@Rtron@Mardox@HaelYou need to understand; I sort of genuinely loved the first book when I read it. Past tensed, loved. Was it a blatant rip off of Starwars with some LOTR mixed in? Yeah, but it felt... I dunno. Higher stakes. The last dragon egg... a city hidden in the mountains... a shade.
It felt real. It felt like someone who had found something and they were way over their heads. The writing was stilted at times, but looking past it's obvious sources, the tale was good palatable fantasy fair.
As time went on, NOTHING mattered and rather than grow or branch out or chang things up, Paolini clung to the same safe series of tropes, themes and cliches to define his book.
Eragon isn't the last dragon rider. Sapphira wasn't even the last dragon egg. Eragon is the son of the bad guy. A certain teacher was actually his father all along. Eragon gets a powerup. Eragon gets ANOTHER powerup. Eragon goes super saiyan, and so forth.
Him defeating the Razac was bitter sweet. Was happy he got his revenge, but it just felt... lacking.
By third book, he now fully well has a lightsaber and he puts down a fucking shade, A SHADE, with as much pizzaz as me taking out the trash on tuesday. The same feat required a long struggle, a climactic build up, and dropping a goddamn giant crystal on it to kill it in the first book.
Hell, even dragon death meant little mow. They get a damn gem to chill out with in. And how many are those left? Hundreds. How many eggs? Well over a hundred.
When I read that part of the 4th book, I had to put it down. I knew what was coming: more powerups. I didn't return to the book for well over two months.
When Galbartorix whipped out his McGuffin of evil, the Name, I seethed in anger. Because of COURSE we had to make the stakes about the entirety of reality. When Eragon defeated him and took the Name for himself and more or less became God... I gave up. Made a list of what I thought would happen and skimmed the rest of the book. Was right on every one of them.
Dwarves and urgals became dragon riders. The love interest became dragon rider. Eragon left the continent. Ect. Ect.
The series almost killed any love I had foe dragons. Instead of treating them as creatures of awesome might, they became commonplace. Instead of being powers, they became just another weapon. Instead of being characters with growth... I could file each one under a trope role.
I could forgive the first book for its stolen plot and cliches; it filled me a sense of wonder and excitement I had not read since Cornelia Funke's Dragonrider. By book two it was gone and I was being slammed by philosophy by someone who obviously thought they were clever by having just taken a college course.
By book four, the author was pissing on the memory of the grave book one and the innocent, guilty pleasure it was.
I like powerful characters. I like fight sequences and fantasy. I even like cliches and tropes. The Inheritance Cycle suceeding in failing to do all of those correctly. After book one, never do you feel again that the stakes mattered, that consequences matter, or that they'll even be a struggle. It's just... all handed to the hero chosen by fate apparently. I felt cheated and betrayed.
