A nest of four tiny Spine-Tails, their quills nothing but blunt stubs and their eyes far too big for their heads, which were in turn too big for their bodies, peeped and climbed over each other in trying to escape the little rock basin and get at Dreamer. Barely a week old, and already curious about the world. Dreamer hummed adoringly, wary of Storm-Fly's intense gaze on him, and crouched low to the ground to shuffle forwards.
A sharp beak somehow got a grip on his face almost immediately, though the hatchling was just so small he barely felt it as it climbed its way onto his head. He stilled, not wanting to jostle the unsteady hatchling and risk it tumbling off, which then allowed its three siblings to follow suit.
The tiny claws digging into his back tickled and itched, urging him to stretch and scratch, but he didn't dare move. Storm-Fly clucked amused, mirth, picking up the hatchlings one by one to them back into the basin with a carelessness that almost had Dreamer cringing. But he knew Storm-Fly wasn't a careless or insensitive dam, and the hatchlings just rolled around in the crushed shell fragments and went back to climbing over each other or trying to reach Dreamer while he rubbed his back against the ground.
Kingstail drifted in shortly after with a deep squawk, immediately getting the hatchlings attention. They all reared high, cheeping at the top of their tiny voices and reaching up with their open beaks. The male Nadder quickly engulfed them in his maw, a wet heaving sound more than enough to work out what was going on. He then looked at Dreamer warily, and leaned in to scent him. "Why you here?" he asked.
"Want see your hatchlings," Dreamer replied, crouching in submission, not-threat, as Kingstail glared at him. "They very good, healthy, very happy," he chirped, shying away; there wasn't any room to retreat to, directly behind him was sheer cliff and to either side were more Spine-Tail families who would be even less accommodating.
Storm-Fly swatted her mate with a wing, then preened his neck. He spared Dreamer a last suspicious look before feeding Storm-Fly her breakfast and taking off again, presumably to fish for a meal to keep for himself. Dreamer was somewhat thankful he had skipped that particular part of dragon upbringing.
A particularly adventurous hatchling managed to climb its way up the little walls trapping the clutch, then hopped over to Dreamer. Storm-Fly initially made to retrieve it, but hesitated, and settled back down next to the rest of them. She was trusting him with her hatchling… this tiny, defenceless little Spine-Tail who didn't even know friend from danger. It cheeped happily at him and inspected a paw he held out, then Dreamer's heart melted as it nibbled at his claws. "You already ate," Dreamer cooed playfully, but then suddenly wasn't so sure of that. The other hatchlings were all curled up and dozing, while this one was busily trying to swallow his paw.
"I can feed them?" he chirped at Storm-Fly, dreading the answer; he had no idea what he was doing. "Seems hungry."
Storm-Fly warbled thoughtfully, her head twitching around as if inspecting him. "Yes," she eventually agreed.
Okay… He stared down at the hatchling, but there were no buried instincts to be found. Wrrr, nothing to do but just go for it, he supposed…
Feeling around his own lunch was still strange, and he wasn't helped by the hatchling quickly recognising what he was doing and trying to shove its open beak into his mouth, tiny wings flared wide. Despite this, he managed to bring up one of the small fish that were found in droves in these waters – it was snatched from him even as he gagged on it.
Dreamer blinked and vigorously shook his head to rid himself of the sensation; he was still sure he would never get used to that. But as unpleasant as it had been, the hatchling eagerly wolfed it down, swayed drowsily, and curled up where it stood.
He purred in amusement and nudged it with his nose, finally managing to get a decent scent of it. "Is male or female?" he asked Stormfly; he couldn't actually tell, it just smelled young.
"Male," Stormfly replied, confirming his suspicion there was still more to learn. "Bring here."
Dreamer stared at her, then at the hatchling. How was he going to do that?
Of course, this must be why they had retractable teeth, aside from sharpening them every time they slid in or out. He closed his gums down around the fledgling, who slipped out of them without even leaving the ground.
Confusion, amusement, Storm-Fly warbled. "Teeth not hurt him."
Teeth could most certainly hurt him; they had done worse to a much older Spine-Tail. Instead, he shifted his weight back onto his hindlegs and gently grabbed the fledgling in his forepaws. It squawked grumpily at this new way of being carried as Dreamer walked the few steps to the nest on his hindlegs, then carefully lowered the hatchling down to the rest of its clutch. Its complaints quickly ceased as it found a warm little nook to snuggle into, and the hatchlings fidgeted and displaced each other until all were content. Storm-Fly then shuffled forwards a little and encased them in her wings, offering Dreamer a warm warble before settling down around her clutch, and Dreamer hummed appreciatively before hopping off the ledge and flapping into the sky.
"Was seeing Spine-Tail hatchlings how you dreamed?" Wanderer teased, pulling up alongside him. Dreamer chirped agreeably, refusing to react to the taunt. "We need catch more fish?" he asked when there was no further response.
"I could eat," Dreamer agreed; he didn't really need to, but it was something to do.
Wanderer chuffed, then started searching the sea below. "I not think you would feed," he said conversationally.
"He seemed hungry," Dreamer explained, smiling warmly at the memory.
"That good reason. I feed hatchling that look hungry once." He hummed warmly. "Happy I did."
"Why you give Long-Paw-me fish?" Dreamer asked, thinking of Wanderer giving fish, and gagging at the memory; which was odd, because he quite liked raw fish now.
Wanderer chuffed. "Happy I did."
Dreamer thought about that in confusion for a little while – then it clicked, and he banked over to swat at his friend even as they flew. "I not was hungry!" he squawked. "Or hatchling!" he added indignantly.
"But you were much small," Wanderer teased with a toothy grin, ducking away and deftly avoiding further assault. "Look very hungry. I feel bad for take your food, you had more need."
Growling at the tail in front of him, he chased it in wild paths through the sky, weaving and banking all over the place. It wasn't until much later that he was aware of the many eyes on them, watching their tight moves and undoubtedly impressive display, many of the parents and some of the hatchlings looking up at them. Probably out of boredom in the case of the former, but then again dragons didn't really seem to get bored.
Dreamer wondered if the latter would take them as role models, even briefly, and have better aptitude for the sky. Maybe time would tell.
For some reason, Dreamer hadn't wondered when the new dragons would be flying, but probably should have. They grew at an astonishing rate, several times larger over the next few weeks, and then the Nightstrikers were idly catching their breakfast when Dreamer noticed the increased activity in the air.
