest ones have four arms.

Vex: evil robots, nobody knows where they originally came from or how they were created.

Hive: evil... things. They were found on the moon originally and their only purpose is to end guardian life to feed the life essence that controls them, their worms.

Thanatonaut: When a guardian dies, sometimes they get visions. Maybe it's visions of the future or merely dreams of their past life, nobody knows. Warlocks often partake in this to try and get a better understanding of the world, so with the help of their ghost they kill themselves over and over until they get a vision. Usually this upsets the person's ghost but they are also usually compliant.

New/old light/risen: The name for a specific generation of Guardians. The Risen were the first among earth and often didn't pick any specific class to call themselves so it was a mix of abilities. Old lights are just old, but not as old as risen. They have picked a class and stuck to it. New lights are usually within their first few years of Guardian work.

Ishtar Collective: A database in the game, full of old human knowledge before the Guardians. It has all been lost or destroyed, nobody knows why but the ruins still exist in game.

Iron Wolves: A form of Risen who helped early settlers of humans stay safe and usually warded off other Risen who meant people harm.

Ahamkara: Special types of dragons who made their home on early Venus. They usually hung out with the Awoken, but these dragons make your desire a reality. The bigger you wish the bigger they grow. They are a massive "Monkey's paw. Hunted to extinction after the Awoken found out how bad it was to deal with them, Guardians usually keep their bones as trophies.

Felwinters peak: A place at the top of a very high mountain. Guardians climbed up it often. They died a lot on the way up and often frozen to death. Fun times really.

#destiny 2 #destiny #d2 #inheritance cycle #destiny the game #eragon #the inheritance cycle #oromis #Angela #Murtagh #Arya #Oromis is the longest of course #thanks for reading evem tho most dont know this game #dw I gave yall vocab at the end to help yall understand better #rablings of a destiny player #if anyone in the destiny community also read The Inheritance Cycle hit me up please

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weirdponytail · 5 years

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Art Therapy, pt 1 UPDATED (Modern Inheritance Cycle Short)

