Chapter 3, everybody! I know this week was supposed to be an update for The Things We Do For Science, but I hit a small delay on that one so have an update here instead. ^^;
Those of you who follow me on Tumblr might recognize a bit here from one of the Six Sentence Sundays I did. Dragonbite vipers are something from Tui T. Suitherland's Wings of Fire series, and seemed like they'd fit here.
Big Hero 6 © 2014 Disney
How To Train Your Dragon © 2010 DreamWorks
It was after sundown by the time he found the proper landmarks that directed him to the spot he wanted—the whole time weighed down by a little dragon clinging desperately to him, something that took both arms to manage. Really hoped he could find his stuff later, because he wasn't able to carry it now.
Probably a good thing, he reflected—the dragon was trembling bad enough now without being close to weapons that would probably make it panic, and he needed this thing to like him, trust him—at least, if it was going to be his ticket out of here.
If not, it could certainly be his ticket to the top.
He put those thoughts on the backburner for now, focusing on slipping through the crevasse in the rocks with a little dragon that insisted on staying pressed against his chest—finally managed to get it to perch on his arm, balancing precariously as he squeezed through—
"There we go," he announced, once they were through, bringing his arm back in and letting the dragon press in close. "Not bad, is it? There's food and water and shelter and an entrance too small to let bears or wolves in." Not that he thought there were still any on Yokai, but you never knew.
And best of all, the walls of the cove were too sheer for the dragon to climb out, and it certainly wasn't flying anywhere with a bad wing. The entrance he had squeezed through was a problem, sure, but he was certain he could puzzle a way around that. No, he was pretty sure the only thing he had to worry about was it accidentally drowning in the pond over there.
And probably peeling it off of himself, at this point.
Dark had fully settled in and his eyes had adjusted by the time he conceded defeat, lest he get further scratched up—no going back to the village tonight, not with a live dragon clinging to him. Blundering around in the dark after wood to start a fire wasn't too appealing either—no, he was looking at a cold, miserable night out in the woods because of some stupid clingy dragon.
He managed to lay down against a boulder, felt around to see if there was anything decidedly nasty lurking…probably not. Snake meat had been in vogue for a while after most of the larger animals had been hunted to extinction on the island; there was precious little left as far as living animals were concerned.
"I hope you're worth all this," he said, directing his ire to where he was pretty sure the dragon still was, claws digging in his vest and sweater and poking through the thick material. "You've been nothing but trouble so far."
He got a little warble in response, claws digging in deeper—well, he supposed he had slept in more uncomfortable positions. At least the dragon was somewhat warm.
It took forever for sleep to come.
"Now remember: no grandstanding, no showing off, no flying off on your own—you stay on my tail, all right?"
"Right," he had said, rolling his eyes—he could have flown south and found one of those colorful parrots and gotten the same result, the number of times Older-Brother had told him this on the flight over.
"I'm serious," Older-Brother said, looking at him as the others flew into position. "Don't make me make you stay with Honeysuckle."
"I am going to be right on your tail the whole time," Little-Brother said staunchly, not wanting to be relegated to the supervisory flight pattern—it was fine, it was important, he'd see everything, but it wasn't the same as actually flying in the thick of things.
Older-Brother searched his expression, nodded finally, twitched his wings.
"Okay," he said. "Stay on my tail."
And stay on his tail he did, glancing aside at the action but always keeping those black fins in his vision, savoring the flight, the quick course corrections, the adjustments to the wings and fins when a burst of heat threw them off—first one tower fell, then the next—
He couldn't help the wild whoop as Older-Brother blasted the last of the towers, grinning madly as Older-Brother looked back at him, triumphant—
And then something slammed into him—the ground rushed up—
The last thing he heard was his brother screaming.
Little-Brother started awake, ears upright, claws tight, breathing rapid—glancing around frantically—this wasn't the nest—this wasn't—
A noise beneath him told him he was digging his claws into something soft and fleshy—
Jump back, swallowing his startled scream, claws digging into sandy sod—don't even breathe, don't even—
The not-dragon rolled over, still mercifully asleep.
Little-Brother let out his breath in a hiss, recalling what had happened after the events of his dream—waking up, bound and downed, in the middle of an unfamiliar forest where anything could get him—he had screamed for Older-Brother, hoping he was still flying around, searching for him—
But he had heard the Mountain-King's call, knew everyone had to return….
They'd come back for him, right?
