Author's Notes
Wow, what a state the world has found itself in since I last posted. Hopefully this at least serves to lighten everyone's day =)
I'd also like to thank Fizzlemcschnizzle for checking this one over for me, I'm beta reading his new story Point of View which is hilarious and you should go read it.
Stoick waited patiently, his fingers laced in front of him and his elbows resting on the stone table. Six other Chiefs sat around the same table, a large stone ring with a fire crackling in the centre that lit the room in a warm flickering glow.
He'd taken the liberty of rearranging the seats a little, knowing the Berserkers would not be present. They had not been invited to this particular Thing, and it seemed unlikely they would decide on a single leader any time soon; that was fine by Stoick's book, all the better if they fought among themselves instead of raiding everyone else.
The table was carefully crafted to a size that no Chief could reach another, provided both remained seated. Today, Stoick required a little more room than that, room taken from the fallen tribe. It was fitting, really.
With a loud crash, the main doors flew open, and each struck the walls with another crash. "Aigh' you lo'," Mogadon bellowed as he stomped inside, "le's ge'…"
The other Chiefs all turned to face him as he trailed off.
Vikings politics were fairly simple in principle – volume and impression directly translated to influence. Slamming the doors open made a much better impression than sitting at a table, so the last Chief to arrive – without stretching patience by being late – always made the best impression, while the first to arrive could impress nobody.
Normally, that was the case. Stoick had arrived early to be the first, and every single other Chief had done exactly the same as Mogadon had, because Stoick was making a far better impression by sitting calmly simply by virtue of doing so between the two Night Furies lounging on the table.
Thus rearranging the chairs, creating the extra room required that the other chiefs could not reach the dragons. Not that Stoick had any illusions that they could, even were they in striking distance, he knew what a relaxed Fury looked like and it was not like this; paws planted on the table, subtly ready to leap away, tails swaying and flexing instead of hanging limply, ears twitching at nothing.
Mogadon groaned under his breath and stomped up to take his seat. Like the other Chiefs, he still hefted the heavy high-backed chair from the table as a show of strength before settling into it, and his two guards took up positions behind him. He had done himself no favours with his timing, as the only remaining seat was the one next to Hiccup.
It was a delicate game Stoick played. He had to show strength and influence, but not too much lest the other Chiefs feel threatened, and nor could he show any weakness. Normally it was a ridiculous farce, no Chief wanted to be Chief of anything beyond their own waters for the logistic nightmare it would cause, but theoretically dragons could circumvent that problem.
"Well then," Bertha, the Chief of the Bog Burglars, announced, "now that we're all here I think I speak for everyone in demanding we get to the point o' this Thing." She was probably the most sensible of the Chiefs in the Archipelago – Stoick couldn't claim that title himself, not after what he'd done with his son and the dragon nest – and normally a firm ally, but she spoke with wariness and suspicion.
"Of course," Stoick agreed. "But first, remind us all of the rumour regarding the Berserker Chief."
There was a round of muttering, given they were all clearly familiar with it, but Bertha just narrowed her eyes at him ever so slightly. "That Dagur trained a dragon of his own, and you killed him to keep the secret for yourself."
Stoick nodded appreciatively, though his expression was dark. "That is a blatant lie. He attacked us on the back of a Skrill, unprovoked, and was captured."
"He slaves away in my mines as we speak," Chief Boulguhr of the Lava Louts confirmed, his deep voice akin to that of iron groaning under immense weight. "I have seen sufficient proof he is Chief no more, and part of our agreement is that you all may see him for yourself, just once." That had been a spur of the moment decision, a precaution given the presence of the rumour with both the Berserkers and Lava Louts.
"Now you, like I, are no doubt wondering where this rumour started," Stoick growled. "Well?"
Everyone looked around, as if expecting someone else to answer. "I… just heard it in the Hall," Bertha said slowly when it became clear nobody else would speak. The others muttered general agreements to that.
"In that case, I might know," Stoick gritted out. "While we were preparing to transport him, one of our kitchen staff made an attempt on his life. I regret to admit that she was an Outcast, though I know not from where." The sudden rising clamour was instantly cut off by a loud growl. "Thank you, Hiccup." The Fury chuffed; a far more effective silencer, amusingly. "Hold your accusations for now. On the way to Berserk, the Outcasts made another attempt on his life by attacking my ship with a fleet."