MODERN INHERITANCE ART THERAPY, PT. 1 Islanzadi paused at the door, inspecting it as one would inspect a patch of earth suspected of concealing a minefield. It was too early in the morning to be called late, but too late in the night to be called early. While it wasn’t unusual for the queen’s daughter to be up at this hour due to recent events and their lingering after effects, it was unusual for the light to be on. Islanzadi could see it now, a faint line beneath the door. Two conflicting beams, the soft red glow of a teardrop lantern and a bright slash of white light, settled across the mossy floor at her feet. Islanzadi did not hesitate out of fear. A mother did not, should not, fear facing her own daughter. She told herself that she hesitated out of respect. This was Arya’s room, her sanctum, after all. She called it a ‘base of operations’ in a close-to-home joke, the place she always returned to if she disappeared into the night to fight her inner demons side by side with old fyrn breoal. After everything that had happened the queen was loath to breach one more place of peace for her daughter. Then again, it would not be the first time Islanzadi had entered in the dead of night, once more attuned to the natural instincts of a mother when her child is in danger. Finding her daughter curled in a corner with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees was painful, and the nights the queen had to wake the younger elf from the clutches of her dreams were worse. The light on was something new. Something that she did not know how to react to. If Arya was awake then she didn’t want to intrude. But if she was having trouble again…. Islanzadi carefully opened the door, just enough to peer inside. Like many nights before, the queen saw that the bed was still made, corners tucked tight in the strict, military efficiency that Arya had picked up in years spent alongside Varden soldiers. A sleeping bag was on the floor beside the bed with a spare blanket bunched at its end from restless sleep. The makeshift indoor camp was lit by the teardrop lantern on the nightstand above, cast in strange, ruddy shadows. Compared to the gentle glow of the lantern the white light was almost startling. A simple white werelight hovered just above the knotted, cup-like roots of the stand at Arya’s desk, bobbing and turning lightly with the imperceptible changes in the air. Islanzadi breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she didn’t even realize she was holding in. Arya had an arm folded on the desk and her head rested on it, her left hand laid over a page and pencil still loosely in her relaxed grip. The woman had fallen asleep in the middle of her work. With soft footsteps the queen padded into the room. It wouldn’t do to sleep in such a way. As she reached out to gently wake the younger elf though, the sight of what scattered the desk gave her pause. What had to be over a dozen sketches littered the usually tidy surface. Islanzadi had known that Arya often drew when her mind was troubled, but she had never seen the results for herself. As gently as she could Islanzadi collected the papers together, curious at what had driven her daughter to such a late hour. Brom started back at her from the first page, gruff around the eyes and holding his pipe up to his lips. The hard line of his jaw gave the impression that he had clamped his teeth down on the pipestem, soft clouds of smoke wafting up around his nose. It was the face of a man who was thinking and grumbling to himself in equal measure, but there was a softness to it that led Islanzadi to believe that whatever was giving him such trouble was something he deeply cared about. One was of a campsite. Brom was still present, perched on a rock with his ever-present pipe in hand and using it as a pointer as he called criticism to the two young men that danced around the burned down fire at the center of camp. One was obviously Eragon, Zar’roc a sudden streak of pastel red in an image that was dominated by only two other shades: the ebony of the pencil and the expanse of shaded blue that made up Saphira where she crouched beside Brom. The other man was unfamiliar to the elvish queen, but she suspected the lean youth with near-black hair and hand-and-half sword was Murtagh. Islanzadi’s chest tightened when she shifted to the next page. It, and the one following, were done in what appeared to be frantic, almost manic motions. Most of the paper was dominated by deep grey, walls and barred windows all almost black cut through by patches of startling crimson red and the pearly, muddied white of a single light fixture high on the wall. The floor was a cooler tone but puddled with the thick red pastel, which collected under the iron cot and shredded, sooty sheets. It was one of several views from a personal hell. A view from the corner. And then it was a portrait again, another from frozen memories of travel. The light silvery tones that dripped from the foliage signaled an early morning, but half of the occupants of the work were were asleep. Eragon lay sprawled comfortably beside Saphira, one of her wings draped over his form. Above him, the dragon was watching him carefully, as a mother would a sleeping cub, her gaze protective and gentle all at once. Another page almost overtaken by dark ebony. A sliver of moon cast the starless sky into faintly silvered darkness, reflected by the path below. Trees arced and bent over the strip of earth, monstrous shapes boiling up from between their trunks. At the end of the path, a lone figure wreathed in ghostly red tendrils that coiled up and around their body like ethereal smoke. Glenwing was next in the line of art, and beside him, arm tossed casually over his shoulders in friendly companionship, was Fäolin. Both were smiling, laughter playing at their lips. Fäolin had his free hand around the neck of a bottle of dwarvish beer, and by the fading background it was clear that the memory took place in a bar. Even without color the neon of the signs flickered and hummed, bringing a sense of welcome despite the clear signs around that indicated that the war was never far away. Saphira’s egg, the edges of the carry bag that was her home for over two decades puddled around the base. A gentle pulse of life and warmth in the blue and white that decorated the marbled surface. A glow of hope, all contained inside a single layer of shell. A view from the branches of the Menoa Tree, looking down at the sprawling expanse of roots that raced away from the great monarch of the forest. Light played through the needles above, pinpricks of dappled sunlight that strained to reach the forest floor. Eragon, his forehead pressed against Saphira’s snout as the Rider and dragon shared a moment of quiet peace. The rigid hold of his far shoulder compared to the slope of the other indicated it was not long after the battle for Farthen Dur, a time of chaos, tumult and new realities. It made the frozen scene of simple yet deeply primal comfort that smoothed over Eragon's features that much more poignant. Reminded those that saw it that he was still a growing youth and Saphira was not yet a year old, yet they had been thrown into a world that required, demanded their lives for the sake of millions of others. “One of these days we will give each other a heart attack.” Islanzadi couldn’t suppress the sudden jerk of surprise at her daughter’s bleary words. The younger elf lifted her head and stretched, tossing down her pencil as she did. Arya winced when the light of the white werelight caught her eyes, and with a tap on the floating orb the color changed to the same muted red as the lantern on the nightstand. “I was going to suggest you move to your bed before you strained your neck.” The queen gave her daughter a slightly forced, gentle smile, heart still fluttering at the start. Arya nodded, still appearing half asleep as she rose from her desk and tapped off the light. She waved groggily over her shoulder to indicate to her mother that she was fine before she tumbled onto the bed, not bothering with the covers. It was a good sign. The younger elf was heavily in sleep debt as it was, and Islanzadi did not want to be the source of another night of under four hours of rest. Islanzadi placed the stack of sketches back on the desk with a newfound reverence before following Arya towards the bed. She gathered up the discarded blanket on the floor and draped it over the woman’s body, smiling again at the muffled mumble of “Thanks, mum.” that drifted from where Arya had buried her head under the pillow. She touched the lantern by the bed, lowering its intensity till it winked out. Gently pulled the door shut behind her. And gave a very quiet, very tired, sigh of relief.