As had been the case so far, it was a clear day with storms on every horizon that refused to approach the island, though the direct light of the sky-fire would last less than an hour. That didn't bother the Nightstrikers in the slightest, and the other dragons seemed used to it, but it made sense to be fledging their offspring when they could actually see them.
It started slowly, but as Dreamer glided around and watched, more and more dragons joined them in the sky. It almost felt crowded, and he had to actually pay attention to where he was flying because there was a real possibility of crashing into someone.
The hatchlings had been flexing their wings since they were born, so it should have been no surprise to see how readily they took to the air, but Dreamer was still a little taken aback. His first flight had been maybe fifteen feet at best. These fledglings were leaping out over open ocean and easily gliding the half-mile or so back to land, though they were at least that high up too. Some of the Nightmares were even overshooting the mark and landing on the mountain, and as Dreamer watched, one went beyond that and had to be guided back. The Stone-Scales probably had it easiest here; while their fledglings frequently crashed into each other, they didn't have much chance of drifting very far apart, as might be the case of the other dragons.
Dreamer did not envy these parents as the morning progressed in a sort of practised chaos. Fledglings at least seemed to know where their nests were, though frequent cries of afraid, lost, were undoubtedly leading parents to stragglers. He recalled how easily he had picked out Storm-Fly's unique call in the warm-nest, however noisy it got. And there was certainly a lot of noise, newly fledged dragons roaring their success and happiness in their cute little voices, their sires and dams roaring their own joy and flying with them.
Chaotic as it was, there was a general flow to it, as hatchlings leaped off their parents' backs or from their mouths and sometimes fell a short way before finding their wings. As such, the exception caught Dreamer's attention, a small shape flapping ineffectually as it plummeted through the air.
Dread quickly overwhelmed Dreamer's jubilant mood. He watched, stunned, as the little Zippleback got upright at the last moment, flipped over backwards, and disappeared into the choppy waves.
Dreamer squawked in alarm and angled towards where it had vanished, it was a distance away but Nightstrikers were fast! But before he could get up to any speed, Wanderer swooped up in front of him with a stern, harried expression. Dreamer could only pull up and screech need, haste, fear!
Stern, pleading, sad, Wanderer crooned, putting himself in front of Dreamer's every attempt to get around him. "What you think you do?"
"I help!" Dreamer shouted at him. There was still a chance, he might still be able to make it!
"How?" Wanderer responded with a bark for emphasis. "You get it out of sea, then do what? Dam not can mind hatchling now when minding fledglings." Dreamer stared at him, breaths heavy in his chest but shocked into silence by the angry slits in Wanderer's wide eyes. "He not can fly back to nest, you carry him, yes, feed until he can fly, think is all good!" Wanderer continued, speaking Dreamer's objections before his mind could make them. "It not good!" he almost screeched. "No female want bad flier for mate! Bad flier not have good hunting! Not can protect self! Not can protect fledglings here, now! Just feel bad for whole life until killed in stupid fight!"
Dreamer simmered, hovering there in front of Wanderer, totally overwhelmed. He had no argument to the sheer cold logic suddenly presented to him, besides which it was now undoubtedly too late. Moments. That was all it had taken. It felt like a life should be worth more than that.
He lowered his head with a snarl of pure frustration, then threw himself backwards and flew as if he could escape the shriek of his own wings cutting through the wind.
Wanderer breathed a sigh of relief as Dreamer finally returned, late into the night, and gave him a tentative, pleased warble; there was only one other island to sleep on, barring the isolated and exposed tall-rocks jutting from the sea, and it was apparently home to a dangerous Long-Paw.
Dreamer carefully alighted on the small ledge, not meeting Wanderer's gaze. "I think about what you say," he said as he carefully arranged himself at the edge, tail draped over the side, to leave a small distance between them. "I still not agree."
"It difficult lesson," Wanderer sighed quietly, laying his head on his paws.
"I still could try," Dreamer persisted. "Things different now in Long-Paw nest."
Wanderer grunted, unconvinced. "We still fly, hunt, play. We still wing-hunters. What we are when wings fail us, also not have good hunting?"
"I was-"
"Runt, yes," Wanderer cut him off, feeling thorny at how little Dreamer seemed to think of his old self. "This not like that. This like… you not could walk for…" Rrr, how long did Long-Paws take to grow up? They were such slow creatures in many ways. "Pawfuls of cold-seasons." He sighed again as Dreamer remained unconvinced. "Flying not just thing wing-hunters do. It thing we need. Grounded wing-hunter is easy prey."
"So we just let them die?" Dreamer asked quietly.
"I not like it," Wanderer growled right back, "but better than living with no life. Better than having hatchlings that also not can fly." He huffed at Dreamer, then waited until he was looking. "You were grounded, hunted, hurt, afraid. You not wanted live then."
Dreamer growled angrily at him. "Not turn that on me!"
Wanderer blinked, momentarily caught off-guard by the strange arrangement of words, but caught the general meaning. "That how you want that hatchling live. Always fear, hunger, pain. You not want live that."
They lay there in tense silence. Wanderer knew he wasn't going to sleep easily, but nor did he want to fly. So he just lay there, looking down on the various wing-hunters and their freshly fledged offspring.
"I…" Dreamer sighed, and turned to look at him with pained but gentle eyes. "I not say I could fly those winds better than you," he said quietly, and Wanderer winced; he supposed he had been too specific in frantically trying to reason with him for his clever Dreamer to miss that detail. "But things different now. Maybe not enough, but we not know if we not try."
Wanderer let out a low moan, vocalising the tempest of pain, sorrow, regret he felt within to clear his head a bit. "We fledglings also," he reminded Dreamer. "We fledglings when these clutches fly their nest. That not thing we can do now." He lifted his head and shuffled so that he was lying proudly, as he remembered his sire doing when watching for threats. "I know you dream, curious Nightstriker. I will follow you into hunter jaws, if you want go." He chuffed. "Even if I think I then need save you from hunter jaws. But…" Deflating a little, he looked down at the sleeping families below. "This not thing I can save you from. Maybe you, clever Dreamer, could save hatchling too weak for fly. Maybe you could make them happy, make their hatchlings strong. But I not want you feel that pain if you not can do. I… not want feel that pain again." He offered a tentative nuzzle, though Dreamer flinched slightly at his touch. "You not can fix all bad things."
Dreamer warbled neutrally, perhaps understanding but not wanting to accept it. That was progress. It was also possible he was intending on spending the next three seasons planning for the next cold-season's clutches, but that was fine also. It was simply Dreamer's way, and he would change targets if a bigger thing to fix came up.
