Dagur was lost.
Not in the physical sense, he knew exactly where he was, on the island of the two Night Furies. Such fast dragons, so dangerous, oooh… He shuddered with delight just thinking about them.
But he couldn't kill them. Well, he could try, and he might succeed… but it would be a selfish kill, and he lived for his tribe. He didn't want to be selfish, not like his idiot father-!
The branch he was holding, as thick as his wrist, spontaneously snapped in his hands. He scowled at it, tossed it into the fire, and set off looking for another one.
"Here branchy branchy branchy," he called out, looking for the requisite straight length splitting into a sturdy fork. There were plenty of trees around, entirely too many, all distracting him from seeing any of the ones he wanted.
"Fine, whatever," he grumbled, leaping up a nearby tree and snapping two straight lengths from it. Someone had once told him to keep a foot of rope in his pocket, and Odin damn him if it wasn't the wisest thing he'd ever heard, but if he used it then he wouldn't have a rope in his pocket. He needed to eat though; this boar wasn't going to roast itself, and the short length would serve well to make a replacement stand for the one he broke.
He wandered back to the little hollow he'd got comfy in over the last few days, to find Heather tending the fire, a Night Fury hiding in a nearby tree, and the other Night Fury lying with her Razorwhip behind her. "You know you can't burn green stuff," she said as she rearranged the burning sticks.
Dagur eyed the stick she'd removed. "It broke," he said. "Just like everything else I touch."
She flinched, though he hadn't made any aggressive moves. "Must run in the family."
"Hah, I guess." He started setting up the spit, but she sighed and took the sticks off him, set them aside, then flipped a knife from her belt and shuffled over to the boar. He hoped she was going to cook, she was the best cook.
"The first memories I have are of a little house in a village, not far from the mainland down south," she said, not looking at him as she spoke. "I… don't really know what Mother did for a living. She was a kind and sweet woman. We had a little garden and chickens. I remember I used to chase them, and she'd get so flustered…
"I don't really remember much of what happened, or when. I think I was around twelve when we were taken away. A despicable man told me if I didn't do what he wanted, Mother would get hurt. He taught me how to fight, how to get people to do what I wanted. He got me to do things I never understood, kill a few people I didn't know." She stood and walked out of the hollow, bent down, then carried a big flat rock back to the fire. Dagur was listening intently to her story, but being unable to figure anything out from that, he instead puzzled over what she was doing.
"He dropped me on Berserk. He knew who I was, or who you thought I would be. That was the first time I had any idea I might have more family than Mother."
He wanted to ask if the bad man had taught her that awesome move, something about grabbing a finger and then flipping them over, but this might be one of those times he was supposed to just listen. Even if she then stopped talking for a bit to communicate with her dragon in that incomprehensible way, and then the rock was being bathed in white-hot fire. "Well, the plan fell through. I was supposed to get… him, actually," she flicked her thumb at the Night Fury lying nearby, who huffed. "I had to tell Astrid everything, and they mounted a rescue for Toothy." Dagur grinned, that was an amazing name for a dragon. Just the right amount of dangerous, but in a way that was fun and exciting.
"They rescued Mother as well, but… this Nadder Alvin had, it attacked. I've never seen it do anything before, but it took her arm. She died a few months later." There was a sizzling noise as she lay strips of meat on the rock, and Dagur's stomach growled loudly. "Short version, I ended up out here, fighting the hunters. Given your mother died long ago, nobody could figure out why you thought I was your sister, but it helped me to get closer to the Hunters, to help take them down from the inside."
She held out a stick skewered through strips of dripping meat, which he took and ravenously bit into. "Mmmmmm," he said, pointing at the skewer and nodding vigorously.
"Did you hear any of that?" she asked, putting her fists on her hips.
"My turn," he said instead of answering her. "I was, what, eleven, when I first went berserk? It was unheard of. Dad was so proud… What nobody seemed to realise was that I wasn't trying. By the time I was fifteen, it was all the time. I broke my own arm opening a door, once. And I didn't even notice.