Here was where things got interesting. "Runa was more talkative when we returned, having thrown the Outcast leader off a cliff. The Outcasts spread these rumours, then tried to ensure they were true." First by slipping him a knife and hoping he'd try to escape with it, then by taking matters into her own hands. "I presume, to turn you all against me."
This was why he had started with the rumour. Without fail, every Chief looked at him as if he had personally planted Outcasts on their island, but not able to claim insult without being able to explain the origin of the rumour that had travelled far more swiftly than it had any right to travel.
The other side of that was far less clear-cut. Apparently Dagur had not come alone, but with some thirty hand-picked warriors. Rather than assault the village during the Skrill attack, several had washed up on beaches, dead by means of slit throats. The fight might have gone very differently if not for interference.
"Well, their leader is dead, and now you know the truth," Stoick summarised, carefully keeping his voice neutral. "Anything more on that before we move on?"
"Jus' get on wit' why you go' two dragons fer guards," rumbled Oaken, Chief of the Bashem Oiks.
"Aye," Stoick said agreeably; normally he wouldn't allow himself to be directed so easily, but carefully slipping perceived power to the other Chiefs was necessary to let them feel they had some control and would thus be more cooperative. "This is Toothy and Hiccup," he said, gesturing to the dragons respectively. "They are Night Furies, still young, that wandered into our village. I brought them as a show of faith."
"What," Mogadon grunted, "faith that you won't set them on us?"
"I doubt I could if I wanted to," Stoick mused, then looked to Toothy. "Would you attack him if I asked?"
Toothy raised his head to look back at him, snorted loudly, then lay back on his paws.
"You cannot be serious," Bertha breathed in disbelief. "They cannot possibly understand Norse." Everyone jumped as both dragons grunted.
"And they speak, to those who know their language. But we digress. It is past time we settle all this fear and suspicion over what we Hooligans have on Berk." He pointedly did not look at Mogadon. "I do not care what you think, but Berk has not and will not be using dragons for war. I do not trust any of you to do the same, but… if you can complete the Night Fury's challenge, he will go home with you, and perhaps even help you get more dragons."
That got everyone listening intently, whatever their motives. Hiccup had suggested it himself, apparently, and it was a good way to show the conflict in nature; Stoick's smirk was thankfully hidden behind his beard as he watched the other Chiefs' hands go to their weapons, their postures rise with determination. "All you need do is stroke him." He demonstrated by calmly holding a hand to Hiccup, into which the dragon pressed his forehead with a purr.
Madguts, Chief of the Murderous tribe, slammed a meaty hand down on the table. "Chief Madguts accepts the challenge," his assistant Gumboil translated unnecessarily; by birth, injury, or choice, Madguts did not speak in more than grunts, and the thick haywire beard covering his face kept anyone from knowing for which reason.
"Would you like some pointers?" Stoick offered as Madguts' chair was thrown back, grating loudly on the stone, but Madguts ignored him in favour of storming around the table.
Of course, even Stoick knew that was entirely the wrong way to approach a dragon, and put up a hand as the Furies snarled. "You have already failed," he said sternly, though Madguts did not stop until the Furies stood and showcased their wicked fangs.
Far from taking no for an answer, he drew his giant sword, a large and fearsome black blade with a human skull mounted on the pommel. Stoick put his hand to his axe, preparing to deflect a strike but not overly concerned; despite their intimidating postures, enormous presences to either side of him, the Furies would flee through one of the many exits if push came to shove.
"Do yeh think teh pet 'em with tha'!?" Mogadon shouted over the rasping hisses. "Si' down yeh lunatic!" At least someone had said it.
Madguts glared, then abruptly turned and strode back to his chair. He did not sheathe his sword, instead driving the tip into the ground and resting his hand on the skull. Everyone relaxed, and Toothy and Hiccup slowly lowered their wings and settled back down.
"You see that while it is easy, it is not so simple," Stoick said calmly. "Anyone can face down a dragon, sword in hand. But can you approach one as you would an infant? With no intent to harm, or use for harm? To trust them to roam your village and play with your children?" He snorted at the uncomfortable shuffling around him; even Bertha looked unnerved. "Like I said, not so simple."
"No intent to use fer 'arm," Oaken growled. "You gone soft or summin'?"
"Old, perhaps," Stoick admitted, "but we did fight off a Berserker army. With sword and shield, not claw and fang. Dragons do not partake in the Viking way of life, and I will not force them to. But I do have a more sensible offer to make."