They lay awake for a long time, but Wanderer eventually did drift into sleep. And, as he fidgeted just before the sky-fire kindled, he groggily discovered they'd snuggled up to each other at some point in the night, his head nestled into Dreamer's chest with Dreamer curled up around him. Though there was activity from the others on the small-land, the world starting to wake, he draped a wing over them both and settled back down with a purr.
Could it be a product of imagination that the air smelled crisper, the sun felt warmer, and the island of Berk looked more inviting than ever?
Probably, but Dreamer didn't care. The winter had been long, and while sleeping out in the open had been nice, he was longing for the security and safety of a secluded cave. Even more so after spending a whole day trying to head off dragons trying to abandon their fledglings at the warm-nest and then screeching danger to those they had missed or who had tried anyway. Thankfully, Storm-Fly and the other Berkian dragons, at least the ones they had convinced previously, had got the message and not tried that again.
"Hiccuuuuup!" came a loud, drawn-out call in Fish-Legs' voice, drawing attention to the rotund Viking standing at the top of the docks. "…Toothyyy!" came a slightly less enthusiastic call a long moment later, presumably when Fish-Legs realised he needed to address both of them equally. Wanderer snorted in amusement, unfazed by if he was acknowledged by the teen or not.
Actually, not a teen for long. Their year group was eighteen with the spring, and officially adults. That would mean very little for Fish-Legs and Astrid, both already contributing greatly to the tribe, but Snotlout and the twins would be pushed more firmly into finding work now, and would also have more say in Things among their own families.
And the Nightstrikers were now three years old. Those years simultaneously felt the longest Dreamer had ever lived, and yet somehow also the shortest, as if they'd dragged on in the moment but were now distant and inconsequential in memory.
"Where'd you go off to!?" Fishlegs asked in a harried tone as they landed, trotting up to them and stopping just out of reach.
Dreamer ignored him in favour of busily stretching his wings and body. They hadn't hung around for the Berkian dragons that had still needed convincing, and Nightstrikers were fast, but it had still been a lot of flying over the last two days what with their stop at the warm-nest.
He was only finding out what Fishlegs wanted, and then they would-… Nope, scratch that, Wanderer just huffed and trotted back to the cliff, then hopped into the air and coasted towards their den. "We fly far," Dreamer offered tiredly.
"But where?" Fishlegs squeaked. "Why? When half the dragons didn't come back, we were worried!"
Wrrr, Dreamer hadn't expected the flock to split up like that, though he really should have. "Stop scale-wing-hunters leave fledglings at warm-nest."
Fishlegs stared into the distance, working his way through the words until realisation dawned. "Oh! Oh, yeah, that makes sense. So what was it like there? Were there lots of Gronckles? How did they deal with the cold? What was there to eat? What did they feed their hatchlings?"
The barrage of questions continued until Dreamer groaned tiredly at him. "I want sleep. Any thing I should know?"
"But, but…! Fiiiine… Uh… yeah, actually. Heh, it's kind of a funny story. So, you know the dragons we picked out to send to the other tribes?" He waited patiently for an answer, though Dreamer just glared at him and wished he'd get on with it. "…Yeah? Well, I realised over winter, two of them are female. Not a big deal though, we'll just have to replace them with some of the males we've already got."
Dreamer continued staring until he realised the problem. "They not can leave fledglings," he groaned; while the sire was free to leave with the spring, the dam would stay with the fledglings as far as through summer, from what he had seen. At least they already had a plan around it.
"Yeah, Bjorn doesn't really want to go but Stoick's probably going to order him to it."
"That good," Dreamer sighed. "I need say thing also." He walked to the cliff and looked down at the docks to the small scene that was already unfolding below. "You should get alpha," he suggested.
"What? Wait, is that a Thunderdrum? Ohhh Thor, oh Thor, what's it doing here!?"
"Follow us back," Dreamer mused. It had spotted them on the last leg of the flight and skimmed the water below after making itself known.
"Why aren't you more worried? Wait, is that the Thunderdrum?"
"Yes," Dreamer chuffed. It looked as if his sire would be getting a dragon after all, which gave him a giddy, happy feeling.
"Huh. Yeah, I'll go get him. Oh, but before you go, there's one more thing you should know about this year…"
Long-Paws did many strange things; they went to the effort of catching prey only to toss it into a den and leave it there for anyone to take, left prey alive apparently to just watch it eat, mutilated trees in a variety of ways, shaped trees into strange shapes and then mutilated them, let water go to rot before drinking it, the list went on and on and on.
But today, what looked like every Long-Paw in the nest was crowded around the wing-hunter dens to watch just a pawful of fledglings play. It was absurd.
Wanderer let his head fall to his paws with a groan as the Long-Paws cheered and Dreamer winced. The fledgling-alpha, Astrid, had just fallen off a wide tree, which was really no surprise with it being on its side and spinning rapidly. The rock-head, Snotlout, was the last standing on the tree, and hopped down while waving to the masses surrounding the hole in the rock.
One of the Long-Paws sitting upon a tall rock hummed incoherently into a metal thing that distorted what were presumably words, and the crowd called out again. Now they were removing the spinning tree and setting up some trees that had been taken apart and put back together to look like trees again, fat and short ones with no branches. Some of them had round marks on the ends. The fledglings then took turns throwing claws at the trees to more shouts and jubilant cries from the crowd.
Dreamer suddenly roared happily, and watched with a goofy grin as another Long-Paw used a stick to make a mark on a wall. Incomprehensible Long-Paw logic. Wouldn't it be more fun and productive to be throwing claws themselves, instead of watching the fledglings do it? It was just as important for adults to play, to continue improving their fighting skills and to stay strong and healthy. Dam had told him many times to stay playful, as it was very attractive to potential mates, which only made sense.
Unlike whatever was going on here.
"You not want know what happening?" Dreamer asked, though his attention was on the scene below them.
"Hrr, yes," Wanderer replied, lifting his head again to better look down at the fledglings as they talked heatedly with one another. "I want know when this will stop, not can sleep with this noise." Were it not for Dreamer, he would be somewhere out on the wind by now, or perhaps sprawled out on a rock basking in the sky-fire.
Dreamer snorted at him and stood to stretch his wings. "Younger fledglings do things now, for most this light." He then purred heartily. "Also more things next light. Things with scale-wing-hunters!" He bounced excitedly. "I think we would win, if not hatch again. Could finally…" There were several incoherent grumbles with an underlying growl.
Wanderer stretched and yawned, then hopped off the narrow ledge and soared up around the west side of the big small-land, towards their old den. He wanted to sleep and relax, and with their imminent shedding it was important to get much rest now while they still could; he could already feel it scratching under his hide.