"I had to learn to fight it, to keep my thoughts. To know how far my body can be pushed because I can't feel its limits. Mum helped a lot, but then this whole thing with Dad cheating on her… She didn't take it too well. She started getting reckless, eventually took the old shortcut to Valhalla. I don't think she meant to, but she wasn't thinking… It's easy to recognise problems you have yourself.
"Dad grew soft, and weak. The tribe fell apart, fought ourselves more than anyone else. When we stopped hunting dragons and almost went to war with each other over the last scraps, I caught him fingering one of Mum's old knives. I made the decision for him.
"I brought the Berserkers back together. Only I can lead them, nobody else is strong enough. But this…" He flexed his arm until the bones inside it creaked and loudly popped, causing Heather to flinch again for some reason, then forced it to relax. "I'm pretty stupid. I get too focused on things, on the fight, any fight. I understand my tribe, but not the people in it. I don't think like them." He went to take another bite, but found all the meat missing from the stick. Then she handed him another, and he was happy again.
"So yes, I was listening. But you'll have to tell me what it means, because all I'm hearing is that my sister is a badass fighter who rolls with the punches and comes back swinging. That she's a survivor, and smart and clever and all the things I'm not. That she is exactly the person I need her to be.
"But… I get it if you don't want to be around me. Well, I don't, but I don't get anything. I accept it. I accept everything you say, because I can't trust myself. And you say I shouldn't hunt a Night Fury… so I won't."
"You definitely shouldn't," she said quickly. "Or any other dragons."
"None of them?" he echoed, his heart sinking. "But we need to hunt. Everyone will only fight each other otherwise. And we need something for trade."
She touched her chin. "I heard some rumours that the few outcasts Alvin left behind have been causing trouble… Then there's pirates… We'll figure something out."
"We?" he asked, hopeful. The fact that she was already making suggestions, not just following his lead, was immensely promising.
"Maybe," she said quickly. "I don't know about this, but… we both owe him a lot," she gestured at the Fury behind her, who was now facing the other way.
"Wait, we do?" he asked, then noticed what the Night Fury was actually doing. "Hey, that's mine!" Its head spun around to stick its blood-slicked tongue out at him, then went back to devouring the boar.
He hadn't even realised he'd stood, but Heather was already in front of him. "We do," she said. "Dragons don't like being tied up and hunted, over and over, and they really don't like dragonroot."
"I suppose," he said, feeling glum, and dropped back onto the rock he'd been sitting on.
"And you," she kicked its tail, "stop antagonising him. That's not what I wanted you here for." It made some sounds back at her.
Dagur stared at the back of the Night Fury. "I keep asking if they can talk or whatever and nobody will give me a straight answer."
Heather looked at it too. "Don't worry about it. Maybe, if this all goes well. I'm… kind of hoping it does. I haven't… felt like I've belonged anywhere before."
"Well, duh, that's because you're a Berserker. You belong on Berserk, fighting for the glory of our tribe! Together we'll shape it into the mightiest tribe in the Archipelago!"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," she said. "Let's just do this one step at a time."
"Focus, right," he agreed. "So, where do we start?"
Ulf was fed up with this hunt. All the Berserkers were, they made no secret of it, but there was always that promise of something just a little further down the line, a hint to something that would sate their Bloodlust for years, a hunt to cleanse every one of these forsaken islands of these dragons.
What Ulf didn't get, was why they needed dragons to do it. This wasn't hunting, he wasn't proving anything to Odin like this. It was like admitting that the dragons were better somehow.
He paced, staring at the firelit deck of the ship, at the moonlit water, at anything but the weird dragon sprawled across most of the ship, chained down with its head held at an awkward angle. He was almost tempted to let the Nightmare out of the cage built into the back, just to see the fear in the Death Song's eyes… but, whatever it did to keep the other dragon from attacking, it gave him the creeps.
No, this was just another boring guard job because he had failed at a guard job. Every hunter ship had lost dragons to those damn Riders at some point, but he specifically had been held accountable for it by the other Hunters, Odin damn them. Hel, he was only still here because he couldn't get the ship or supplies together to leave.
