First off, I want to know if I ever go Purple Prose here, I'm experimenting with more poetic language, but I need to know if I'm going in the right direction, also, any other comments are welcome.

The sun shone silently above the sandy plains of Uru Baen, casting no shadows upon the dusty ground. Men’s voices, once carrying the sounds of agony and death for miles, had fallen silent. Mounds of flesh, their former forms mutilated and disfigured, their former lives extinguished, were spread across the tainted earth, like leaves fallen in autumn.

Thorn closed his eyes, vainly attempting to crush the image between the lids, to obliterate the massacre from his memory forever. Despite this, the scene remained, a grotesque masterpiece holding him in rapt attention. There was no escape for Thorn, nor had there ever been. There was no future either; he had sealed that last night. Whatever hopes the red dragon had had for salvation had died with the departure of the blue one and her rider. They weren’t dead, but both crippled, and severed. He had seen to a portion of this, the taste of the blue one’s blood still lingered in his breath, and her pained roar still rang madly in his ear.
The voices of the Dead stirred in his spirit again, weaving a fabric of disjointed, distorted sound. The Heart of Hearts embedded in the armor began to vibrate with a subtle hum. They had always been with him, even from the beginning, in the egg. They were always there, talking to him, usually bellowing. It was angry talk; it was the words of the damned, of those whose physical life had been dissolved.

Their speeches were empty, full of oaths and threats, all directed at him. His sister and brother received no such torture, no; the Dead ones only spoke to him. Suddenly, out of the morass emerged a single proclamation, an ultimate judgment “MURDERER!!!” the shrill screech spread throughout his body, sending his teeth grating against his gums. He felt the flow of living blood and the scent of iron swimming amongst the saliva in his mouth.

“I’m not a murderer.” Thorn begged, hoping that they would listen. A deep male baritone was birthed from the ether “Bastard born swine, servant of the Tyrant!” He felt as if his soul was being raked with talons of fiery, hellish wrath. “No” he whispered weakly, “I’m not a murderer, I didn’t want this.” Then instead of words, a great beast of emotion came upon him, murderous rage abound in every great stride He saw for a moment, himself, holding the blue one’s head in his jaws, prepared to crush her.”But I didn’t.” he said “I let her go, I let them go.”
They mocked him...

Murtagh had been closed for hours, it was sometimes the only way to feel safe, and the only sanctuary he had. His mind and Thorns were not one; he didn’t hear the whispers of the disembodied dragons disturbing his sleep. It was not that he resented his dragon’s company, but that only so many times could he stand Thorns emotions within him. Thorn was so different from him, so out of himself, so lost in his own thoughts and feelings that Murtagh lost his sense of being.

It was as if someone was carrying him off of the ground, threatening to drop him at any moment. He leaned to the right, the thick steel plates of his armor flexing with him. Thorn’s eyes were closed, he was off somewhere else. “Thorn” Murtagh said, his voice much resembling in character the corpses below them. A violent shudder ran up Thorn’s spine, allowing the dragon armor upon his neck to send the sun’s rays straight into his eyes. Murtagh drew back, and sat in silence for a moment, listening as a wind lethargically began to carry the scent of the dead into Uru Baen.

“Everything alright Thorn?” Murtagh asked. The red dragon’s deep gaze locked with his own, “They’re talking to me again.” Murtagh didn’t react at first, and then subconsciously rubbed Thorn’s side “Don’t listen old friend.” It was a meaningless statement, Thorn had no choice but to listen, he had no choice but to kill, he didn’t even get to chose who he bonded with, or if he bonded at all. Choice wasn’t a concept that Thorn was aquatinted with. “I didn’t mean to tear off the wing Murtagh, but I still did it, it was my fault.”

Elva had decided that Angela was probably the only person in the world she found worthy of admiration. Eragon was dense and thoughtless, Saphira kind and respectful, but lacking the insight to see the flaws of her rider. Not that she was stupid enough to point this out; she valued her now liberated existence far too much to do that.
It wasn’t that Saphira scared her, but merely that she made her cautious. The feelings of a dragon needed to be handled with deft minds, and Elva knew better than anyone just how easy it was to toy with someone’s feelings, except for Angela. The self-proclaimed witch hummed merrily as she guided the horse around the large brown boulder in her path. Elva had remained very silent for the duration of the journey, barely tolerating the persistently emanating cheer that practically radiated from her tormentor.

It was such an odd thing that she couldn’t experience the inner life of the one person whom she would most like to understand. It was a cruel joke of fate, minor in retrospect to most of her life, but cruel nonetheless. “Could you please stop humming?” Elva hissed. Angela turned back to her, the green shaw wrapped around all of her face below her eyes. “Why, aren’t you enjoying the Ballad of the Birds and Bees?” Elva felt her upper lip curl as Angela’s too-sweet-and-innocent smile moved under the cloth. “…hovering onward hovering home, to the only home I’ve ever known, Hoping, praying, dreaming, loving…”

“Can’t you be quiet for even a minute?” Angela ignored her “Seize him! Seize him! They cried, announcing my arrival, with the grand prize.” “That doesn’t even make sense!” Elva spat, finding her emotions helplessly outward. Angela finally turned back to her after talking about the social lives of bees “They are really like that you know.” It was futile, Angela had the upper hand, there was no use trying to persuade her to cease.

I think this story is fantastic! ☺ Don't be afirad to write more.