"Show me word-marks," Dreamer requested, pulling up alongside him. "Yes, then we can sleep."
"Why?" Wanderer huffed; he would prefer to go straight to doing the latter.
"I want use them now," Dreamer explained. "Need talk. Stop bad thoughts."
Another Dreamer thing. Wanderer huffed again, then landed on their little beach and proved to Dreamer he could arrange multiple Long-Paw word-marks in the sand without assistance. Sure, it was only explaining that he was hungry and wanted fish, but what else would he want to say to them, if even that?
Dreamer purred happily, then pounced at him. Wanderer reflexively leaped away, suddenly energetic in their race around the beach, but Dreamer caught him quickly and promptly held him down to drag claws down his back. "Why you run?" he asked cheekily.
A contented groan was all Wanderer could manage as the claws soothed the deep itches he could not easily reach himself. Yes, their shedding was only nights away, but they had each other to get through it.
Astrid ignored the latest jab from Snotlout, something lame about eating his dust and then wanting to go out with him later. Ugh. She knew there was a decent Viking under there somewhere – somewhere very, very deep – but he needed to learn to brag after the fact. Well, he no doubt would do that as well, but bragging before and after was just going to be irritating.
Which he would, were he going to be the one to actually win this. So she simply stretched and examined the crude map drawn on the wall, totally ignoring him.
"The route be as so," Much explained, tapping the map with an old broom handle. "Yeh run from here back ter the village, then down ter the bottom cliff where yer dragons be waitin'. If," and this part he stressed with a look at Astrid, "yer dragon does no stay there, tha's yer own responsibility. There be no do-overs."
Astrid smirked; Snotlout's disobedient dragon would not get him out of losing to her, she had made sure of it.
"Once yeh get on yer dragon, fly southeast ter the flagship, then back through the sea stack maze, an' back 'ere. On yer marks, ge' set…" Clang!
Astrid was off the moment Mulch's hook connected with Bucket's bucket, though much to her chagrin, Snotlout was even faster off the mark. He pulled ahead, and though she quickly got herself up to a comfortable speed, he was still slightly faster. That would only come back to bite him though, Astrid had run this journey many times and knew that pacing was key.
The cheering of the crowd faded behind them, though she could still feel her father's eyes on her. He had been only encouraging, but there was a veiled excitement to him, a life to his eyes she had not seen since… since her mother died.
She put a hand to the axe at her belt, with her even now, that had belonged to the amazing woman, given to Astrid as a gift when she first started Dragon Training. She hoped she was watching from Valhalla, to see her finally beat the crude and boastful Jorgenson family, who had never lost a Thawfest Games as far back as anyone knew.
As they entered the village proper, Astrid had to slow down a notch. Snotlout was sprinting, and it was sure to be having an effect, but she was unwittingly matching him and didn't want to tire herself out. Flying hard was a strenuous task. Still, it hurt to watch him slowly pull farther and farther ahead, and she could imagine Mulch calling it out back at the ring, her father drooping in disappointment while still urging her on.
But this was where it would turn around. She reached the bottom of the village, unfortunately devoid of a confused and frantic Snotlout wondering where his dragon had gone, and threw herself onto Stormfly's back, strapping herself in even as they took off. She urged Stormfly forward, towards the distant speck that was Hookfang's giant wings taking huge strokes of the air. He already had quite the lead, but it wouldn't help him. "Come on girl…"
The wind pressed against her, pulled at her, whipped around her and battered her as she huddled to her dragon's back. Being unable to see forwards with the invisible assault, she peered to the side to try to get an idea of how far they were – and was surprised to see a Fury gliding next to her. His eye turned to look at her, and his face perked, though he did not turn his head. Then his mouth curled into an eerie smile, full of teeth, and he flapped hard and quickly pulled past her. Show-off…
The turn around the boat squashed her into the saddle, and in the brief reprieve before they picked up speed again she was able to find Snotlout ahead of her, but much closer. She'd closed well over half the distance, and success boiled in her veins. "Not this time, Jorgenson!" she shouted at him, though there was no chance of him hearing.
They were suddenly in the sea stacks, and Snotlout's lack of foresight was costing him. He trained the same way he worked out, for pure strength alone, because that was the Viking way; become strong enough to smash any obstacle, whatever its nature. Hoffersons saw the value in leverage. Approach from the right angle and even larger problems could be overcome; such as a maze of sea stacks, far too solid to be ploughing through. Even still, he wasn't bad, and Hookfang was big. They were hogging all the room, and it was difficult to get around them.
Then Hookfang clipped a sea stack which turned out to be less solid than it seemed, taking the impact with his legs and carrying on, and Astrid was forced to swerve aside from a cascade of boulders. Working through the far side of the maze, she had further to fly, but there was nobody in front of her; she should have done this in the first place. They powered through, weaving and rolling in what Astrid liked to think was a fair comparison to Hiccup's apparent first flight on Toothless.
They abruptly emerged into open air, suddenly leaving behind the cramped confines of the maze. Snotlout was right there.
He watched her with dread written all over his face as she passed him. She just stared at him levelly, then streamlined herself and urged Stormfly forward.
They passed the finish line to raucous cheering and applause, Stormfly braking hard and trotting to a halt. She took a moment to catch her breath and work some strength back into her muscles before undoing the clasps, dropping to the ground as Hookfang ducked through the finish line and skidded to a stop.
The village was going wild, and she was quickly grabbed from her feet and thrown into the air in celebration. This felt almost as glorious as winning the old Dragon Training would have, but infinitely preferable, knowing what she did now.
Behind her, as she was carted away, she neither noticed nor cared about Snotlout, white as a sheet as he dropped from his dragon. The only person who noticed him was his father, who simply sighed and turned away to walk into the crowd.
That was a Thawfest Games nobody would forget, and it was about time someone took that Jorgenson whelp down a few notches; that family was insufferable at the best of times. So it was with high spirits that Gobber entered the forge and tossed his hook onto a bench, eager to catch up on the day's smithing-
And stumbled back with a surprised shout at the Night Fury sat on the bench at the back, hunched over something in the relative darkness. It looked up at him with a decidedly unfriendly expression for just a moment before going back to what it was doing.
…What was it doing? Probably not what he had been badgering Fishlegs and Tuffnut for since last year, both of them just kept telling him it wasn't that simple and that he had to wait; didn't they know how much iron he had lost to rust since then, how many locks and fittings he'd had to replace?
