Hello there! Welcome to a little series of oneshots co-written by myself and the illustrious Curly Q's! Like all of our co-written fics, they're all for laughs and fun times. So please enjoy! *Obligatory disclaimer: Neither of us owns any of this, though we wouldn't turn down the opportunity to write for Dreamworks. You know. If they ever come knocking...*
"Put your back into it!"
Snotlout grumbled, gritting his teeth. He threw the ax again, watching in disappointment as the blade failed to lodge into the sturdy tree. Spitelout folded his arms, frustration and anger mixing in his features—an expression with which Snotlout was very familiar. The rain drenching his tunic and running into his eyes did nothing to help his mood either.
Spitelout marched up to the tree and picked up the weapon from the ground. "Time is running out, son," he growled. "I set sail for the Dragon's Nest at first light tomorrow, which means you go to dragon training." He brandished the ax at his son. "If you can't get this into a tree, how are you ever going to get it into a dragon's back?"
Thunder rolled overhead, obscuring what Snotlout muttered.
"What was that?" his father snapped.
"I said I'll try harder next time," Snotlout said with added emphasis. He snatched the ax from his father, tightening his grip and raising it overhead for another throw.
Crack!
A blinding flash sliced through the gloomy atmosphere of the woods. As quickly as it had come, it vanished, leaving Snotlout and Spitelout both blinking from its intensity.
"Gleenarb?" Snotlout asked.
At that, Spitelout rubbed his temples and grimaced. "We're done for today," he said, shaking his head once and holding out his hand for his son's ax.
"Schmagee!" Snotlout cried out, clutching the ax closer. "Schmagee!"
Spitelout let slip a small chuckle, easily wresting the ax from his son's hands. "Don't worry," he said. "Being struck by lightning is something of a rite of passage in a young Viking's life. It'll wear off in a few hours. By the time the storm blows over, you'll be fine."
Later that afternoon, Snotlout sat on the docks, swinging his legs absently. The storm had blown over; he was not fine. From behind him, he heard Mulch's footsteps, but he didn't bother turning around.
"Lovely afternoon, 'eh Snotlout?" Mulch called, climbing into his boat.
Snotlout crossed his arms. "Norfblort," he grumbled.
"Ah, I couldn't agree more," Mulch chirped. "I just love the way the air smells after a storm." He swung a heavy pack over his shoulder, heading back up the dock.
Snotlout followed him with his eyes, mouth hanging slightly open. He shrugged it off. "Dweenarb."
For a while, he sat in peace, occasionally saying something to test his speech for normalcy. His calm was interrupted, however, when Tuffnut flopped unceremoniously next to him. "Hey," he grunted. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed, during which Snotlout focused very hard on not speaking.
"Well…aren't you going to say hey back?" Tuff supplied.
Snotlout simply glared.
"What's the matter?" Terrible Terror got your tongue?" Tuff laughed at himself. "Eighth birthday—nailed it. Actually, I wouldn't recommend it. Unless you're into that sort of thing."
The silence grew more and more awkward. Eventually, Snotlout rolled his eyes. "Plessel," he muttered.
"What?" Tuffnut questioned.
"Plessel, dweenarb," Snotlout snapped.
"Hey, there's that word again!" Tuff smiled. "Never heard it before. What's it mean?"
Snotlout let out a guttural growl and threw up his hands in frustration. "Norfblort! Norfblort! Plessel!" With that, he stood up and stormed away.
Tuffnut waved after him. "Great talk, man! See you tomorrow in dragon training!"