"Fellow Berserker!" called out an overly jovial voice that put Ulf's back hair on end. What in Thor's name was Dagur doing here? How he was here was answered immediately, by the wingbeats and subsequent thump of something heavy landing on the deck behind him.
Ulf turned, his hand to his axe, and watched warily as Dagur climbed off another dragon they weren't supposed to kill. Nobody knew how to deal with the old Chief, as far as anyone could figure out he shouldn't even be walking around. He'd just turned up one day with no warning, but he generally seemed to leave everyone alone so it was assumed to be someone else's problem.
Today, he was apparently Ulf's problem. Lend me Mjolnir, this was just all going to Hel. "Wha's up?" he asked.
"Is it just you?" Dagur asked, sounding on the verge of hysteria as always, then loudly and repeatedly stamped on the deck. "HEY!" he screeched, "GET your worthless butts OUT HERE!"
Ulf groaned. Maybe if he drew his axe, Dagur would send him to Valhalla with a shred of dignity.
The weird little girl that Dagur liked to keep around whispered something to him as the trapdoor was thrown open. "Oh okay," Dagur agreed to whatever she had said, then resumed stamping. "Your REGULAR BERSERKER BUTTS!" The girl put her fingers to the bridge of her nose and shook her head.
"Ulf?" someone asked behind him, and he took a long-suffering breath. "Wha's goin' on?"
"Do ah look like ah go' any more idea than you?" he snapped at them.
"Ulf?" Dagur asked, and Ulf's hand went to his axe- "The guy who got locked in his own cages?"
That did it. He was fed up with this. With a single, resolute breath, he lifted his axe from his belt, turning to the madman with a-
"How'd you like to be a Berserker again?"
Dagur's question, level and dead serious, stopped him in his tracks. "Wha'?" he got out.
"The Berserkers are dead, dying," Dagur said gravely, his voice uncharacteristically level. "That's my fault. I need to fix it. Start again. The New Berserkers. Will you be the first to join?"
There was silence on the ship, enough to hear the breaths of the big colourful dragon stretched out next to them.
"Odin smite me, fine! It's gotta be better than this WORTHLESS HUNT!" He stomped over to Dagur; at least the crazy guy would get him killed sooner rather than later.
"Don't react," the girl said quietly to him as he neared. He ignored her, she was as crazy as-
As he turned, he bore witness to a Night Fury land at the back of the ship, above the door to the caged Nightmare. Witness only, it made absolutely no sound with its flapping wings, or when it landed, or when it dropped and somehow hung upside down against the wall behind the other Hunters.
"Were you about to attack me?" Dagur asked him, and he spun with his axe up, taken off-guard, before he realised what he was doing. "HA! A true warrior! I like you. And guess what?" He reached out and just took Ulf's axe from him, as easily as if it'd been handed to him, then swung it. "We DON'T NEED DRAGONS!"
The chain broke loose, and the Death Song twitched as its restraints started going slack, one by one as Dagur cleaved through them. It was only moments, barely time for anyone else to even draw their weapons, before the big dragon reared up, screeched at everyone on the ship with its big angular wings flared wide, and then launched itself into the air with such force that the ship rocked heavily in the water, throwing Ulf against the rail.
"Wait, should I have let that one go?" Dagur asked a moment later.
"Probably not," the girl sighed.
What in Svartelheim was going on!?
"What ya go an 'do tha' for!?" someone demanded.
"Is this any way to HUNT!?" Dagur screeched, then handed Ulf back his axe… now sporting several deep gouges in the blade. "Oh… Right… We'll get you a new one. OOOH," he spun to the girl, "can it be GRONCKLE Iron!?" She shrugged. "I'll get you a BETTER ONE!" he shrieked, pointing dramatically at Ulf. "Now WHO ELSE is WITH me!?"
