(C) I, author of the following work of fan-based fiction, own in no part any portion of Cressida Cowell's novel series of"How to Train Your Dragon", nor the film adaptation by DreamWorks animation, of the same name.

-disclaimer)-

-(Introduction)-

Do you ever find yourself creating a small scene or story in your head, or playing it out-loud with your voice, only to find that you don't remember much of it a few days later when you wished to?

I do. This story is the result of me having watched { and enjoyed most profusely } a certain film. I am sure you may guess well and true as to what film I had watched. The point is, that one special film, combined with my constant self-monologuing and likeness of good story, is the reason why this story exists on this site. In my haste, I put to word what I was thinking, jotting down the most basic plots and scenes, moments and meanings of the story I had come up with. Endings, beginnings, scenes of interest, specific dialogue with specific themes and meanings. I made a plethora of various documents of what I wanted this story to be about and how I wanted it to play out in full.

There is no need to take it seriously, as it is all in good fun. That includes the corny title.

-coltjolt

Bold and italicized text (: `example` :) represents narration via protagonist.

'Italicized' text within single quotations represents internal thought/monologue from the protagonist.

-This story is told in the third-person subjective, with limited narration focused on the main protagonist.-

-New Age-

Chapter: I

-Nothing but a Twig-

'This is the Isle-of-Berk'

A cold, desolate rock littered with a mixture of mainly needled and usually-bare leaf trees. Towering spires of rock prick the sky, making it look like something out of tales where brave men would chart through the unknown and 'dragon-infested' waters. I can picture large sea-charts in the 'Hall, with Berk and the rest of the 'Archipelago resting directly in the center of the "Here Be Monsters" section. If it wasn't so freezing, disappointing, and dangerous to survive on, I might actually consider it a half-decent place to live.

That would require it to be less than a five day trip off the north of Disappointment Coast and a few degrees west of 'Freezing-to-Death' Isle. Any greater and it would put it off the map, past the Meridian-of-Misery, which it currently lies solidly on.

I am the only son of the Chief. That would automatically make me a grand and dangerous boy right?

Wrong. I am quite possibly the furthest I could get from my massive, heaving, incredibly-bearded father. I am the definition of a twig, and everyone pushes that fact on me like butter to warm bread. Lavishly. If it was not for the position of my father being Chief, I probably would not have survived my younger days. Out of the 300 years that vikings have been here, I think everyone agrees that I have been the worst addition. The food here is taste-less and stale, the people more so, and every house, shed, and working-barn has been built within the past year. I guess over those hundreds of years, stubbornness becomes quite apparent. It really isn't the isolation, which is routed through common trade and messenger-birds; it's the common pests. Granted this applies to all the inhabitants of the Barbaric Archipelago, but we tend to only think of ourselves most of the times.

While most people have rats, mosquitoes or something of general annoyance, we have great flying beasts of flame and claw. Dragons. Not much is really known about the creatures. They tend to differ in size and shape just as much as Vikings do. There's the wyvern we know as the Deadly Nadder. It can launch poisonous spines from it's entire tail length when attacking, if it isn't using it's extremely hot gout of fire. Looks somewhat like a gigantic bird, as I have noticed.

There is the stumpy, yet tough Gronckle. We really have no idea how a dragon that eats rocks and boulders can fly but we do know that a molten rock flying from it's gullet is not something to get hit by. They're tough, taking down one of those is not easy task. Their hides are not so scaly as much as just thick.

Then there is the Hideous Zippleback. Two heads, twice the glory if one was taken down. Unlike most dragons, this one does not breath immediate fire. Instead, one head breaths a thick vapour that the other head ignites with a small flame. The result? A massive explosion as the vapours all erupt at once. This makes the range of attack by the Zippleback to being in standstill situations, like blasting down a barn door.

...but of all the creatures that fly about this island, none is stronger than the Monstrous Nightmare. Only the bravest of Vikings go after them. They are the toughest wyvern's we know of. Their hides tend to ignite into a cloak of fire when attacking. Kind of putting off any attackers really. The biggest Nightmare seen was almost the size of a small house. It took six Vikings and a couple bashes to the head to send it reeling away. It was never seen again, not once in the past 100 years.

There is only one thing left to discuss, and that's the one that no Viking has ever seen. We call it the Night Fury. This thing doesn't steal food, doesn't attack anyone up front, and never misses. The only sign of a Night Fury attacking is either a high-pitched shrieking sound, then the crumbling of stones and fortifications. It never misses. It's attack is like a cannonball that explodes, scattering the toughest of walls. One interesting point, is that no Night Fury has ever attacked a house before, they've only ever attacked the large catapults that encompass the village. Most brush this off as just going for the large objects, but I can tell that this dragon goes for those towers because we use them against the main attackers.

My names Hiccup.

Nice name, I know. Viking tradition holds that a terrible name will make one more apparent when they do something glorious, like felling a dragon, rising against foes, charting new land, so on and so forth. My problem is that a 'terrible' name also makes the failures more apparent. I always fail when I try my hand at glory. That tends to sour the note and make my title more...fitting. Most villages have someone who is the runt of them all, I fit that letter perf...

"Hello son." A voice sounded behind a scrawny boy.

