Alvin could barely believe their luck. They had approached under cover of darkness, and they hadn't been spotted. The watch fires were dark, and they glided silently through the night. Berk wasn't going to know what hit it. Until it was over that is, then they would definitely know exactly who had beaten them, He'd make sure of it!
Glancing at his crew, he felt a swell of pride. In the years since he'd been banished, he'd taken control of all the disparate outcast groups, forging them into a single unit. Every one of those with him tonight was a seasoned veteran, used to fighting Vikings, Dragons, and anyone else in their way. Everything he was, he'd earned. Defeating Stoick would finally prove that he was by far the better leader.
As they reached the docks, he gave the signal and the men began removing the cloths used to muffle weapons and armour with an ease that spoke of familiarity and practice. Another signal was given and they leapt onto the docks, giving voice to their battle-cries. Alvin led the charge of almost a hundred seasoned warriors, none of whom were prepared for what waited for them.
Their magnificent charge faltered and stopped as the men gazed around in fear and revulsion. The village of Berk was no more. In its place was a charnel house from the depths of Niflheim itself. Even Alvin was shocked, though he didn't want to show it. Ordering the men to split into groups of no less than five, he and his guards made their way to the great hall as the others began looting. As they walked, the scale of the devastation became more apparent. There was no life left. Young, old, warrior or baker, they were all dead. Few were mutilated, which suggested it had not been a dragon attack, but then why were some burned, while others bore blade wounds?
With a knot of fear growing in his chest, they ascended the steps to the hall, but before they entered one of the men gave a gasp and pointed, looking up in horror. Snotlout Jorgensen, Heir to the Hairy Hooligans, was dead. The pained grimace on what was left of his face spoke of the horrors he had endured before finally succumbing to his wounds. Someone, or something, had ripped out his eyes before impaling him with some sort of hook and suspending him from the wooden dragon head adorning the doors of the Hall. He dangled there, like bait on a fishing rod, twisting gently in the breeze, proclaiming to all that death had come to Berk.
Wrenching his gaze away and ignoring cries from his crew to return to the boats, Alvin pushed open the doors to the Hall, only to see the remains of his onetime friend and longtime enemy lying across the central table. As he stared in horror, the mass of broken flesh gasped out a single word.
'Run'
As the outcasts turned to flee from these cursed shores, a shadow rose to meet them, and screams once again echoed around the shores of Berk.