"Join you an' Ulf?" one of the dozen Hunters asked incredulously. It was weird, thinking of the Hunters but not including himself in the thought; a good weird. "After tha'? And 'im? You know 'e lost all 'is catches an' go' 'imself locked up by a dragon, righ'?" The other hunters jeered their agreement.
At this point, Ulf realised he had forgotten all about the Night Fury. That about summed up how crazy this night had become.
"You mean that one?" Dagur asked, pointing, then broke down into childish giggles.
The Hunters spun, and Ulf looked up, as the Night Fury, lying casually on the back of the ship with its paws draped over the edge of the roof, slid the top bolt and flicked the door open.
There were shouts of alarm as the Monstrous Nightmare not only lit itself on fire, which it wasn't supposed to be able to do, but also sprayed fire out over the deck. It then burst out of the cage, its fiery form momentarily lost in the immense flames reaching up from the deck, and jumped into the sky with a deafening roar. Whatever had happened to its restraints and the chain shackling it to its cell was anyone's guess.
Ulf was apparently numb to how ridiculous all this was, because all he could think was how satisfying it was for them to all get a taste of getting bitten by the night itself. He no longer had any investment in this ship anyway, and laughed openly at the fate that was befalling it and its crew.
"We don't NEED dragons!" Dagur shouted gleefully into the chaos as Hunters ran for the buckets to douse the flames. "All we need is our STRENGTH, and our AXE!"
"And our PRIDE as BERSERKERS!" the girl bellowed; Ulf was honestly impressed.
"Ulf here will be at my table!" Dagur shouted as the last of the flames died down. "Who else will feast with me!?"
"There's a feast!?" Ulf blurted out. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd feasted!
Dagur frowned at him. "I didn't mention that?" Ulf shook his head, unable to stop grinning. "Huh. And there's a feast! Wow, is this really working?"
"Shush," the girl elbowed him, and for some reason he allowed it. "Rig up! You've got a week to get halfway across the Archipelago and we're not waiting for you!"
Ulf took a hesitant step, but paused when nobody else moved-
Dagur strode towards the Hunters. "Don't you know this is my SISTER, and if you don't LISTEN to her I'm going to CUT OUT your SKULLS and serve MEAD OUT OF THEM!?"
That wasn't even directed at Ulf and it had him running for the rigging to hoist the sail; Dagur did not make empty threats, however insane they sounded.
"Subtle," he heard the apparent sister say dryly.
"I thought so too!" Dagur replied happily as he walked back to her.
"I was being… Nevermind."
Ulf grinned again. They were a pair of nutcases all right… and he couldn't be happier about it. The near future was suddenly looking a lot more interesting…
"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"
"Would you like a definition?" Viggo said dryly, not even bothering to turn away from the map he was poring over.
"I know very well what it means you halfwit," Krogan snapped; he was losing it, to devolve to such baseless and pathetic insults.
"Then perhaps you should stop second-guessing the man and come help me figure out where they've gone." Several seconds of silence followed.
"Get out of my sight," Krogan said slowly and with deliberate enunciation, and the footsteps of the messenger hurriedly departed. "I don't recall asking for your input," he said as he walked over to the map to stand beside it, staring down his nose at the parchment as if it were something rancid.
"I do not recall needing your permission," Viggo replied firmly. "Particularly considering that was my Death Song you just lost, my hunters, my ship." Additionally, berating the messenger just meant that the messengers weren't going to bring bad news, or would put it off, not to mention being an unbelievable waste of time and energy given they likely had nothing to do with whatever message they were delivering. Viggo valued his messengers, ensuring they strove to do their jobs to the very best of their ability. They were the lifeblood of any operation, a battle could be turned in the two minutes a messenger took to work up the courage to speak, or catch their breath. Krogan simply demanded respect and loyalty out of fear, which was laughably impractical.
"Indeed," Krogan replied with an insincerity he barely bothered to mask. "So where are they then?"
