Hi everyone! This is my first story, and I'm really excited to be here. Constructive criticism would really be appreciated :) Thank you!

This...is Berk. It's the loveliest place in the world, if I do say so myself. It hails nine months of the year and snows the other three. Nothing grows on this hunk of rock except weeds and lichen. Oh, and we get dragon raids too. Isn't it absolutely brilliant?

Speaking of dragons...

MRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

PAFF!

"BEASTS! BEASTS! YOU BEASTS!"

Here they come.

It's not that hard to see them - streaks of fire flying across the sky aren't that, well, inconspicuous. Even from my position - in my secret tree house at the top of the tallest tree over by Raven's Point - they're highly visible. Which is good. I can see the dragons from here, but I can't actually feel the fire.

They'll probably be screaming something like, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE? GET OUTSIDE!"

They always need me for something. It's like the concept of personal privacy – taken to the extremes in my case – is completely foreign to them.

It probably is.

Outside of Berk I'm their pride and joy. Always being bragged about. The kid who downed more dragons than half the village combined before he ever started formal training. Of course this kid's never actually killed a dragon, but he might as well have, because a downed dragon is a dead dragon, and as long as they're falling out of the sky for the grown-ups to find on the ground, does it matter?

But inside the village I'm probably the most unconventional hero they've ever had. Not like my father, Chief Stoick. He's the typical Viking. Killed a dragon before he left the cradle. He's about the size of a house and even less difficult to notice. But most importantly - people know him. And he makes an effort to go out and get to know people. He's a fierce warrior but also a beloved chief. He's popular, friendly to his men, and as far from obscure as anyone can get.

Not like me. It's an understatement to say I'm not the most sociable person. I hate company. It sucks. Maybe it would be better if I lived in a city on the Continent - at least not everybody there is a massive, brawny, bloodthirsty Viking. Is it really so hard for a guy to be able to get a little bit of peace and quiet without someone screaming "ARRRRGH!" every two seconds?

"ARRRRGH!"

See? What did I tell you?

I recognize this "ARRRRGH!" actually. It's Snotlout. My cousin. Of course, he's currently down there in Berk, and I'm up here at the top of a tree in Raven's Point. So either I have astonishingly good hearing, or his "ARRRRGH!" is just that much louder and more obnoxious that it can carry so far over the din of the rest of the "ARRRRGH!s" of everyone else in the village combined.

Take it however you will.

The first time we met, I was still a baby, and he was a toddler. He tried to push me over. I responded by throwing the closest thing at hand at his face.

Now, being the scrawny person I am, it probably wasn't anything heavier than a toy block, but I did manage to hit his nose in just the right spot to permanently dent it.

Permanently dented nose. Maybe that's why his voice grates on my ears so much.

Since then we've had a sort of a truce. He doesn't push me over, and I don't throw stuff at him.

We're not on bad terms, but not on good terms, either. (Not that I'm ever on good terms with anybody.) He's a typical Viking. As tough as a nail, as thick as a barrel, and as dumb as a box of rocks. But slightly smarter than the twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who are dumber than a box of rocks. Those two…they take the meaning of "dumb blondes" to a whole new level.

As in, there could be fire and dragons raging around them for all they cared – and they'd still be fighting over who gets the cool bucket. Sometimes I wonder if their stupidity is actually a secret stroke of genius, because, amazingly, they're not dead yet. I could just imagine the two of them hitting Odin himself in the face with a stray fist as the god reached down from the heavens to try to pry them apart.

They haven't smacked Odin in the face yet, but there's always a lucky victim every night. On this night, it's Fishlegs. A shame. I can actually tolerate him. Mainly because he doesn't go out of his way to try to talk to me about, well, stupid things. We're both loners, although for opposite reasons. I'm a loner because I choose to be; he's a loner because he has no choice. It's like comparing a panther to a beached whale.

Despite that he's not yet at the level of the village pariah. That's Mildew. Fishlegs is just…Fishlegs. He's strong enough to handle hard work, but doesn't go out of his way to train. He's obedient and loyal but lacks the enthusiasm one would want to see in a leader. He's about as educated as anyone can get here, considering that the only book he's ever seen is the Book of Dragons, but not the brightest fellow in terms of common sense. Although at least he tries. Better than the twins, at any rate.

Fishlegs is, without a doubt, mediocre. He'll be another one of those rank-and-file Vikings. The strong, but faceless. Not a prestigious job, but appreciable. People like him are always needed.

But back to Snotlout…he's one of the leaders of that gang of my aforementioned year-mates. I say "one" of the leaders because even though he likes claiming that he's the boss of everyone, everyone he's the "boss" of knows better. The real boss of my generation is…

Astrid.

Oh, words cannot describe how I feel about her. Where can I start? Her big, intense, sky blue eyes? Her long, flowing, golden braid? Her charming skirt of studded skulls? Her lovely roar as she raises her axe above her head, preparing to throw it to strike perfectly in the heart of a tree?

I only barely tolerate most people in Berk.

Astrid is the sole exception.

Because I.

EFFING.

HATE.

HER!

Ha ha ha. I tricked you, didn't I? You thought I was totally in love with her. You thought that she was the one person who could wade past my shadowy heart and burn away all this indifference with the fiery passions of love, didn't you?

WELL, YOU'RE WRONG!

Oh, sure, everyone else absolutely loves her. Snotlout's so completely head over heels for her it's pathetic. Not that I mind, or anything. He can have her. She's only ever given him punches in return for his efforts, and if she ever kisses him it's because she's also serving up a knuckle sandwich and two servings of punch while screaming "Keep it simple, stupid!".

She's a complete angel in everyone's eyes.

Everyone's but mine.