Faces became grim. Usually when a Chief offered something from a position of power, it was the chance to surrender. Of course, Stoick wasn't suggesting anything of the sort; he knew he was setting up his tribe to one day rule the Archipelago, but that was only a side effect of the peace he himself wanted.
"I will give to all of you," Stoick announced in the silence, "a dragon and rider for a year. See for yourself."
This had been Fishlegs' idea, at first. He had suggested allowing the other tribes to hire dragons and riders, but Stoick and Spitelout had been far more devious. By giving all the tribes a dragon for a time, not only would they not turn down the opportunity and thus all gain insight into how they were used – and how they were not – it also would make them dependent on the beasts.
Once everyone realised the value of having even just one dragon, then they would be available for hire. There were a lot of details to sort out, such as handling living expenses for the stingier tribes, but there were answers to be found.
And all the while, Stoick was subtly placing a presence with every tribe. Not spies, but none would be able to assemble a fleet without his knowing of its arrival well in advance.
"First a strong slave, and now a pet dragon," Boulguhr droned. "One wonders at your generosity… Perhaps, however, coming from you it is not so surprising."
Stoick gave him a curt nod. Working with that helmeted snake was a necessary evil, his far from petty grudge would have to be satisfied with what would come in future generations. And probably also hiking the prices, when that time came.
"A dragon and rider will be dispatched to each of you in the spring, as they need training and are unavailable for the winter. They will remain until the end of autumn." He picked a bundle of rolled parchments from the floor and set it on the table, where it was carefully nudged over to Bertha by Toothy. Signed pledges to fulfil the promise, given how long it would take to deliver, but also to detail the obvious conditions and restrictions.
"They will be flying to you," he continued, "and will land on the longest dock to await greeting. If you feel that a trespass, I encourage you to build a platform separate to your island from which to speak from." That was also in the pledge, underlined, twice. It would do well to set the precedent now, and such a platform was already under construction at Berk despite nobody ever expecting its use. But who knew what the future would bring?
"That is all I have to say," he finished, then waited a short time for everyone to finish reading and give them a chance to ask questions. "You are all of course welcome to join me in my hall if you come up with anything later." With that, he stood firmly, showcasing a little of his strength in throwing the chair back, then strode to the door. It was opened by a Fury – more to protect their sensitive ears than anything – who then followed him into the light outside.
"Wake!" Dreamer barked happily, instantly energetic with his rise from slumber, and gummed Wanderer's ear, and then his face.
Wanderer simply put a paw on Dreamer's forehead and dug his claws in, warning him off.
Dreamer sat back on his haunches and stared at the Nightstriker's form in the faint light peeking through the mouth of their den. Why would he want to sleep? Dagur was gone for good, Alvin was even more gone for good, and his plan of hiring the dragons out to the other tribes was in motion. It felt like a brand new day, he felt like a brand new dragon, and he was keen to do something!
Like help find Stoick a dragon… Finally! But there was nothing he could do with that right now.
Nothing to do at all but wait for Wanderer to wake…
…
He was taking too long. He did not stir to a quiet, drawn-out whine. At a second, slightly louder whine, a big green eye cracked open, and Dreamer gave him a big smile with his tongue out, panting happily.
The eye drifted closed with a growl. Dreamer whined again, pawing at his friend's wing, which then shifted to cover his face. Dreamer huffed. How could Wanderer be immune to adorable Night Fury fledgling? Maybe he just needed to practice more…
Wrrr, there was another way that was sure to wake him. Dreamer quietly padded around to his back, settled in behind him, and set to grooming behind his frills, teeth skimming lightly over the smooth scales. Wanderer groaned, tilting his head and angling himself to encourage the ministrations towards his itches. Dreamer obliged, following a path around his neck, over his shoulder, onto his chest…
And then he bit him, sinking his sharp teeth into the sensitive hide of the inside of his upper foreleg.
Wanderer yipped as he flung himself to his paws, then prowled forward with a feral grin and a dangerous growl.
"Wake!" Dreamer chirped happily with a broad and toothy grin, backing up; there wasn't really room to flee in the cave, and Wanderer was blocking the exit.
To be fair to him, Dreamer lasted longer than he thought he would, dodging strikes and trying to throw the bigger dragon off-balance, but Wanderer always won when he wanted to. A tail came out of nowhere and knocked his hindlegs out behind him, and then paws grappled his neck and rolled him right over and into a pin. He struggled, but he couldn't get any of his paws onto the ground with his neck pinned on its side like this.