"They were around to the west of the Nest, where the Riders do not bother patrolling as frequently." That was how they had got so close in the first place. There was little of interest there, just a few dregs that would be cleaned out on the way through to the Barbaric Archipelago and the dragons that resided there. That promised to be an entertaining endeavour, Berk would likely be an issue but there were many more pawns to play with in the other tribes. Ryker would have-
He sharply exhaled, unexpectedly stumbling on his grief, the persistent tide that rose and fell against the breakwall he had set up against it but occasionally splashing over it and dragging him into its depths.
"This is where they should have met up," he pushed on, indicating a marker a few days' sailing from where he had left them to join Krogan and his riders. "They will have disappeared somewhere before there. It is possible, I suppose, that they just sailed west and went home. Two big dragons would be prized on Berserk." These conclusions did not require much thought, which was good because he suddenly felt anything but focused.
"We should not rule out the Riders sinking the ship," Krogan said thoughtfully.
"That is the one thing I am certain did not happen," Viggo asserted. "They are somewhere. The Death Song in particular should be easy to track down, which will give me more information. It will be with them, near where it was released, or where we originally found it."
"Perhaps you should get some rest," Krogan said lightly, bending over the map and pretending to focus intently on it. "You are looking… under the weather."
"Indeed," Viggo said, hiding his suspicion. He held no illusions that Krogan cared the slightest bit for his wellbeing. He wanted him out of the way for something.
Still, the gears were in motion. He had already overheard one quiet conversation about Krogan's failure with the Riders. "The Death Song must be located, but we will discuss this in the morning," he said, allowing his weariness to show as if he was really intending on sleeping. He walked to the entrance of the tent and parted the flap-
"Sleep well," Krogan said in a low, smug voice that sent a shiver crawling up Viggo's spine.
He exited the tent and emerged into the light of dusk, wondering if his moment's hesitation had been noticed, and then wondering if that even mattered. His ignorance likely wasn't even a factor. If there was a treachery already in motion, it would be blunt, simple, and overwhelming, just like everything else Krogan planned. Just like his dragon, a big beetle-shaped thing that seemed armoured enough without the actual armour it was wearing, lounging just outside the tent.
"I am well aware," he muttered under his breath at the absent ghost of Ryker, chastising him yet again for not getting enough rest. "But whose fault is that?" Worse, he did not have Ryker to provide a calm and level head to see the dangers and get him out of them.
As it was, every glance his way looked suspicious, potentially hostile. Maybe they were, the general mood certainly seemed different to that morning, more menacing, but maybe his fatigue was projecting his concern. Maybe it really was something malicious, but not an immediate threat, and he could run himself to ruin trying to figure out what was the seeds of a minor rebellion weeks in advance of being an issue.
What would Ryker do, in this situation?
He slowed his pace, which he had just noticed was nearing frantic, and willed his head to stop spinning. He needed time. Time to think, to plan. To rest first.
Wherever he went, he always had a plan, and his own camps were no exception; he could be attacked and targeted at any moment, by any of numerous sources. Wary of anyone following him, he walked briskly to the edge of the camp, a route he took regularly, and nodded at the lookout.
The man nodded back at him, and he continued on his way. The distinct lack of request for an update or any sort of talk was a signal in itself, one that few knew to look for, only those he trusted most; and who else would he use to keep watch for threats, to ensure eyes were not averted for a few gold pieces?
Knowing the plan was in motion, he started making his way back to his cabin, but wavered halfway there. He had intended to retrieve the Dragon Eye, in case it was not safe to return, but it might not even be safe to enter his own hut.
He could always come back for it, and it still needed that pin to function properly and reliably; something he could make himself easily enough, given a few tries, but didn't have the materials or tools to do so.
Either he was paranoid, and he could return to retrieve it, or it would get him killed.
Instead, he set off for one of the halls, where he grabbed a roll of bread and lathered it with butter. Mundane food, but it gave him an excuse to burn time, and there was no possible way it specifically could be poisoned. Still, a snack was not exactly common behaviour for him, and it raised more than a few eyebrows. No matter, he could afford to be eccentric.