Speaking of whom, he looked around but didn't see either of them, or the other Fury. This one appeared to be here on its own. But doing what?
He edged closer, peering at the yellowing sheet in front of it, a bit of old paper. It was writing on it. A dragon. Writing. Hearing about it and seeing it were very different things. How the world had changed; would his next apprentice be a lizard too?
Whatever it was doing, it finished fairly quickly. It wiped its claw on the bench, licked it clean, then drove all of its claws point-first into the paper, piercing it. The Fury then stalked along the bench to Gobber and shoved the paper into his chest, the sharp claws painfully pricking into his skin through his shirt.
Stunned, Gobber reflexively brought his hand up and abruptly found himself holding the paper to his shirt as the dragon leaped straight from the bench, jumped off the counter and flapped away.
He watched it go with his mouth hanging open for a full minute before remembering the paper. He had to squint to read the crude letters, and many words had been misspelled and occasionally crossed out and written another way, but it was legible. More legible than he would credit most Vikings with.
Us both know someone who gone, the letter started. I know he think you very good. Talk about you much. You like father for him.
A strange mix of feelings bubbled in Gobber's somewhat large gut. A warm happiness, because he had suspected Hiccup had looked up to him but never known for sure. But also a cold dread, for the Fury's demeanour had been anything but friendly.
He want my kind and your kind live happy together. Me and brother want also. Not want be hunted.
Not want be trapped in your den, be give to bad person. He starve us, hurt us, try make us slaves. I still have bad dreams. Now you want more? We not prey for you take things from.
I disappointed our friend wrong about you.
He read the note again. And again. Then he went into the back room and poured a mug of ale from his 'one of those days' stash, then read it again. It just didn't feel real. He wanted to burn it and forget it as impossible nonsense, but he'd seen the dragon writing it himself; the ink was smeared a little where he'd grabbed it while it was still wet.
He didn't know what to make of it. He didn't want to make anything of it, he was just a blacksmith; he did a lot of other things, sure, but a smith was who he was. But whatever he told himself, he remained uneasy, almost constantly aware of the old sheaf of paper as he continued working. As noon came, after a slow eternity, he caved in and retrieved it, started to read it, but then threw it into the forge. It still felt like the ashes were staring accusingly at him.
As the forge died out while the sun set, he packed up his tools and retrieved a barrel of mead, then headed straight for his old drinking buddy. The Thunderdrum, lounging in the lean-to that had been built onto the Chief's house, startled him with a snort as he approached. Since when had he jumped at dragons? He thumped on the door with a scowl.
Stoick opened the door, took one look at the barrel, and permitted him inside.
Gobber didn't remember much of the night – he at least hoped he hadn't talked about Hiccup, but strongly suspected he had – but when he woke the next morning in Stoick's living room, his friend gave him a pitying look. And a block of ice, which was appreciated.
He eventually arrived at the forge to find Tarbon already hard at work, to whom he grunted a rough greeting, and a jar pinning down a scrap of paper on the back bench which had been kept clear. The jar contained something clear containing swirls of suspended froth, and the note, in jagged and messy runes, simply said 'We give this, because we remember him.'
And just like that, Gobber felt another round of drinking coming on.
"He thinks he's people…!" There were some muted laughs, then frantic, giggling shushes.
Dreamer cast an amused glance over to where Ruffnut was hiding behind a wagon, then turned back to his sire's house. He didn't want to be eavesdropping by the door, which was slightly ajar, but by standing on his hindlegs at the foot of the stairs he was at the right height to just about pick up what was going on inside. Most of it, anyway.
Quiet footsteps announced Wanderer approaching. He looked at Dreamer, cocked an ear at the house, then stood up to listen as well. Suppressed wheezing laughter suddenly sounded from the wagon, behind which they could see Ruffnut's helmet and Astrid's hair, but they were only making it a little harder to listen in.
Bjorn, who had been sent to Meathead Island a few days after Astrid had wrenched the Thawfest Games from the Jorgensons' meaty fingers, had returned the same day. He immediately went under scrutiny, as it was well known he hadn't wanted the job, but he insisted he was turned away.
When the next rider had returned from the Lava Louts with the same story, it was clear something was awry. Everyone begrudgingly admitted Bjorn had probably been telling truth, then quickly moved on to what to do next. That was when the third rider had arrived from the Bashem Oiks. They had been met with swords and bolas, but quick reflexes had got the pair out of harm's way.
So Stoick had made a quick decision to visit the Bog Burglars. They had the strongest relationship to the Hairy Hooligans, probably even more so now with Astrid next in line for Chief, and they were the second to closest tribe, after the Meatheads.
"Yeah, she caught them," Stoick was explaining. "Weeded them out somehow, as Bog Burglars do. Surprised they got in in the first place…"
"Another Outcast?" Spitelout asked incredulously, and what was probably an obscene curse was lost under Wanderer's quiet growl.
"Aye, spreading nonsense about us spying and sabotaging."
It was Dreamer's turn to growl angrily. Why would anyone be so vehemently opposed to progress? How were some petty personal gains worth more than the benefit of all the tribes in the Archipelago?
And the nature of it… Could Alvin still be alive and causing trouble?
He flexed the claws that had raked through the despicable man's face. Injured, but they hadn't watched him perish. It was possible, however unlikely, that he had survived the fall and either swam to shore or been picked up.
Dreamer took a long breath to calm himself. This was supposed to be over, things were supposed to be better this year, just enjoying their last few months as fledglings while all his plans carried themselves out. And then they would be firelings, and he could do even more.
He listened to Stoick and Spitelout discuss visiting the other tribes; some they probably would, and others they wouldn't. Their reputation among the tribes who had accepted the gift would eventually spread, and as all had been given equal opportunity, there could be no complaints.
A deep itch crept down Dreamer's neck and shoulder, and he sat down to scratch at it with his hindclaws. If the numb surface of his hide wasn't enough of a hint, there was a faint tearing sensation around his flanks as he stretched, relieving a little of the tightness around his hindquarters.
Yes, shedding season was upon them. He sighed, resigned to nights of restless sleep and lights of desperate biting and clawing, though it did seem it was becoming more tolerable with each year; he was itchy, but it wasn't the deep stinging that it had been in previous years.
Wrrr, might as well get started. He chirped at Wanderer and licked his lips. First, a feast of fish, and then two days of hiding away while they renewed their hides.
It was not like it had been with the Berserkers. This time, when the spears and arrows were stockpiled, the catapults tested, reserve weapons sharpened, there was talk. A lot of it. As the days grew warmer and longer, there was a building tension in the village. It was blindingly obvious with a Nightstriker's senses, everyone talking with an edge of haste and walking faster through the village.