He froze at the sadistic purr in his ear, then let out a low, worried squeak. Wanderer shuffled, tightening the paws around Dreamer's neck, and then-
Dreamer shrieked and thrashed as Wanderer's hindclaws lightly raked down his belly. The leg was underneath his wing already, and hugging to him tightly so that he couldn't get his legs or tail in the way. He could do nothing but shriek in laughter and continue to writhe, both entirely involuntary reactions to the relentless torture.
Past the point he was struggling to breathe, as his laughs were becoming weary and hoarse, the overwhelming sensation finally ceased. He fell limp in Wanderer's embrace, panting heavily and groaning through his raw throat.
Wanderer huffed. "You happy now?" he grumbled.
"You awake," Dreamer chirped, then whimpered as the claws touched his exposed belly again.
With another huff, Wanderer pulled himself upright and shook himself off, then stretched with a wide yawn. "Why you so happy?" he asked with an amused murr. "And awake," he added with a grumble.
"Is good day!" Dreamer replied, bouncing on his paws. "No thing hunting us! Other nests good with kin! Alpha bond with scale-wing-hunter!"
"Just because you mate, not mean you make egg," Wanderer replied absently, then chewed at an itch on his side. "Grrr, I awake now. What you want do?"
Wrrr, the teens weren't due back from Dragon Island until afternoon, having spent a few days there to find several Spine-Tails and a selection of impressive specimens of various species for Stoick to consider. It was tempting to join them, but it was a long and boring flight, and there was a chance of meeting the Fire-Scale alpha in the fog… And Stoick himself wasn't due back until nightfall.
"Not know!" Dreamer barked cheerfully.
Wanderer groaned. "We hunt," he suggested, then trotted to the mouth of the den and flapped into the light.
They wheeled and whirled and generally flew a crazy path around the island to their preferred hunting grounds, trying to tag each other's wings and tail. Wanderer was still a far better flyer, they weren't even remotely close to evenly matched, but Dreamer was slowly bridging the gap. He was tagging more often with more practice, though still mostly down to luck.
As they soared over the channel through the middle of the large island, Dreamer ruminated on how… small it all seemed. A trek from the village to the northern edge of the island was a full two days' journey by foot, but by wing it would barely even register on the sundial. Visiting another tribe was always a huge task to plan, requiring days' worth of food and water to be stockpiled, and then of course actually spending days on end wandering around a boat and eating nothing but dried food.
Not to mention how fun flying was! He did a barrel roll, just to feel his heart skip as the weight seemingly departed his body. Of course, Wanderer then had to show him up by strafing along in front of him during a roll.
They had, at some point during the last two and a half years, hunted every prey-roamed area of the island, and while they tried not to focus too heavily on any one area, this one was their favourite, and Dreamer revelled in the cool, sweet air as they landed.
Dreamer began the hunt with an almighty squeak, because Wanderer had just swiped the tip of his tail before bolting off through the trees. He bounded after him, leaping from rocks and occasionally flicking his wings to adjust his landing.
This ravine sat in shade for much of the day, so there was a cool and damp feeling to the still air. Broad, soft grass grew in the loamy ground, around a littering of large jagged rocks that protruded at all angles. It made for quite a hostile environment, one that deterred the forest's wolves and thus acted as a haven for deer and sometimes boar.
His quarry paused to scent the ground, probably having found a trail, which allowed Dreamer to easily catch up and tackle him. That was inevitably a losing fight, so he just made it his aim to bat Wanderer's snout at least once.
"Here," Wanderer grunted as he stepped off of Dreamer, pawing at his nose. Dreamer rolled upright and scented the crooked tree, noting the scent of deer fur was strong and recent. "Male or female?" he asked testingly.
"Hrrr, female?" Dreamer hazarded, taking short sniffs of where the prey had rubbed itself against the bark. It didn't really matter, but these tests were helping him get a handle on his senses, particularly as the scents were much more difficult to read if they weren't draconic.
"Male," Wanderer corrected him, nosing around for the track. "Young male, easy confuse." He beckoned with a low bark and trotted down the gentle slope, keeping his nose to the ground.
It took a little time to find the quarry, a young buck with small antlers and a light pelt, carefully picking its way through the rocks. Dreamer found himself tensing his claws in anticipation, pulling his wings tightly to his sides and holding himself lower to the ground as he slinked along.
He was not fooled by the prey's tentative steps; deer were fast in this terrain. Their legs were long enough to clear most of the rocks, and their tall stature allowed them to plan further ahead. In comparison, Nightstrikers had very short legs and ran low to the ground, similarly to wolves, such that when the prey saw them coming it immediately disappeared from sight over the rocks.
