Having no other recourse, Roran resorted to the unexpected: he stuck his head and neck out and shouted, "BAH!" just as he would if he were trying to scare someone in a dark hallway.

Engaged in a fiery dance, their bodies were linked and seperated by the flashing blades. At times they nearly touched, taut skin only a hair's breadth away, but then momentum would whirl them apart, and they would withdraw for a second, only to join again. Their sinuous forms wove together like twisting ropes of windblown smoke.

If he fancied her anymore," Saphira said to both Eragon and Roran, "I'd be trying to kiss Arya myself." "Saphira!" Mortified, Eragon swatted her on the leg.

There are decades in the making of the one man of renown; Multitudes that go unnoticed who must wreathe for him a crown.

Into the sky to win or die.

I am not who I was, but I know who I am.

Too late. It's hatched.