Dreamer chose convenient roofs to lounge on to watch his sire more carefully, noticing the frequent meetings with Spitelout, how he kept a firmer grip on everything and everyone. It wasn't a tension or stiffness he moved with, but rather an air of authority and calm that had everyone leaping to obey without question. As far as he could tell though, Stoick didn't actually know what was coming, just that there would be something.
He and Wanderer would never be asked to, and out of the trust the Hooligans had with the other tribes he probably wasn't going to share what he found, but Dreamer had to find out. He and Wanderer sped away from Berk, towards Meathead Island.
Even their dark shapes would not be visible as high in the bright sky as they were, but with their eyes they could get an idea of what was going on below. It initially looked to be a typical bustle of activity, but while they were much too far to pick up any voices or read postures, there were a lot of crates and weapons being moved around, and large longboats being rotated through the harbour. It all pointed to something going on.
But the question was, what were they preparing for? An attack on someone else, or one expected on themselves?
Dreamer growled uneasily and barked at Wanderer with a toss of his head, and they screeched through the air to the next village. The Berserkers were actively fighting each other, their boats scattered around the island and many already damaged, so nothing going on there. Moving on to the next tribe, however, the Lava Louts were as busy as the Meatheads, and then they were forced to stop and rest for the night.
The next day, Dreamer led to the Bashem Oiks and was initially discouraged by the heavy rain sweeping across their seas. But he soon realised this would allow for a far closer look at their typical day activities, and they approached low to the water, mere shadows under the black clouds above. The village was built at the top of a cliff, much like Berk, but backed by long sweeping pastures brimming with livestock. No issue for a Nightstriker, they simply skirted the cliffs and ducked into an alley between two buildings overlooking the sheer drop.
Even through the heavy rain, the stink of burning coals and hot iron permeated the air. Everyone was so busy that Dreamer was fairly certain none would have noticed him watching from the shadows even were he bright green instead of the colour of night; he could all but walk out among them, and none noticed anything of their presence, though he remained highly cautious.
As they watched, a boat was loaded up with armour and cast off into the rain. They followed, first following the cliffs away from the village and then labouring high into the air. The boat's journey was slow, but it met a Lava Lout boat at an intermediary island late in the afternoon and their cargos were swiftly swapped.
Dreamer was getting a bad feeling about all this. That hadn't been an ordinary trade of excess, but a prearranged deal, tribes readily cooperating with each other towards some larger goal. He grumbled concern, and Wanderer growled; even he, with his limited understanding, didn't think this felt right.
But what, exactly, had they learned? The other tribes were preparing much as Berk was, which didn't mean anything. He turned everything over in his head as they sped back home, but all they had accomplished was making themselves nervous over what was to come.
Dreamer found it increasingly difficult to relax as the weeks wore into summer, the tension a growing pressure in his chest that refused to abate. He pushed himself harder, filling the days with play that was usually far too serious to be called play, viciously fighting Wanderer on the ground and in the air, roughing with Stormfly's entire clutch at once.
At one point he found himself growling irritably at himself, his headache, and the mostly empty Great Hall; for some reason, it hadn't occurred to him to leave and find somewhere quiet, as if he wanted to be irritable or something.
"Keep it to yeself," his sire growled as he walked past to return a half-eaten bowl of porridge.
Dreamer responded with a snarl, aggressively flattening his ears and frills.
"You heard me," Stoick snapped on the way back, lightly kicking him in the chest with the side of his boot as he passed.
Not quite in control of himself, Dreamer lashed out, catching his sire's heel and knocking it out of its stride. Stoick stumbled, stood there for a few moments, then slowly turned and loomed over Dreamer, looking down on him with a stern and displeased expression.
Long ago, that would have cowed him to his core, just like it did most of the village. But with who he was now, and on this particular day, his blood was boiling too much to submit. He rose to all fours, then slowly reared onto his hindlegs and loomed over his father to growl in his face. Make me, he challenged wordlessly.
For just a heartbeat, Stoick's eyes widened in surprise as he looked up at him. In the next, he had a hand around Dreamer's foreleg, the other under his ribs, and then Dreamer was crashing through a table; he barely felt it.
He shook off the splinters and charged with a roar, leaping at his sire and sending them rolling over each other. Dreamer landed on top, pressing heavily down on his chest and growling-
A heavy punch struck him in the neck, and then the base of his wing was grabbed and pulled aside and down. "Already seen that one!" Stoick shouted as he pulled Dreamer to the ground.
More than a few tables were wrecked, some irreparably, in their stress-fuelled roughhousing. It felt like they'd been at it for hours. Dreamer panted heavily, his head held to the wall at an uncomfortable angle by the firm grip on his ear, his sire unwilling to let go even with claws digging into his armpit.
As if at some invisible signal, they slumped against each other and to the ground.
"Hah, whew, think I, needed that," Stoick mumbled breathlessly.
Dreamer murmured his assent, just now noticing his headache had subsided. He ached with a thousand bruises, but that was far more tolerable.
"Whoo! That was awesome!"
Dreamer raised his head to see the twins sat on a nearby table, munching on what looked like baked potato slices out of a large bowl.
If only… "Grrrrr…rhah!"
"Whoops! Time to go!" Tuffnut grabbed his sister's arm and ran for their lives, swiftly emptying the room of themselves with a practised haste.
Dreamer sighed and rested his head on his sire's shoulder.
"…Did you just try to breathe fire?" Stoick asked him, and he grunted in reply. "…Is… that a thing you're going to have soon?"
He sure hoped so, and grunted another affirmative. Wanderer had said it would happen this hot-season, though it was still only the first month. It almost felt like he should be able to, but he was never able to get anything to happen. Not the tiniest spark, not the faintest burp.
"…Good. That'll be a relief… for both of us… I think."
Dreamer purred and let his head slide down to his sire's leg, then purred a bit louder as a large hand stroked his tender ear and head. A pity it was too warm to curl up around his sire – too warm for his sire, not for him of course – but he suspected it wouldn't be appreciated anyway.
Regardless, he found the best sleep he'd had in weeks in that unlikely position.
As the hot-season continued to wear on and still nothing happened, the fighting died down, the arguments quietened, and Wanderer started to think this was all just stupid Long-Paw paranoia.
