Before they'd even set foot on the ships, they'd known it was all going to end in a disaster. Even he did, but he didn't care. He was Dagur the Deranged, Berserk and ultimate dragon slayer, and he'd stick to that title, no matter what happened. The little peace treaty between dragon and Viking that had been instated at Berk no less than six years ago didn't apply to him and his tribe. It never did and never would. Ever.

Finally, after a week of sailing, they were there. They'd caught wind of this dragon nest a while ago, and now he wanted to take it down. He didn't care how many men he lost; he'd never stop until either he breathed no longer, or dragons were wiped from existence. Preferably the latter, haha.

Now here he was, fighting like the psychopath he was born to be, a never-ending, animalistic roar tearing out of his throat, his sword swinging in vast arcs that rendered limb, head and tail off of anything that came close, be they Viking or dragon. Fire reflected in his mad, blood-crazed eyes, his mouth twisted to match his scream and was covered in blood from where he'd bitten someone in his fury, just like the rest of him. He'd abandoned his shield before the battle had even begun, and now the only thing protecting him was his helmet and flimsy chest plate.

"Dagur! There are too many of them!" someone yelled from behind his reach. "We need to fall back!"

Dagur paused in his rage to glare rabidly at the 'warrior' who had spoken. "No!" he shrieked, his voice twisted with madness. "We won't back down! I refuse to let these vermin live another second!"

Without another word, he returned to his raging, apocalyptic charge, not caring about the many Vikings he saw running back to the ships. Let them run, he growled inwardly. When I come back triumphant, those cowards will be begging me to let them live after deserting me.

The high-pitched screech of a young Changewing; backed against the wall; caught his attention. On instinct, he turned to face and kill it.

It's face, twisted into a hiss, was the last thing he saw.

Blinding pain immediately seared his eyes. His vision went white, he shrieked in agony, dropping his sword to bring his hands to his eyes, trying to rub out the blindness and torment. Something sank it's teeth into his shoulder, and he felt a spreading pain enter his bloodstream. Poison.

"No, nonono," he moaned, backing against the cliff wall. "NO! I WON'T BE BEATEN! I WON'T-!"

CCRRRAACCK!

His head snapped up, but he couldn't see the cascade of gigantic boulders and jagged grey rocks tumbling down towards him. But he heard the rumble and crash as they thundered down on top of him, felt the searing agony shooting up both his legs, forcing him to twist in spasmodic motions in an attempt to pull himself free, smelled and tasted the coppery tang of blood.

He was stuck. Trapped. Encased in rock, he was going to die!

An odd feeling tugged at his chest, and a weak, pathetic sound was rising in his throat, but he pushed it back before it became audible. As his rage and adrenaline melted away, he was overwhelmed by the sheer agony of his lacerations. He was definitely burned, and he had several broken ribs, probably from that Gronkle that had rammed into him and had an impromptu meeting with his sword. His hands were stinging from the acid he'd rubbed off of his eyes, and his throat was burning incessantly.

He was trapped, wounded and blind. There was no way to get back out, and all the men who were in earshot were probably either dead or dying.

Just like him…

And here you have it! This is far from over, folks!

Also, I'm not sure what genre this should be put in yet. I'll figure it out when I've finished the next few chapters.