I don't know why I hate her so much. Something about her just gets on my nerves. I just – ugh! Some days I just want to punch her in the face, girl or not. Not that I would. Because I know that she would just slug me right back.

Maybe that's why I hate her so much. She's too much like me. Tiny for a Viking, but horribly dangerous all the same. Ruthlessly efficient. Smart, in both knowledge and common sense. She's a powerful warrior and strategizer. I have my bow. She has her axe. I'm a long-distance fighter. She counters with her skill hand to hand combat. I'm unfriendly and distant. She's just plain violent. I have ingenuity. She has intimidation.

She's strong.

She's popular.

She's competition.

It makes sense that I'm scared of her. If we were ever to fight, we would be tied. I'm faster than she is, but she's stronger than I am. The winner would ultimately be decided by luck – if she can get in her first shot before I can pile up enough damage, I'm dead. Oh, but I just hate things that are decided solely by luck.

Especially when the odds are not in my favor.

I know that right now, I'm in the lead because of my lead in skill and creativity. No one can beat me in unconventionality, but if she works hard enough she might be able to overcome me in terms of skill one day. And should the village have to choose anyone, in a wholly popularity contest, I know who they would pick.

I don't exactly care about being popular; I just wonder why, of all the people everyone would want, it's Astrid, She-Who-Is-Superior-to-You-in-Every-Way. I ignore people; she's just plain mean. I wouldn't miss being passed up as heir to Chief, but gods, for Astrid to be the one to take that spot…that's just degrading.

Then again, maybe I'd rather it be Astrid than Snotlout, or, Odin forbid, the twins.

And Fishlegs is too socially awkward to ever be considered.

I'm only ever liked when the dragons come. What sort of great Viking warrior shirks from the limelight, and hates noisy war cries and raucous heavy drinking and obnoxious table pounding? Add that to my figure – I'm about the size of a fishbone and half the weight – and I'd be rich for every time someone said,

"I'd have thought the Berk's heroic son of Chief Stoick the Vast would be more impressive-looking."

Of course, that's before I teach them to think before they judge a guy by their size. It doesn't matter how big or strong or tough a bloke is – everyone's "family jewels" are equally weak. And that's why I win every single fight I've ever been in.

Because there's three things you need to know about me.

One: I'm never around when I'm not needed.

Two: I'm never around when I am needed.

And three: I –

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

*SCREECH*

*CRASH*

"Monstrous Nightmare down! Ready your axes, lads!"

– never miss.

I narrow my eyes and nock another arrow into my crossbow, drawing the string back and locking it at the five hundred fathoms mark. The moonlight gleams across the smooth, polished black surface of the shaft. This is a weapon only I am allowed to use due to calibration issues, although sometimes I let Gobber – the only person I willingly talk to (my father doesn't count; he's the chief and I'm not allowed to say no to him) – help me forge the arrows, since he owns the smithy, after all. Normal arrows wouldn't work against a dragon; they'd never penetrate the thick, scaly hides, assuming it made past all the fire breath without burning up in the first place. Metal doesn't work much better; it's heavy and deforms in the heat, too. I alone know the secret formula to forging the black, fire-proof arrows, and even then I have to reuse them because it takes months to make even one.

Now you can see why no one's allowed to touch my crossbow. There's only eight, and all of them are too valuable to lose.

I'm the only one who never wastes a single arrow.

I always point out after the raids that we really are so lucky to have monstrous, flying, fire-breathing reptiles running around destroying our village on a regular basis. I mean, think about it. Thanks to them, all of our buildings are always brand-new, and we never get rats or diseases like the other villages when the dragon fire burns it all away. In fact, our village has the lowest rate of age-related illness in the region and, quite possibly, the world.

Of course, Gothi is the only actual "old" person in this place of a few hundred, and she doesn't look like she's going to quit anytime soon. Again, dragon fire. Keeps you on your toes. Pretty good for warding away consumption and disposing of trash and waste when it's not actually burning you alive.

For some reason no one else seems to appreciate my optimism. Not that I care. If you want to send a complaint about me, you can either bring it up directly by trying to find me (pretty much impossible), or whine at my dad and hope that he doesn't squash you under his big hairy feet for interrupting his rare breaks from "I AM THE GREAT AND FEARSOME CHIEF OF BERK, HE WHO PROTECTS AND FEEDS THIS GREAT VILLAGE, SO BOW DOWN TO ME IN AWE AND PAY YOUR RESPECTS" time (also pretty much impossible).

Another dragon down. And another. And another. Here goes. EEEEEEEEEEEEE – the arrow whistles through the air. BLAM! Another dragon down. Seven for seven. And now, for my final shot – once I get my eighth dragon for the night, I'm done.

I don't care if the raid's going to go on for three more hours (not that they ever do; the dragons are usually smart enough to retreat at the first signal of shrieking black arrows by now); I am not crawling from all the way up here in Raven's Point back down to a village full of burning screaming Vikings, retrieve my eight arrows, and then all the way back up to Raven's Point to repeat the process. That's just not going to happen. I got my eight dragons. I'm good. Most Vikings get about two or three dragons per raid using the conventional method. I've done more than my fair share in protecting the village. If those backwards, brutish old men would simply decide to change their ways and learn that airborne projectiles are much more effective against airborne assailants than, oh, I don't know, massive axes so heavy they'd sink in half a second, I might be a little more sympathetic.

Eighth dragon, here we go.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Hah – huh?

That's odd…

I haven't launched any arrow yet –

SNAP

BOING

Oh, CRA–

Just a note: I'm not an Astrid basher. She's one of my favorite characters. However, Toothless is different from Hiccup; since he's the "skilled" one of his species he would more likely clash with the other leader rather than admire her.

Thank you for reading, and review, please!