He wished they'd waited until he had his fire in full to panic like this, at least then it wouldn't be as contagious. While he had managed a single blast, it was small and weak; it would take a little more time to build his capacity. Then he'd be far more relaxed. But then, he also probably wouldn't have been obsessively aware of his surroundings, and wouldn't have noticed the Spine-Tail and accompanying Long-Paw returning to the nest.
He swerved in his flight over to Dreamer and gestured behind them to the new arrival, and Dreamer hummed warily as he led them around. The Spine-Tail drifted over the nest, both he and his rider calling out, then swooped down at an answering call. The Nightstrikers silently alighted on a nearby den and peered down on them.
"Lots of ships!" the Long-Paw wheezed, through heavy breaths. "Coming here!"
"Who?" asked Dreamer's sire, for that was of course who he had been looking for.
"All of them!"
"I want see," Dreamer asserted as the scene below them exploded into shouts and activity, and Wanderer dipped his head in solemn agreement.
Unlike Long-Paws, Nightstrikers did not require vast amounts of time and things to do something, and immediately set off towards the still-rising sky-fire. Wanderer counted absently as they flew, having become somewhat familiar with 'ship' travel times and how many lights it would take one to travel somewhere, though their sideways wings could not always take the most direct route.
He was only up to two lights when the figures became visible on the horizon, squared shapes conspicuous against the chaotic surface of the sea. That became three or four lights by the time they reached the swarm, but that was not much of a comfort.
"Too many…" Dreamer was staring down at them with a defeated awe.
Wanderer warbled a numb agreement. He guessed he could count two pawfuls for every claw he had, and not run out of ships.
The lead ship caught his attention, and he snarled angrily at it. The dark trees it was made from and the faded 'sail' were indicative of 'Outcast' Long-Paws, with their despicable alpha and his rancid intentions. There was something odd about the surface of the ship, but it was hard to see what from here.
Grrr, Wanderer was done with being hunted. "When night," he growled to Dreamer, "I hunt."
Dreamer silently looked down on the lead ship, his face unreadable. "I also," he eventually growled, his ears and frills sweeping back aggressively. Wanderer purred darkly at that; his Dreamer was finally learning, and it would be comforting to have a partner to hunt this prey. "But we should tell nest."
They would be more tired from flying back and forth… but the lights were long, they would have time for much rest before the hunt, so he chuffed agreeably and they turned back to the nest.
That night blessed them with not only darkness, not quite being the depth of summer, but dark cloud cover with a spattering of rain, fat droplets that thumped against the Nightstrikers' hides and wings as they skimmed the choppy waves. Dreamer was hungry, as was Wanderer. They had not eaten since dawn, and with the long days and all the flying they had done, their bodies were crying out for sustenance. Being natural hunters, it instinctively sharpened their senses and fed fire into their limbs.
Alvin had had too many chances. He had lost a hand, a leg, the skin off his head, and most recently an eye at the very least. He knew they were intelligent. If all of that was not enough to stop him, if he was still stirring up the Archipelago for his own selfish motives, it was time for him to go. There was a slight chance it wasn't actually Alvin they were hunting, in which case Dreamer would call off the hunt – that was a small part of why he was coming – but he didn't think so. Everything going on practically reeked of him.
They approached from an oblique angle, far enough from the other ships to reduce the likelihood of being spotted, but not so far out in front as to be spotted by anyone watching forward; not that he didn't trust their dark scales, it was just simple to minimise that risk. Their wings flared at the last moment and rapidly slowed them, tails caressing the air to hold them at just the right angle and height to silently latch on to the rail. After peering over it to ensure the coast was clear, they slipped over and onto the deck.
Into the midst of several large cages arrayed in an odd maze, strangely enough with no bottoms to them. What on Midgard did Alvin intend to do with those? There were too many for just the Nightstrikers, but not enough for all of Berk's dragons. Perhaps just the ones he knew about? Or maybe he intended to put more than one in a cage, they would probably fit two Spine-Tails at a push…
But it was irrelevant, as he wouldn't get the chance.
Two silent assassins in the night, they moved swiftly to the rear of the ship, trading silence for speed with the rain masking the clicks of their claws. The claws that would soon be raking through flesh and ripping out the life that inhabited it.
A necessity.
Conveniently and as anticipated, the trapdoor was open to vent the stuffy cabin. Wanderer took a moment to poke his head in before dropping down, and Dreamer followed, climbing down the ladder head-first by grabbing the sides. The pungent scents wrinkled their noses into silent snarls – there was now no question that Alvin was on this ship and thus somehow leading this attack. If only he had come a few months later, the Nightstrikers would have their fire and they could safely sink the boat and…
No, that would doom anyone else on board as well, and that assuming nobody just rescued him. This way was swift, concise, and certain, if more visceral and personal. No doubt Wanderer at least was fine with that, while the hunger was helping keep Dreamer focused, keeping his mind off the abhorrent nature of the task and on the need to shed blood.
Inside the ship was just as much of a maze as outside, weird corridors leading into tiny rooms. It was all freshly built, and clearly intentional, but why? It was just pointless weight.
It didn't matter. Whatever Alvin was intending, it wasn't going to happen.
They followed his trail, where he had most frequently touched walls and supports, moving through the belly of the ship in moments, covering each other, ensuring the ship slept soundly and that nobody stumbled on them by chance. They rounded the corner into what must be Alvin's room-
And nearly ran face-first into an iron grille, much like the cages on the deck.
A door, a peculiar one, but one that could be opened. But before Dreamer could inspect the lock, Wanderer split the silence with a deep growl.
Thrown off-guard, Dreamer backed up and looked around, only now seeing what was actually through the obstacle they had encountered. Alvin stood there smugly, and though the light was low it was clear just how mutilated he really was. Missing two limbs, scarred all down his scalp and shoulders, and now missing his right eye and nose. Perhaps the most ridiculous part was that he wore a false nose, one made of what looked like gold, though it was difficult to tell in the darkness. It was a bit crooked, held on by the eye patch.
"Perhaps you should be running," he said casually as he pulled a lever on the wall. "Though it won't matter. I recently met some very interesting people, you see."
SLAM!
Dreamer leapt as the boat shook, the loud sound echoing dully from behind them. SLAM, SLAM, SLAM, and suddenly Alvin leaving up through a trapdoor was the least of his concerns.
Iron bars descended around them, what he instantly recognised as one of the cages from the deck. They slammed into the floor with a deafening crash, splintering the wood under them. Fear gripped him and he threw himself at the bars, nearly breaking his shoulder in the process. Ow. That was not a good kind of pain, but it helped temper his panic with caution, which in turn brought rationality. He could not break solid iron.