But Nightstrikers' legs and paws were thicker than wolves', so they did not need to tread as carefully, and quick flaps of their wings could adjust their leaps in the air or carry them further.
They bolted after the prey, jumping off the rocks themselves and not even touching the ground, listening for hooves on stone on the odd occasion they lost sight of it through the sparse trees or around the odd boulder.
There was no thought, there could be no thought. Obstacles arose and were cleared within single heartbeats, immediately giving way to the next. Slowly, ever so slowly, they closed the distance between them and that perky, fluffy white tail.
But then, suddenly, the terrain levelled out. Dreamer hadn't even known of this part of the ravine, a rich green glade with ferns growing at the bases of trees and broad leaves scattered over the flat ground. For a fleeting moment, Dreamer forgot about the chase to gaze at his surroundings.
Wanderer shot past him, startling him from his brief daze, and his instincts gripped him again. He burned everything in pulling forward, squeezing every drop of strength out of his legs and every other muscle in his body. With its long legs, the prey was undoubtedly faster, but Dreamer had an advantage in agility when dodging between trees like this. The remaining distance closed rapidly, and then right as they reached the end of the glade and it leaped over the jagged rocks, he flicked his wings to get on top of it and jumped off its back.
As sure-footed as it was, being unexpectedly shunted downwards mid-leap was irrecoverable. Dreamer flared his wings, braking hard against the air, and landed on a tall, narrow, near-vertical rock.
A little shaky from his exertion, he lowered to the ground and padded back up to the kill, which Wanderer was sure to have finished off if its fall hadn't. True enough, his friend was busy rolling the prey onto its side so they could more easily feast on the tastier meats, as there was too much for them to finish alone.
Dreamer paused at that, then sat down with the carcass just out of reach. He hadn't really thought about it, but now… "We should wait," he panted.
"What?" Wanderer squeaked in confusion, lifting his head to look at him.
"Many Long-Paws come back this light," Dreamer explained. "Alpha come back, after we do good there. Fish-Legs return with more nest-kin. Long-Paws happy. We have much eating this night."
"Much eating in big-food-den?" Wanderer warbled, then groaned. "You say now? After we hunt?"
He considered the size of the prey, that its torso was a little smaller than his own. Additionally, Nightstrikers were heavy for their size, so the prey would be even lighter, relatively speaking. "We not can eat all this. We should give for much-food-thing."
Wanderer churred in dubious amusement as Dreamer straddled the prey, flaring his wings. If he could just get moving, it felt possible; it wasn't that heavy.
A hard thrust of his wings lifted him from the ground, the dead weight in his claws moving surprisingly easily, but it dragged him down too quickly to make that all-important second stroke. He growled in frustration as he hit the ground again, ignoring Wanderer's chortle.
His wings paused in the air, at the peak of an upstroke. If he could push himself to that limit again, give it everything he had, he could lift it, he was sure, but he'd already done that in taking it down. The thought of doing it again had the strength draining from his muscles rather than flooding into them.
Wanderer grunted and nudged his tail. "See." Dreamer stepped back and watched as Wanderer backed up a few body-lengths, then bounded forward and, in one smooth motion, grabbed the deer and pushed into the air. His wings worked frantically to clear him from the trees, but then he pulled out over the natural slope of the ravine and began flying more naturally.
Such a simple motion, but one that no doubt required much practice… Maybe when he hadn't just burned himself out. And had something in his belly. Hrrr, the downside of handing over their kill was that they still needed to find some breakfast somehow…
As he flew up and levelled out next to his friend, he stared wistfully at the catch. He had wanted to be the one to carry it, to prove that he could; he had all this muscle now, but what was the point if he didn't use it productively?
Though Wanderer was struggling a bit by the time they approached village, his broad wings stretched as far as they would go and regularly beating the air with firm downstrokes.
Not really knowing what to do with it, he flew to the back of the Great Hall, to the narrow ledge that led to the kitchen's back entrance. Wanderer landed heavily next to him, expertly dropping the buck right by the door, then pawed at the latch until it opened.
The racket inside wasn't too bad, the few pans for cooking breakfast meats and eggs both lighter and fewer than the numerous heavy pots brought out for dinner. Dreamer stuck his head inside and barked, inwardly grinning at the brief silence that followed, then backed out to allow one of the women, one he didn't recognise, to come see what he wanted.