"Agha! Ah-ah, ha, hey. Hey dad." Hiccup blustered. He was so engaged with his writing that he hadn't noticed his rather burly Viking of a father come up behind him.

"Wha-What are you doing here, I thought you were with the other council members?" Normally, and obviously, Hiccup would have no issue with his own father being in his own house obviously, but tonight was the ever popular song-night, which was at the Great Hall. He never missed song-night.

"Well, the others had to go and fetch a new barrel of mead, and I took the time to come by and pick up my cloak. The others felt it might get a little colder in the evening."

"Right, umm. You wait there and I'll go get it." said Hiccup.

"No, no, I've already got my cloak, but I saw a candle light up the stairs and I came in to see what you are doing. So, what is it you are doing?" his father gestured towards the boys papers and sketches.

"We've got hot food, and hearty songs at the 'Hall and you want to spend the night drawing and writing?" his father spoke with a tone, that hinted towards disappointment. Hiccup; son of Stoick the Vast, Chief of Berk, would rather spend the night in his room writing, and drawing, rather than spend the night in the Great Hall with other Vikings drinking and singing songs! Not the best heir to the title of Chief.

"Well, whenever I am working in the forge at night, my mind tends to slip off focused and I get distracted. So, I have decided to keep a journal and jot down my everyday concepts, ideas, wonders and such." Hiccup replied, matter-of-factly. It did make sense to him, all though Hiccup's way of thinking was often polar opposite of what other Vikings thought. So, it came as no surprise when Stoick burst out laughing when he said he was keeping a journal of his.

"Oh that is rightly a beauty right there! You had me going there! Oh, a journal! Oh that is somethin' else..." Then he saw that his son had not been sharing in the laugh.

Hiccups face was one of resentment, since his room was plastered with drawings and diagrams. This was not what he had in plan for the night.

"What? You're serious?" Stoick's face went from a big grin to furrowed brow in record time. "You are the son of the Chief of Berk, and you are keeping a journal rather than keeping with your fellow vikings?"

"Well, uh, I mean, is it really that bad? I don-" He was cut short as Stoick interrupted.

"Hiccup. I can see that you have an enjoyment with..this," he said as he waved his hand across the expanse of schematics and drawings Hiccup had. They really were quite detailed. He had to admit it, his son was quite capable with a small piece of charcoal. He had even fashioned a piece to a seemingly impossible size so as to get fine details in such as runes or figures. When the boy tried his hand at something, he tended to keep going until either stopped by someone else, or until he got what he was aiming for. An admirable quality, if only it was put to good use. "...but there are other things you need to focus on besides fancy devices."

"These 'fancy devices' happen to be the only things I am any good at dad." the scrawny boy groaned. It was more of a statement of his lack of physical prowess than a gesture of design. "I make these drawings because I enjoy making things just like you like fighting. It's who I am dad."

"Oh Hiccup, I am sure this seems all well and fine, but spending time whittling a stick or making one of your little toys isn't going to make you a better Viking." It was true, the boy hardly qualified as a Viking. He could barely swing a sword without losing his footing, and he had terrible aim with slings. He was decent in the forge though. Stoick would give him that, but the future Chief can't spend the day bashing metal against metal. Vikings bash metal against bodies.

"These 'toys' are just miniature versions of the real thing." Hiccup motioned towards a shelf that was lined with a wide array of dangerous looking, wooden trolleys and trebuchets. "Once I get the method right, I will move on to making some real ones, for actual use."

"Hiccup, the time for tinkering and fashioning items is in the forge, during the day, during the bustling hours, not at night, especially, during song-night." At that moment, a terrible crash sounded from outside the wood-work and thatch.

"Oh no..." Hiccup distractedly hurried from his chair to put together his various parchments and notes that he kept scattered, into a strong, metal lock-box. He needed no look out the window on the wall to know that the only thing that could have made that noise to be a shattering of wood walls and stone.

Stoick's face deepened into a murderous scowl as he made for the door upon the wall.

"Dad, wait!" Hiccup paused in the storing of his lock-box to make one last gesture for his father. Stoick slowed only briefly to look to his boy as he stood halfway in the hole in the wall, looking furious as ever for having his favourite night of the week ruined by a murderous flock of dragons.

"What is it! Make it quick." The man grumbled tiredly in waiting for his son to continue. Stoick's eyes did not change their steely gaze when resting on the boy, whence the nervous disposition of Hiccup.

"If you don't mind, I would like to help out at the forge with Gobber." Stoick sighed heavily at the request from the boy, one that he has denied many times over in the years where Hiccup found himself a natural gift with being a blacksmith and wood-wright.

"You know I don't want you out there. It's bad enough with the dragons about!" With that, he slammed the door shut, letting it bounce back open, followed by the resounding sound of heavy footsteps going out the house, and an aggravated young boy to stare at the hole.

Making sure of the safety of the papers and drawings, Hiccup lastly slipped quietly out his room, and into the main space of the house, doing so via the single-cut stair that disappeared into the roof. Taking a moment to stop at the display box settled into the left-hand side of the room, Hiccup gazed at the hanging shield depicting a brave viking lass fending off a two-headed beast. He put a hand against the woodwork and gazed across the artwork.

"I wish I was a fighter like you, but I will make you proud..."

With that he moved to the frontward door and heaved it open, disappearing into the fray that was a dragon raid.