But he could break wood. He leaped at the splintered floor, digging at it with his sharp claws and pulling it away-
To reveal more iron. There was a bottom to the cage, it had just been separate until now.
"You can move this metal?" Wanderer asked tensely. "I maybe can get us out."
"How?" Dreamer asked, whirling on him.
"Fire," Wanderer growled, then sheathed his teeth in a fashion that was somehow quite ominous. "I have some. Maybe enough for burn this tree-thing."
A plan, or at least something to work with. He inspected the door of the cage, but of course the lock was on the outside and he couldn't reach it. "Help me," he growled, then continued tearing up the floor, only to reveal more bars and some kind of mechanism to latch onto the cage when it dropped, which had worked flawlessly.
Actually, if the cage had dropped, what was holding the roof up? That also turned out to be a bust, simply four small pillars in the corners that had been cleverly disguised in the twisting corners of the maze that was this cabin.
If they burned the ship down, they would sink with it and drown.
"No," Dreamer eventually admitted. "You can flame through metal…?"
"When older, yes," Wanderer growled. "Not now, not enough fire."
Dreamer moaned and slumped to the floor, where Wanderer tentatively settled down next to him. Oh no, Wanderer did not cope last time when trapped by Alvin…
They simultaneously tried to put a wing over each other, then huffed sad, amused, and proceeded to get comfortable. "Keep your fire," Dreamer said quietly, then shuddered as he started thinking it through. "Only if we can escape. If just kill greedy Long-Paw, others probably kill us."
Wanderer growled a sigh and touched his tail to Dreamer's, leaning against him. There was nothing to do but wait.
By the time Stoick had learned of the Night Furies' plan, it was too late. Not that anyone could have stopped them, they'd only stopped to tell Fishlegs and promptly flown off again, faster than any other dragon on Berk. Stoick couldn't have done any better had they told him instead.
They hadn't returned. But Alvin seemed to want them alive, by all reports, so they certainly were not dead. Probably.
He didn't know if Alvin was on the fleet anchored within Berk's waters, larger than had ever been seen in the Archipelago, but hopefully that didn't matter. The Chiefs of the other tribes weren't ones to bow to another, so he just had to talk some reason into them.
Five ships broke from the fleet and sailed forth, the lead ships of five tribes. He waited with trepidation for them to reach the docks, the five Chiefs of course disembarking and trespassing on the docks as was custom when invading another tribe.
"Mogadon," Stoick greeted darkly, "Boulguhr, Madguts, Hammerhead, Oaken. You do not leave much to the imagination with your intent." He was surprised to see Hammerhead, actually, the Visithugs hadn't turned away their dragon and had been actively putting them to good use. The same for the Murderous tribe, though they probably just thought they'd kill them if they tried anything. At least they had kept them, as both had been able to return and warn of the attack. "That looks like an Outcast ship out there. Let me guess. Scarred man, missing a few limbs, silver tongue?"
"He ain' an Outcast," Mogadon growled, "an' tha' ain' his ship. He 'elped us see reason. We don' need dragons, we were jus' fine killin' 'em. Then you come along with all this nonsense, and now everythin's gone ter Hel!"
"Alright," Stoick sighed. "But before we get too far…" He gave a signal, and twenty-six dragons took flight and flew off, away from both the island and the fleet. Thornado was not with them, Stoick had personally seen to settling him on the north side of the island for now. "They will check back in tomorrow. As I said, they won't be involved in any fighting. Even now." They would barely scratch this armada anyway, and sending them away was far more likely to help than not.
Indeed, the other Chiefs looked thoughtful at that. "He said you lied about the Berserkers," Hammerhead offered thoughtfully; their tribe was really more of merchants than warriors, compared to the other Viking tribes anyway.
Stoick snorted at that. "What, and silenced my whole village too?"
"Nobody's had contact with your village to check," Boulguhr intoned in his impossibly deep voice.
"And who's fault is that?" Stoick shot back. "I told you, you were welcome as visitors."
It was too early to be relieved, but Mogadon and Hammerhead looked uncomfortable. He suspected he was getting through to Boulguhr too.
"I still say we jus' raze 'em and ge' it over wit'," Oaken said flatly. "Maybe 'e's right, maybe 'e's no'. Who cares."
Stoick fumed as the five of them stood there on his dock and discussed the merits of invading them, but then they all very suddenly went quiet to look at something behind him.
Wary of some trick, Stoick turned – and put his hand to his axe as the madman himself, maimed face and all, descended down to the docks and casually walked up to them. "What a wonderful day it is!" Alvin announced cheerily.
"What," Stoick spat acidly, "are you doing here?" More specifically, from where he had come, and how nobody had skewered him for it.
"Now, now, Stoick, don't be like that," the vile man said with a condescending pout. "We're going to get to know each other very well in the near future."
"You'll get to know my axe," Stoick shot back-
"Ah, ah, ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you," Alvin said, waving his finder. "Not when I have swords to the throat of, hmm, about half your tribe, including everyone in your hall."
Stoick's blood went cold.
"All a trick," Oaken sighed angrily. Next to him, Madguts was fuming. "I regret my par' in this, Stoick, but I'm no longer interested."
"Ah, ah, ah," Alvin chimed happily, putting everyone else's hands to their weapons as well. "I really do have to advise against going anywhere. Hmm, despite what you told each other, you all have about two-thirds of your forces here? Give or take? Yes? You all left those last people at home to defend your islands." He chuckled heartily. "No you didn't. You're all such treacherous people. Oaken, while the rest of your people are off invading the Lava Louts-"
Boulguhr turned slowly to Oaken with murder in his eyes.
"-the Meatheads are invading you, who are in turn being invaded by the Visithugs, who are likely being occupied by the Murderous tribe right about now, and not even the Lava Louts could resist the easy target that made them. So!" He clapped his hands, bringing the focus back to himself before everyone could start wringing each others' necks. "We find ourselves in a very delicate situation. Well, you do, my army has no home. Actually, hmm…"
He looked up the tall cliffs, towards the village, and Stoick's expression became even darker. "I think I'll correct that now. But let me be clear. You all have a knife to each other's throat. Any of you going anywhere will end in blood, too much to recover from. Now I know peace is not the Viking way, but if any of you want a hope of surviving this then I suggest coming up to my island and coming to an agreement. Otherwise, all those precious families you have back home will be razed to the ground. By each other! Oh I do love the irony."
With a thoughtful frown on his mangled face, he inspected the six Chiefs. "Well, no sense dawdling. Might as well bring everyone in and make yourselves at home! We have many things to discuss…"