Maybe he could go back—do the check, do the check every dragon did upon waking up in the morning—tail fins, check. Tail, check. Dorsal fins, check. Wings—
Wings were where he ran into a problem.
He sniffed at his bound left wing, started to chew on the binding—smelled his own hot skin, remembered the horrible feeling of bone grinding against bone. Downed—broken wing—
A downed dragon is a dead dragon.
He glanced back at the not-dragon, the one that had bound his wing, had shot him down—he had smelled it on the ropes, knew it had tracked him down to kill him—
…So why hadn't it?
He stomped a foot, thinking—not-dragons were dangerous on principle, despite having no claws or wings or sharp teeth or fire or other breath weapon. They weren't even venomous.
But they could kill dragons. The softer general ones, the great shaggy horned Viking variety—
And these, the worst. Black scales on a dragon said that they were Night Furies, the fastest and most deadly of dragons.
Black hide on a not-dragon said they were a Yokai, the deadliest and most determined of all not-dragons. Greenscales had recommended Berk as a target for the next raid, despite it being home to Vikings—but as he had said, Vikings took live prisoners.
Yokai did not—Yokai killed dragons implicitly and with no hesitation. This one, with the furless black hide—this was a Yokai.
So why was he still alive?
He didn't know—what he did know was that his stomach was roiling. He hadn't eaten anything since the night before last, a whole fish because Older-Brother had told him he wasn't hungry—Mountain-King had first right to all food.
Mountain-King very rarely shared.
Sniff the air, glance at the pond, glance at the Yokai—it wasn't moving. Was it dead?...No, he wasn't that lucky, it was still breathing—not evenly, but it was.
He could kill it, he supposed—close up breath attack—he had enough firepower at this point for one good one—one good shot would do it.
…Attacking a sleeping opponent just didn't sit right with him though. His brother, sure, because that was play-fighting—attacking to kill…not while it was asleep. That was just…it was wrong. He could feel it.
His stomach rumbled again—he went to the water to get a drink, try to still it. Spot something flickering in the water—fish. Older-Brother had blasted a school on the way over, large enough to give everyone a fish or two—except Older-Brother, busy making sure everyone else ate. He was going to kill himself someday, worried about everyone else like he did.
He missed him terribly.
Older-Brother will come save me, he assured himself. He'll come, beat the Yokai, and take me home. My wing will heal. Hopefully. And hopefully Mountain-King wouldn't eat him for being useless.
The fish were catching the sun tantalizingly, sliver flecks deep in the water, drifting up close to the surface—he tried ducking his head in after one—missed—Swift-Strike was always better at that than he was. Scan the pool in frustration—
Spotted where some rocks loomed above it.
Rocks easy enough to climb.
Glance at the Yokai before going for the rocks, climbing up, claws digging in, slipping more often than not because he had only one wing available for balancing—he was going to gnaw that wing free, just as soon as he got some breakfast—
Balanced on the rocks above, looking down at the pool below—cool, deep, fish flickering within. His sharp eyes picked out the largest group—do it—do it like Older-Brother did—
Glance at the Yokai—but he only had one good shot at his age—if he wasted it on food….
No—no it wasn't a waste, food was fuel, and he could still shoot a weaker one afterwards, maybe—and he still had his teeth and claws—
His stomach would be denied no longer—he shot the blast.
Water gusted up, fish flailing away—the Yokai started awake at that—oh no get ready to run—
But there were stunned fish floating now, including some floating close enough that he could grab some. Slip off the rocks, on the opposite side from the Yokai, slink down to the water, keeping an eye on the Yokai as he tried to gingerly paw a fish close—it was sitting up, looking around, looking up at the exit, sighing—should have tried that first, idiot dragon—but if he just ducked into a hiding spot—maybe it would leave, maybe it would leave him be—
Too late—it had looked around, spotted him at the water.
He scrambled frantically for a Plan B, hooked his claws into the fish, flipped it up on land—pinched the tail between his teeth and flipped it towards the Yokai as best he could, thankfully getting it closer to the Yokai than himself.
"There," he said quickly, shuffling backwards, eyeing the exit. "Eat that—you don't have to eat me, eat the fish." Yokai definitely ate dragons, that was the prevailing rumor that adult dragons liked to share with young dragonets—downed them, swarmed them, ate them, wore their scales and used their bones for their dens. What did Greenscales wail when Mountain-King was looking at him funny? "Not me—eat the fish. I'm—I'm all tough and gamey and stringy."