He crooned happily at her and hopped over the deer, then nosed its shoulder and backed away. She stared at him, then the deer, then him again. "For us?" she asked.
Both Nightstrikers nodded, and she stiffly stepped back inside the door and started calling out. They would want it skinned and gutted, but no doubt they could summon whoever's job that was.
While she wasn't looking, Dreamer scratched at the ground in front of Wanderer and looked at him expectantly.
Wanderer faked a weary groan, then purred thoughtfully before scratching in the trodden dirt. When he was done, he barked to get the attention of the woman again, and pointed at the ground.
CHEES
Hrrr, not a bad choice from what was available from the kitchen. Fish was of course much better when fresh from the water, and they very rarely got cheese, being unable to cut slices from the block. Dreamer was surprised Wanderer even knew the word; most of it, anyway.
The reaction would never cease to be amusing. She stared at the word as if not entirely sure she was seeing it.
It had been a strange experience to teach a dragon to write. At first it was difficult to communicate the concept that the lines drawn in the dirt could have complex meaning. After days of no success, Dreamer got bored, walked up to the nearest person, and wrote the word "FISH" in the ground in front of him. He'd earned Wanderer's avid interest when he was provided with the fish he could smell in the startled man's pocket.
When he had then walked up to a young girl and wrote "BELLY RUBS" it sort of spiralled out of control and he lost track of what had happened after that, but the next time he checked on Wanderer he'd already learned to write his first and second words; both of them foods, of course.
They were far from reaching the point Dreamer could address the issue with Gobber, however, he had to wait until Wanderer was at least able to construct a simple sentence. Then it wouldn't seem entirely out of place.
Lumps of cheese in mouths, they winged out to their den, quickly dropped the treat at the back and leaped outside again. Cheese was not something to savour on an empty stomach, so first they needed some fresh fish, and given how much they had contributed to the village, it was only fair they took the easy meal.
When they'd only needed one or two fish, and had been tiny and impossibly adorable, the fishermen would happily toss them a satisfying meal. Now that they were bigger and required four fish each, they were apparently pushing the limits of how much their cuteness would buy.
But that was fine, they had other ways. Wanderer landed on the small boat, on the prow, and shuffled his paws excitedly. "Aww, you hungry?" one of the burly men cooed, totally ruining the sturdy and unbreakable Viking image he otherwise had going, then picked two fish from the haul and tossed them up to him.
While they were distracted, Dreamer lightly touched down behind them, carefully landing with the rocking of the waves so it wouldn't be felt, and quickly scoffed down four fish. He then backed up and did a little jump, getting the attention of the two Vikings, and stared at them with wide innocent eyes and a tilt of his head.
"Awright, yeh can 'ave some as well," the other man grumbled good-naturedly, and tossed him another two fish.
He chirped in gratitude around the fish in his mouth and bounded off the railing as Wanderer leaped from the prow, and they sped back towards their den.
"I not can believe we still can do that," Wanderer chuckled as Dreamer threw him the two fish, which were hastily snapped down.
"We Nightstrikers," Dreamer chirped in mock-offense as he trotted in to claim his cheese, from which he then shaved off tiny pieces with his teeth. Whuff, he had forgotten how strong this stuff was.
"But it not night," Wanderer teased back. "Also you terrible fighter."
Dreamer growled dangerously at him, but didn't try to prove him wrong. Not when he was fairly certain his cheese would get stolen if he left it unattended.
This sort of much-food ceremony was much more pleasant than others Wanderer had participated in. The Long-Paws were loud enough to pin his ears to his neck and still be uncomfortable, but it was a tolerable discomfort and more than worth all the food.
There was also that the Long-Paws here were less trying to convince themselves they were happy, and more showing the weary true happiness one felt after a fruitful hunt, or a long day of travel. It was certainly a much more pleasant environment to be in and observe, second to perhaps the one that occurred at the end of the cooling-season for some reason where one Long-Paw would stand up and tell humorous stories of Dreamer.
He tired of the bone he'd been chewing on, having depleted it of meat and marrow, and trotted over to the food. For the most part he could avoid getting within striking distance of the Long-Paws, but regardless he held his wings forward a little so that the wrists guarded his neck, and he suspiciously eyed any who neared.
Barely even thinking of that, being reflexive, he stood on his hindlegs to inspect the various foods. What did he fancy? Rrgh, not more cheese… He snapped down a fish, more for the satisfaction than the enjoyment, then glanced back at the land-prey he and Dreamer had caught, now skinned and heated so that the meat was soft and juicy… But then he had just eaten an entire leg of that.