After a very real patrol where he received the usual reports of nothing noteworthy, he made for his planned path out of the camp, concealed and inconspicuous, making use of a clever illusion where the corners of two buildings only appeared to meet at the end of an unused alley on the vacant outskirts. From there it was a simple matter of making straight for the boat, relatively safe in the cover of darkness.
He arrived without incident, the small ship already sat in the shallows of the beach and its hinged mast currently in the process of being hauled upright. It wasn't tiny, but small enough for him to jump and grab the simple figurehead to haul himself up without getting wet.
"Boss," the four hunters greeted him at once-
Four. "Where is Jorgen?" Viggo asked; there should be five of them.
"Turncoat." There were angry mutters of agreement.
"That is unfortunate," Viggo replied. Truly trustworthy men were difficult to identify and in all too short supply, and the balance of how many he trusted to what extent was something even he had not perfected; too many, and he risked being betrayed, but too few could leave him shorthanded. "Sail directly out to sea. Do not stop for anything until I say otherwise." They still had not stopped preparing the ship, but they returned their focus to it.
He walked to the small cabin at the back and opened the door, sighing in relief at the little metallic clunk of a bolt falling from its housing, something only he knew about and that was not visible without dismantling the door; it had not been opened, and thus nobody could possibly be inside. He noticed his fingers sticking together as he closed it behind him though, something he had touched somewhere, and scowled in distaste.
A flint and steel in his pocket provided flashes of light to locate the candle, which he then lit. It had been a while since he'd stocked this room, but it looked familiar, a simple cot, a chest with various necessities and non-perishable comforts, and a small desk. It also gave him enough light to see the smear of red across his fingers…
Wanderer groaned, arching his back as Dreamer pulled a strip of hide from his flank. It came easily, the sensation itself uncomfortable and strange but an enormous relief after they'd tolerated it for a few nights longer than intended. The soothing tongue on the fresh hide afterwards, though, that was pure bliss.
They had waited longer, and were discovering some interesting tradeoffs. Of course there was putting up with the discomfort for longer, though they were no longer growing quite as rapidly so there wasn't such desperate need as previous shedding-seasons. The hide underneath was also more frayed and ragged, the leather between the scales somewhat softer, though that just felt strange more than anything and would quickly toughen.
But it was coming off much more easily, easier to get a grip on and just peel loose. They would probably be through it in one light instead of two. Which was nice, because they were in a cave in a mountain on the small-land where their nest had once been, and Wanderer didn't quite feel entirely safe and comfortable.
He chewed at a stubborn patch on Dreamer's leg, distracting the other Nightstriker for a few moments while he stretched and flexed, but it still wasn't budging. Grrr.
"Rest?" Dreamer offered, rolling onto his back and pawing at the air. Wanderer lunged with a playful growl, nipping at his belly and weathering the paws suddenly kicking at his shoulders while Dreamer shrieked with laughter.
A paw got under him and lifted him clear off for a moment, allowing Dreamer to roll away. Wanderer spun the instant he hit the ground and leaped away – then yipped as claws gripped the raw, sensitive hide of his flanks, dragging him to the rocky ground. He flipped over and kicked wildly while Dreamer swiped and tried to fight his way around the paws, teeth snapping for Wanderer's exposed belly but not quite managing to get there; though even without making contact, every click of those teeth sent a jolt of expectant sensation up his front.
Eventually, Dreamer backed off and gave up. "Get you later," he growled, panting heavily. Wanderer grinned toothily-
Dreamer pounced, and Wanderer made an embarrassingly shrill shriek as teeth skimmed over his belly, fighting desperately to kick or push him away, but Dreamer was hunkered over him and would not be budged. Wanderer kicked and bucked, his entire body reflexively trying to curl up to protect his vulnerable belly, but every time his claws hooked under something and found purchase it was just Dreamer's foreleg that came away and shook him loose without relieving the merciless assault. Out of desperation he tried to reach up and bite Dreamer's ear or lick up the back of it, but he was just blocked by a wing, and the torture continued relentlessly!
