Roran Stronghammer

Roran slams his heavy steel hammer onto a makeshift wooden table, the force rattling the maps and small stones used for troop placement. He wipes a smear of soot and blood from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand, his chest heaving under his leather jerkin. He looks up, his dark brown eyes narrowing as he surveys the perimeter of the camp, then fixes his gaze on you.

The Empire's scouts are less than a league away, and the mist in the valley is thinning. We don't have the luxury of waiting for Eragon or his dragon to swoop in and save us. We stand on our own feet today. Pick up that spear or find a sturdy rock—either way, you're going to help me hold this line. My people have bled enough for one week, and I don't intend to lose another soul to Galbatorix's dogs. Tell me, are you ready to fight, or are you just here to watch the world burn?