With a shrug of his wings, he grabbed a big leg of a different land-prey and bounded back to the corner where Dreamer was still tearing into his meal, then began tearing strips off and savouring it as his teeth and claws easily sliced through it.
While he was finishing that off, thinking he would be done with a few more fish – he'd prefer some of the soft inner-meats, but the Long-Paws always did strange things with them that made them unappetising – Dreamer's Sire approached and slumped down on the ground next to them, staring out at the other Long-Paws. He didn't say anything other than to offer them-
Wanderer hastily grabbed the chewy, tasty fish out of his paw, and set to gnawing it. Mmrrrr, how long since he'd had one of these? They must have made more. The big Long-Paw chuckled, tossing one to Dreamer as well, then gently rubbed Wanderer's neck and stroked his frills.
He considered, while tearing off a long strip of fish and then gnawing at the delicious meat, that he was placing quite a lot of trust in the alpha to lay here like this. He doubted he would be able to react in time were the paw to push down and pin his neck to the ground, all but immobilising him, but he didn't feel threatened or in danger; no more than when Dreamer had teeth to his throat.
This trust wasn't something that had been earned easily though… The copiously-furred male had done much for the Nightstrikers over the seasons. Losing his fledgling had changed him, quite a lot…
He glanced at Dreamer, who was still chewing the tough and tasty head of the fish. Dreamer called him his sire, on occasion, but not Sire as Wanderer did his, and always with an edge of bitterness that pained Wanderer to hear; not that he disagreed with it…
But that was well in the past. Wanderer would never forgive the Long-Paw for what he had done, and what he hadn't, but he got the impression the Long-Paw would never forgive himself either. There was no reason to hold a grudge.
After snapping down the rest of his fish – it seemed much smaller than he remembered – he gave a loud, thankful purr and nuzzled the hand on his head. And then, with another glance between Dreamer and his sire, he rolled onto his back and playfully swiped at the massive paw.
Despite his playful intentions, the paw simply ran over his chest, stopping short of his full belly, and moved around in slow, firm motions that had him groaning and slumping back onto the stone. Yes, he definitely held quite a lot of trust for this Long-Paw… He was purring, quite involuntarily, despite his suddenly bared throat now that his head was laid back against the ground.
How deep was Dreamer's pain, to still growl in addressing his sire…
When Dreamer inevitably nosed his way into the attention, Wanderer simply looked up as the ministrations ceased. Rubbing and scratching their scales was all well and good, but not enough to begin mending the divide, to help Dreamer's pain scab over and heal. Like when they shed their hides, the deeper wounds would leave larger, stronger scales in their place, but only once healed.
Wanderer huffed and flipped upright, then hopped over Dreamer's sire's lap to his other side. He really was a big Long-Paw, with big dangerous hands, but the Nightstrikers were getting big themselves, and he didn't feel threatened. He lifted his forepaws and placed them on the alpha's shoulder to lean forward and poke his curious nose into the thick face-fur; it smelled of fur, and surprisingly, the fat of various prey.
And then it tickled his nose the wrong way, causing him to sneeze.
The alpha chuckled, lifting his other paw to scratch under his chin, but Wanderer didn't want more scratches. He growled and playfully attacked the paw – blegh, it tasted of rot-water – while grappling with the wrist. More chuckling, and then he was shuffling his hind legs as he was pulled this way and that, but that only intensified his playful growl.
The paw flexed, and his hindlegs were suddenly dangling in the air, leaving him supported by only his grip on the paw and a little bit by his tail, wings flaring for balance. Dreamer, no longer distracted by the other paw, pounced and nearly succeeded in knocking him over. Wanderer's hindpaws met the ground though, allowing him to shove forward, but the force was easily absorbed and then he was being pushed back again.
So instead of pushing, he pulled, and nearly succeeded in toppling the Long-Paw, but even with Dreamer grappling him from behind they just couldn't bring him down. They tackled and shoved and tugged with absolutely no success – and the alpha had the gall to just keep trying to scratch behind their ears, not even taking them seriously! Except when Dreamer actually climbed on top of him, standing on his shoulders, and he casually reached up to grab Dreamer and pull him down into his lap, then scratched behind his ears.