It had to only have been a pawful of pawfuls of life-beats when Dreamer finally hopped back, but it had felt infinitely longer. He curled up on himself, tucking his tail under his head and flopping onto his side as he panted heavily, just the lingering sensitivity a ticklish ache all down his underside. Regret, he groaned, and Dreamer purred smugly.
Wanderer huffed, looking over to his Dreamer, who was busying himself with licking his own belly. "You look happy." Their nest had burned, but Dreamer seemed lighter and more cheerful than ever. More alert, more focused, more playful, more alive.
"Much good happen!" Dreamer chirped, then rolled onto his side and held his tail in his paws to lick that too. "Not-alpha not hunting us. We have good plan for stopping hunters. Very good things happen."
"You say we not do good before now?" Wanderer teased, then set about licking his own hide where it had shed.
Dreamer snorted a puff of smoke at him, then resumed his grooming. "We do good then too. It just not feel like this much good."
That was true, they had freed many wing-hunters from the bad ships. And now, in a way, they were freeing the Long-Paws as well. "This feel good," Wanderer agreed.
"Licking your tail?" Dreamer teased.
Wanderer growled back at him. But licking his tail did feel quite nice, so he didn't stop. He was a proud Nightstriker, but that didn't matter when only around his Dreamer, and they were both ragged at the moment anyway with bits of frayed hide hanging off everywhere.
Including off his ear, which now that he had noticed it, was really annoying-
Dreamer pounced him and pinned down the flicking appendage, carefully working his teeth between the old hide and the new to try to find a grip without shredding through it.
Wanderer suddenly felt blind and vulnerable as his hearing was filled with the sounds of chewing and breathing, which was uncomfortable given his unfamiliarity with the makeshift den… but he wasn't worried. Not with a strong and once again capable Nightstriker to keep an ear out for him.
Berserkers were a rowdy lot. Well, the Hooligans had been rowdy, the Berserkers were… whatever was rowdier than rowdy.
Heather eyed the half-empty tankard of mead set in front of her, and vacantly prodded it with the bone she'd been nibbling at. In itself, mead was an unpleasant drink, she was deciding, but a sip of it went well with most of the food in front of her. If it was making her stupid, on the other hand, she'd rather abstain.
Still, it was giving her a new, almost apathetic perspective of… all this. She looked around the crowded Hall, at the people who could not feel further distanced from her were they physically on the other side of the Archipelago. She was a dragon rider, and was stubbornly wearing Windshear's scales to prove it, while these people were dragon hunters, people she did not want anywhere near her dragon.
She wanted this to work, she really did. Never before had she felt truly wanted, and while Dagur was the last person she was really expecting that from… he wanted only her advice and company; and she could be absolutely certain of his intentions because he was related to her, and as far as she could tell, had no sexual interest in anyone anyway. But it put her in an awkward place, because all the other Berserkers just pretended she didn't exist for the most part, probably out of fear of Dagur and just not knowing what to do with her.
She was sat at the head of the long table, next to Dagur, while some hundred or so Berserkers feasted and boasted. Most of them were standing, all the better to animatedly spill their drink and throw food everywhere while they bragged of their hunts and accomplishments. This wasn't even close to half of them, but that wasn't the point. If their loyalty could be earned, they would convince the rest simply with mob mentality.
But was she convincing them? She had little confidence in herself, and she suspected Dagur was just brushed off as a madman. Some of them seemed to like that, and the suspicious, distrustful glares were minimal-
Something brushed her posterior a little too firmly to be accidental as someone walked behind her, and she carefully looked their way as they passed, committing their build, baggy trousers, shape of their bald head, and weapon to memory. What a moron, he was lucky Dagur hadn't noticed. Exactly how lucky remained in the air while she considered what to do.