The Yokai was staring at him, something approaching confusion on its weird flat face, no muzzle at all—looked down at the fish, back up at him.
"Please eat the fish," he begged, muscles tensed, ready to flee.
The Yokai finally, gingerly, took the fish—Little-Brother breathed a sigh of relief—sucked it back in when the Yokai put it aside and stood up—brace to flee until it paced over to the tree growing near the edge of the cove, picking up fallen sticks. Was it building a nest? He didn't want to be food for baby Yokai if that were the case—eye the Yokai, start sneaking for the exit—
Its attention snapped to him immediately—he flattened himself against the ground, ears and sensory nubs pinned back.
It went back to collecting sticks, pointedly walked in front of the exit when it finished, deposited the sticks next to the fish, looked back at the exit, considering….
Little-Brother watched as it ripped a chunk of bark off of a dying tree and wedged it in the crevasse—could still get out that way, but the delay would be enough that it could catch him. There was only one surefire way of getting out of here, and that was straight up.
He couldn't do that with a bound wing.
He waited until it was distracted by its nest building, started gnawing at the ropes binding his wing—had to get it free, had to get out of here—
"Stop that."
Freeze—head shot up to see the Yokai glaring at him.
"Your wing will never heal up if you keep messing with it," the Yokai said, pointing a stick at him before going back to the nest that was really a very pathetic nest—what was all that noise anyway? Did Yokai communicate?
The point still stood that he needed to get out of here—glance at the pool, where some of the fish were starting to float over to the edge…sidle over to them, start pawing—make it think he had forgotten about escaping, kind of inch over to the exit…a weaker shot might get through the bark…but would he have to save it in case the Yokai came after him?
No matter if he escaped or not, he couldn't go without eating for much longer—snatch up the fish and gobble it down, stomach making all sorts of noises as the cool flesh slid into his stomach. Oh, he needed that—another fish, over there—
He had slurped up the second one when he realized that the Yokai's little nest was on fire.
He couldn't help but stare—pretty sure that wasn't intentional. Sure, some dragons accidentally set their nests on fire when they were working on them…didn't think Yokai did too. But then again, Yokai did fling fire around—
His ears shot up when the Yokai speared the fish and stuck it in the fire. That was…that was not normal. Dragons did not eat fish that had been on fire, usually—again, that was generally an accident. But this was intentional….
There was another fish, one of two left—the other one was floating near the Yokai. Debate…gingerly mouth the fish and edge over to where the Yokai was, making sure it saw him and keeping an eye on it to make sure it didn't decide to attack or just didn't want him to be near it…it was watching him carefully, but didn't seem inclined to attack. That didn't stop him from taking increasingly mincing steps though, cautiously sidling up to the fire that was pleasantly warm to his scales. Mouth starting to water from the fish, stomach wondering why said fish was not going into his stomach….
Spit the fish into the fire and then back up quickly.
One of the thin lines of fur that substituted for an eye ridge on a not-dragon sneaked up, but otherwise the Yokai didn't react. Go get the other fish, keeping an eye on the Yokai as he did—ear flaps up as the Yokai turned the speared fish. Definitely intentional. Consider the fish he had in his mouth…drop it and nudge it aside—he wanted a good-tasting fish if this experiment ended up tasting bad. Hiss weakly when the Yokai tried to poke his fish—it backed off. Okay…so maybe he had some leverage here. Or maybe it wasn't hungry enough to contest this.
Or it wanted him fat and full first.
He watched carefully as the Yokai checked its own fish, eyes slitted but watching him before peeling the skin off and eating the now-white meat inside—again, wondering if dragons and not-dragons had similar behavior. And while he was wondering….
It was hard to keep his focus split between the Yokai and the fire, since both were liable to bite, but he managed to quickly yank the fish out of the fire, scattering coals everywhere. Flip it around, trying to get the fire to stop eating it—half of it was still wet and fishy, the other half nasty and crunchy, unpleasantly warm when he ate it. It was not a good combination. He looked to where he had left his other fish—
Gone. Look around—on a stick, in the fire.
"Hey!" he protested, forgetting for a moment that he was barking at the most dangerous breed of not-dragon known to dragonkind. Said not-dragon didn't seem impressed, eyes half closed, paw splayed against its flat muzzle.