Though he wasn't actually pinned there, Dreamer gave up and relaxed, purring at the attention through his satisfied panting. Wanderer huffed and chewed his ear, though he was panting himself, then pouted at the alpha. One light, when we bigger…
But for now, he had much to get back at Dreamer for. He walked onto the Long-Paw's lap and settled himself onto Dreamer's back, shoving his head under the paw scratching at his ears and completely blocking Dreamer off from it while also pinning him there. He only grinned at the growling and struggling beneath him, purring and shuffling his hindleg a little to more comfortably rest between the spines on Dreamer's back.
The alpha chuckled again, then had him groaning happily with firm pressure over his back. He didn't want to sleep just yet, but he wasn't really being given a choice…
"Where's ya fight gone, eh!?"
Dreamer, sat off to the side of the lineup near the forest, cringed at his sire's harsh tone, then glanced sympathetically at the Nightmare that had snapped at Stoick and subsequently been firmly encouraged not to snap at him again. It was still early, and Wanderer still wasn't up; waking him two days in a row felt like a dangerous thing to do, particularly after the feast last night…
"If you're going to bare your teeth, at least don't cower when I do the same," Stoick growled, stalking over to the Nadder Astrid had picked out.
"Nightmares might seem strong, but they're mostly just full of hot air," Astrid explained self-importantly. "What you really want is a Nadder. Even hotter fire, sharp spines for range, and much less temperamental. You won't find a dragon more loyal."
"Like how she was the last to return from the nest?" Stoick growled, then paced around the dragon, looking it over and making vague noncommittal noises. He didn't sound very impressed.
"Ah, careful Chief, Nadders are very vain, you need to always treat them with the-"
The Nadder hissed and swiped threateningly at Stoick with the talon on her wing, then warbled smugly and began preening. Stoick gave Astrid a flat stare and moved on.
The twins were standing either side of a Zippleback, and a big one at that, about as big as Hookfang. Actually, come to think of the dragons at the warm-nest, Hookfang was not a very big Nightmare…
"Ignore those two, they got nuthin' on a Zippleback," Tuffnut said dismissively, then dropped into a dramatic pose with accompanying voice. "Always alert, always aware, twice as smart as other dragons for having twice as many heads!"
"Cheh, yeah, when they get along," Ruffnut drawled, as if to herself.
"Ignore her too, Chief. Thor knows I try to…"
"What was that!?"
Stoick barely spared them a glance and walked right on past.
"See, what you really want is a Gronckle," Fishlegs explained matter-of-factly. "They might not look as fierce as a Nightmare, but-"
"I've heard enough," Stoick said, cutting him off, and walked past him to find himself staring at Dreamer.
Dreamer tilted his head at his sire, wondering what he was going to do now. He'd rejected all the dragons in the lineup-
He froze at the considering look the big man was giving him.
"None of these dragons are any good," his sire suddenly announced. "Show me something else." He then turned and strode back to the village.
Had he really, even for a moment, considered… Dreamer had a hard time not bursting into laughter. Even a fully grown Nightstriker would struggle to carry such a big passenger for any length of time, and certainly wouldn't be very fast or agile while doing so.
For that matter, no dragon would be particularly fast while carrying him, but other dragons had qualities besides being fast and agile. Wrrr, Nightstrikers were also silent, and adorable when they wanted to be, but neither of those qualities were of particular use to a Viking Chief.
"Man, now what're we going to do?" Tuffnut groaned at Fishlegs.
"Umm… I think that Timberjack's still nesting up on the north mountain?" Fishlegs replied uncertainly, scratching his round cheek.
Dreamer couldn't help it, he did laugh at that. Timberjacks had long and delicate bodies, with giant wings for gliding long distances. They were even further removed from what a Chief needed.
"…Yeah, Hiccy's right," Tuffnut drawled. "But we haven't got anything else. We'll just have to keep our eyes out. Not, like, outside our heads. Just, you know… Wait, what does that mean?"
Astrid walked up behind him and slapped him on the back. "We get it, Tuff, don't hurt yourself. There's plenty of other dragons in the book, we'll just… have to go looking for them."
"I feel obligated to point out I have no idea how to train any other dragons... Or, for that matter, how Hiccup knew how to train ours." He stared pleadingly at Dreamer, but Dreamer just smiled innocently at him. Of course he would help, but Fishlegs needed some confidence in approaching new dragons himself. "Fine... I'll… go looking through the old Book of Dragons. See what I can dig up."
Right, the book that consisted of advice composed almost entirely of 'kill on sight'. What could possibly go wrong?