#modern inheritance #modern inheritance cycle #inheritance cycle #modern inheritance story #Inheritance Cycle fanfiction #fanfic #eragon fanfic #modern eragon #arya drottningu #islanzadi #still can't figure out this weird family dynamic #and neither can they #arya never calls her mum unless she's in a really good mood by accident or super out of it #izzy never comments on it except the first time it happened #art therapy fic

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modern-inheritance · 3 years

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Modern Inheritance: Art Therapy (Short)

(A/N: I still don’t know how to write Islanzadí but I needed to get my ‘Arya has always kinda been that person you don’t expect to have a sketchbook but does’ headcanon out of my brain. Have some really badly written, forced-out-at-11PM Islanzadí trying to be good!parent during MI!Eldest. Again, sorry for the quality, but I pushed myself to write this and I’ve been away from MI so long that it feels a little clunky to be writing it. Izzy is inconsistent and her reasons for doing things are all over the place and make zero sense. So yeah, you’ve been warned that it’s a jumbled cluster.)

MODERN INHERITANCE

ART THERAPY

Islanzadí paused at the door, inspecting it as one would inspect a patch of earth suspected of concealing a minefield.

It was too early in the morning to be called late, but too late in the night to be called early. While it wasn’t unusual for the queen’s daughter to be up at this hour due to recent events and their lingering after effects, it was unusual for the light to be on. Islanzadí could see it now, a faint line beneath the door. Two conflicting beams, the soft red glow of a teardrop lantern and a bright slash of white light, settled across the mossy floor at her feet.

Islanzadí did not hesitate out of fear. A mother did not, should not, fear facing her own daughter. She told herself that she hesitated out of respect. This was Arya’s room, her sanctum, after all. She called it a ‘base of operations’ in a close-to-home joke, the place she always returned to if she disappeared into the night to fight her inner demons side by side with old fyrn breoal. After everything that had happened the queen was loath to breach one more place of peace for her daughter.

Then again, it would not be the first time Islanzadí had entered in the dead of night, once more attuned to the natural instincts of a mother when her child is in danger. Finding her daughter curled in a corner with her arms wrapped tightly around her knees was painful, and the nights the queen had to wake the younger elf from the clutches of her dreams were worse.

The light on was something new. Something that she did not know how to react to. If Arya was awake then she didn’t want to intrude.

But if she was having trouble again….

Islanzadí carefully opened the door, just enough to peer inside.

Like many nights before, the queen saw that the bed was still made, corners tucked tight in the strict, military efficiency that Arya had picked up in years spent alongside Varden soldiers. A sleeping bag was on the floor beside the bed with a spare blanket bunched at its end from restless sleep. The makeshift indoor camp was lit by the teardrop lantern on the nightstand above, cast in strange, ruddy shadows.

Compared to the gentle glow of the lantern the white light was almost startling. A simple white werelight hovered just above the knotted, cup-like roots of the stand at Arya’s desk, bobbing and turning lightly with the imperceptible changes in the air.

Islanzadí breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she didn’t even realize she was holding in. Arya had an arm folded on the desk and her head rested on it, her left hand laid over a page and pencil still loosely in her relaxed grip. The woman had fallen asleep in the middle of her work.

With soft footsteps the queen padded into the room. It wouldn’t do to sleep in such a way. As she reached out to gently wake the younger elf though, the sight of what scattered the desk gave her pause.

What had to be over a dozen sketches littered the usually tidy surface. Islanzadí had known that Arya often drew when her mind was troubled, but she had never seen the results for herself. As gently as she could Islanzadí collected the papers together, curious at what had driven her daughter to such a late hour.

Brom started back at her from the first page, gruff around the eyes and holding his pipe up to his lips. The hard line of his jaw gave the impression that he had clamped his teeth down on the pipestem, soft clouds of smoke wafting up around his nose. It was the face of a man who was thinking and grumbling to himself in equal measure, but there was a softness to it that led Islanzadí to believe that whatever was giving him such trouble was something he deeply cared about.

