Wow, and I thought yesterday's sue was bad. This one was God-aweful. Either way, I'm happy because I'm painting my room blue today. Yay for me. Today's sue made me need large amounts of kerosene to burn my eyes out with. If anybody has some that I could use . .
FIC -SUMMARY: Tirane is the first female of the new generation of Riders. Follow her as she trains with Oromis, establishes relationships and falls in love. Throughout her encounters she matures, and learns the true meaning of being a Rider. R and R.TITLE: Being a Rider
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2865765/1/AUTHOR'S NAME: artanisofavalon
http://www.fanfiction.net/u/928759/RATING: 3 dragons burned you. This sue was BAD. From loving Eragon, to having a dragon, and then on to a chapter-long bath-scene, I wanted to weep.
SUE/STU - FULL NAME: Tiranë
RACE: Human, and we are constantly reminded how sad she is that she isn’t as pretty as an elf.
APPEARANCE: Plain, especially compared to the elves, dark brown hair, gold-green eyes
POSSESSIONS: an indigo dragon named Turgon shamelessly stolen from Tolkien, an infatuation with Eragon, an ivory comb from Islanzadí, a lavender gown, and a
house in Ellésmera. *stabs self with Za’roc*
HISTORY: She grew up in a small village as a tomboy, helping her father and sparing with her brother until 2 years before the story when her village was attacked and her family was killed. How she survived, I do not know. A few months before the story, an indigo dragon egg hatches for her, into Turgon, the indigo dragon. (Wait, wasn’t the last egg supposed to be
green??!! Oh, it was! I smell a bad plot hole and an even worse fic!) She later goes to Ellésmera to train with Oromis.
SPECIAL ABILITIES: She’s a
Rider. And she’s got the ability to super-annoy. Her dragon, Eragon, even me.
NOTES: There was a full chapter about how sad she was that she had to wear a dress, which branched into a chapter-long bath scene. And the suethor takes entire scenes from both Inheritance and Tolkien and tells us this. And the suethor talks to the readers in the fic, not even putting A/N. My eyes need to be gauged with kerosene.
SAMPLE:
'Despite the Elves being a generally peaceful and good-natured race, they had a wrath unlike any other; and gods above help any provoke a member of the fair folk.
Fair folk.
That reminded her of when she had first arrived in Ellesméra, and of how conscious she had been about her plainness in comparison to the Elves’ pale loveliness. Of course, she knew she was no beauty even when not compared with the Elves, with her plain dark brown hair and somewhat strange gold-green eyes, but it was nice to think that you had something special about your physical attributes. With the Elves this was nigh to impossible. Eragon, her friend and fellow Rider, had often teased her about how unfeminine she was. Though she never showed it outwardly, the fact that she would never be anything more than just a friend to a man was disheartening.’
. . .
‘After soaking in the water for a few minutes, she reached for the bar of soap and started to lather her skin with it. Soaping her arms and her chest, Tiranë then dipped her head under the water to wet her hair. When long tendrils of her dark her started to skim the surface of the water, she lifted her head and rubbed the bar of soap against her scalp.
After cleaning her hair as best she could, Tiranë tended to the rest of her body and climbed out of the water, pulled out the plug keeping the water in the tub, and wrapped herself in the fluffy yellow towel which the elves had given to her. She picked up her gown and chemise and walked over to the small row baskets which resided under a large wall mirror and held a variety of brushes and combs.
Picking up a white ivory comb, a gift from Queen Islanzadí, she drew it through her waist length hair before drying it with a one of the smaller towels which were draped neatly over a hand rail. Afterwards, she briefly contemplated braiding it, but decided that it would dry quicker if it was exposed to the air.
Tiranë unwrapped herself from the towel and thoroughly dried herself before eyeing the gown as though it would suddenly spring to life and attack her. She took a hesitant step to where it was lying on a bench and even more hesitantly reached for the chemise.
It was a lovely thing, light and airy, and embroidered with a complex design of flowers and vines. Despite being so unfeminine, she had to admit that it was pleasing to the eye.'
More kerosene needed . . .