He backed up a little, evaluating it—the toes on the forepaws were too long, claws useless little nubs on the tips. Articulated though, like he had seen on some fur-food. No scales for protection—no wonder they needed to steal the hides of other animals (now there was a scare-you-story, the idea that a not-dragon would find you when you were sleeping and steal your skin—told to emphasize the importance of not being lazy and falling asleep wherever). No fur either, except for two thin lines as eyeridge substitutes and generally a mop on the top of their heads (more when it came to shaggy Vikings). This one seemed to have fur that resembled some of the colorful parrots from way down south, with more of a crest on top with two stripes of red on one side.
Something else that made it different from other not-dragons he had seen from afar: the face.
Oh sure, it was flat and muzzle-less, mouth as mobile as their foretoes but not nearly big enough for biting, definitely didn't have the teeth for it, skin weird and pale and with a grayish cast, like it didn't have enough blood pumping beneath. All that was still normal for a not-dragon.
This one, however, had a pattern under the skin, on the left side—like half of a not-dragon's skull. It was faint—most not-dragons of any species probably wouldn't see it—but it was there.
Something ridiculous occurred to him just then—maybe this Yokai…maybe it wasn't a full Yokai. Maybe it was some sort of subspecies. Of the kind that didn't eat dragons. Maybe it only ate fish. And helped downed dragons that it had shot down to begin with.
It was still eyeing him, expressions smacking too close to dragon expressions to be calming, and it occurred to him then that he had basically been staring it down and that was bad dragon etiquette and it meant you wanted to start a fight—it was too late to back down now though—looking away was weakness—if he looked away, that was saying he was submissive, easy to attack—
The Yokai looked away first, surprisingly, with as much care as one would reserve for checking the sky to see if rain was coming—Little-Brother was vaguely insulted, as it turned the speared fish over, checking to see if there was any more of that weird white meat sticking to the bone, turned the other fish over so both sides were fire-nibbled (maybe that was the error in his experiment)—
Surprised Little-Brother by taking the half-fish off the stick and holding it out to him.
He stared at the half-fish, looked back up at the Yokai, searching its face—did…did not-dragons have the same customs about food-sharing as dragons did? You didn't share food unless you were very fond of each other, family—at minimum, wanting to be friends.
Did…did this Yokai…did it want to be friends?
No—no, Yokai were dragon-slayers—this one smelled like one too, all the different dragon-smells on it—there were only two ways to get that smell: be a part of a mixed flight or be bathed in their blood. This Yokai was definitely not part of a flight.
Did it want to be?
No—that was about as smart as letting a dragonbite viper into a nest—one did not simply befriend a Yokai.
But was it a full Yokai even? His eyes drifted to the left side of its face again, where that weird skull pattern was still underneath the skin. Was it like Nadder-not-Gronkle, a very obviously Gronkle that had been adopted by Nadders when it was still fresh out of the egg and its parents got eaten? Or was this all a ploy?
Its shoulders twitched, kind of like dragon wings when expressing meh, whatever—put the half-fish down near Little-Brother before returning its attention to the other speared fish, now brown and crackly on both sides.
The half-fish smelled much better than Little-Brother's attempt at fire-feeding. Eye the Yokai carefully, start to dip his head a little….
Consider. Did he want to do this? Let this Yokai think he was a friend? Maybe it knew dragon customs, maybe it was trying to get him to let his guard down. Was this poison? A poison that only affected dragons?
It was still watching him carefully—not in an anticipatory way, like you did when you were waiting for your brother to fall into your cleverly-laid-out trap; more in the I know you're getting ready to pounce and I'm planning accordingly way. It was…as concerned about him as he was of it.
Gently dip his head the rest of the way, mouth the fish, swallow it—dry and kind of yucky on the way down, but the fire-ate aroma was tasty in his mouth afterwards. The Yokai's mouth twitched before it went back to its fish, eventually sharing that one as well.
And when it did, Little-Brother had an idea—a crazy, stupid idea, but an idea.
His wing was broken, there was no denying that. This Yokai might—might, mind you—be taking care of him. If he went back to the nest now, Mountain-King would kill him, sure as sure—gobble him up for being useless.
What if he wasn't useless? What if he went back with information no dragon had ever had?
What if he went back with a detailed account of how Yokai behaved?
Granted, it was just the one, and one was enough—and it might not even be a full Yokai. But it was a not-dragon, and any information he could provide….
He made his decision, right then, right there.
He was going to train a Yokai.