One was of a campsite. Brom was still present, perched on a rock with his ever-present pipe in hand and using it as a pointer as he called criticism to the two young men that danced around the burned down fire at the center of camp. One was obviously Eragon, Zar’roc a sudden streak of pastel red in an image that was dominated by only two other shades: the ebony of the pencil and the expanse of shaded blue that made up Saphira where she crouched beside Brom. The other man was unfamiliar to the elvish queen, but she suspected the lean youth with near-black hair and hand-and-half sword was Murtagh.

Islanzadí’s chest tightened when she shifted to the next page. It, and the one following, were done in what appeared to be frantic, almost manic motions. Most of the paper was dominated by deep grey, walls and barred windows all almost black cut through by patches of startling crimson red and the pearly, muddied white of a single light fixture high on the wall. The floor was a cooler tone but puddled with the thick red pastel, which collected under the iron cot and shredded, sooty sheets.

It was one of several views from a personal hell. A view from the corner.

And then it was a portrait again, another from frozen memories of travel. The light silvery tones that dripped from the foliage signaled an early morning, but half of the occupants of the work were asleep. Eragon lay sprawled comfortably beside Saphira, one of her wings draped over his form. Above him, the dragon was watching him carefully, as a mother would a sleeping cub, her gaze protective and gentle all at once.

Another page almost overtaken by dark ebony. A sliver of moon cast the starless sky into faintly silvered darkness, reflected by the path below. Trees arced and bent over the strip of earth, monstrous shapes boiling up from between their trunks. At the end of the path, a lone figure wreathed in ghostly red tendrils that coiled up and around their body like ethereal smoke.

Glenwing was next in the line of art, and beside him, arm tossed casually over his shoulders in friendly companionship, was Fäolin. Both were smiling, laughter playing at their lips. Fäolin had his free hand around the neck of a bottle of dwarvish beer, and by the fading background it was clear that the memory took place in a bar. Even without color the neon of the signs flickered and hummed, bringing a sense of welcome despite the clear signs around that indicated that the war was never far away.

Saphira’s egg, the edges of the carry bag that was her home for over two decades puddled around its base. A gentle pulse of life and warmth in the blue and white that decorated the marbled surface. A glow of hope, all contained inside a single layer of shell.

A view from the branches of the Menoa Tree, looking down at the sprawling expanse of roots that raced away from the great monarch of the forest. Light played through the needles above, pinpricks of dappled sunlight that strained to reach the forest floor.

Eragon, his forehead pressed against Saphira’s snout as the Rider and dragon shared a moment of quiet peace. The rigid hold of his far shoulder compared to the slope of the other indicated it was not long after the battle for Farthen Dur, a time of chaos, tumult and new realities. It made the frozen scene of simple yet deeply primal comfort that smoothed over Eragon’s features that much more poignant. Reminded those that saw it that he was still a growing youth and Saphira was not yet a year old, yet they had been thrown into a world that required, demanded their lives for the sake of millions of others.

“One of these days we will give each other a heart attack.”

Islanzadí couldn’t suppress the sudden jerk of surprise at her daughter’s bleary words. The younger elf lifted her head and stretched, tossing down her pencil as she did. Arya winced when the light of the white werelight caught her eyes, and with a tap on the floating orb the color changed to the same muted red as the lantern on the nightstand.

“I was going to suggest you move to your bed before you strained your neck.” The queen gave her daughter a slightly forced, gentle smile, heart still fluttering at the start.

Arya nodded, still appearing half asleep as she rose from her desk and tapped off the light. She waved groggily over her shoulder to indicate to her mother that she was fine before she tumbled onto the bed, not bothering with the covers. It was a good sign. The younger elf was heavily in sleep debt as it was, and Islanzadí did not want to be the source of another night of under four hours of rest.

Islanzadí placed the stack of sketches back on the desk with a newfound reverence before following Arya towards the bed. She gathered up the discarded blanket on the floor and draped it over the woman’s body, smiling again at the muffled mumble of “Thanks, mum.” that drifted from where Arya had buried her head under the pillow.

She touched the lantern by the bed, lowering its intensity till it winked out. Gently pulled the door shut behind her.

And gave a very quiet, very tired, sigh of relief.

#modern inheritance #eragon #inheritance cycle #modern inheritance cycle #the cyclists #modern inheritance stories #arya #brom #saphira #islanzadi #queen islanzadi #war trauma #flashbacks #art therapy #PTSD #islanzadi is just a clusterfuck to write ngl #woman does not know how to parent #everything is just awkward as fuck #mic shorts

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