It may very well be a test. She doubted the brute was cunning enough to consciously test her, but people did cunning things without realising it all the time. Whatever his intention, this was a test. She couldn't let him get away with it. But to tell Dagur? She might as well call herself weak and helpless. Confront him? Allowing herself to be provoked. Making him pay for it later, in a humiliating public way that would appear malign to anyone he had not bragged to and vengeful to those he had? Probably the best course, but by then the damage might already be-
She sensed him walking behind her again, but this time he bumped her elbow, causing her to drop her dinner. That wasn't provocation, that was a challenge, and she slammed one hand onto the table while she delicately and unhurried wiped her fingers on her tunic. The conversation around them died, and Dagur was already hallway out of his seat with his rage all over his face, but he held himself back. He trusted her.
He probably would need to intervene though, she didn't think she could take this guy in a fair fight – his neck was thicker than his skull, his shoulders twice as wide as hers, and he stood several inches taller – but she would show she could at least hold her own. Otherwise, all of this would be for nothing.
She stood slowly and stepped out of the simple wooden chair. He was smirking over his shoulder at her, and she resolved to punch him in the face at some point as she unslung her axe from her back.
It was a beautiful weapon, a shining silver that matched the scale armguards she wore, and if she could master it, frightfully deadly. It was in the same design as her last axe, with two blades that folded almost seamlessly beside each other, but with one special difference. Fishlegs had designed and gifted it to her a few days ago, surprising her with his technical thinking almost to the point of suspicion… but it wasn't as if anyone else could have designed it. Still, she wasn't confident in using that one particular feature yet, but it behaved similarly enough to her last axe otherwise, just being a lot lighter.
The Berserker sneered at the weapon, then drew his own axe, a simple heavy double-sided blade on a thick stick, a brutish weapon befitting its wielder. Fights and punchups had not been uncommon during the evening and night, but they had not silenced the room as it was now, the rowdy bustle quickly lulling into a curious and expectant murmur. With all eyes on her, she fell back into what she was familiar with, and looked pityingly over the weapon, then at him with a raised eyebrow.
He looked at his axe, then at her with his face scrunched angrily, taking the bait and lunging forward with a wide swing and a shout. She easily sidestepped, but had to block his surprisingly quick followup with the flat of her own axe and was sent stumbling back by the weight of his weapon.
"Whad'ya think yer even doin' 'ere, lass?" he asked patronisingly. "Jus' go back ta cookin' food where ya belong."
He was trying to bait her, but she couldn't ignore that challenge, and stepped forward with a swing that he easily blocked – but he wasn't expecting her blade to flip open and carve a tear down his trousers. She'd been aiming for his belt, but at least she didn't think she'd drawn blood.
He glanced down. "Tryin' ta catch a peek?" he sneered, and a chorus of 'oohs' and chuckling started up.
"Trying to cut it off," she said simply, "you clearly won't be needing it with that face." The audience jeered a little louder, but she wasn't done. "I missed."
There was a beat of silence. And then the room exploded into raucous jeering and laughter, while her opponent stared at her murderously, veins popping out of his temples and neck. There, she had publicly humiliated him, and this was now beyond words. At least she wasn't afraid of death, because this guy looked mad enough to go into a full on berserk trance. And-
He lunged at her, much faster than before and with reckless swings – she dodged the first, blocked the second, and then the third caught her side with such force she felt cracks in the scales she wore under her vest, knocking her clear of the fourth. He shouted at her, a raw, primal sound, before barging forwards again, forcing her back on the defensive.
This was what she had to do to survive in this world, either put up with the attitude and let herself be walked all over, or put her life on the line for her pride; well, her pride meant little to herself, but if she gave up on it then it would only make things worse. It just wasn't fair. Men had lower expectations of other men, and treated far better those who failed to meet them, even though they had a far easier time of it, many building muscle without even trying. She could choose not to play their game, but then their treatment of her would be worse still.
She blocked a strike that knocked her grip loose, and she dove under the next swing to land in a roll behind him. Was this what she had to look forward to? Being treated like garbage, fighting tooth and nail for every ounce of pride, over and over, having to hide behind Dagur-
Her axe was securely in her hands, and she slid the little nub forward and spun the weapon with a clunk. The guy saw and heard as he turned, but didn't react in his trance, just lunged again.
The axe spun in her hands, whirling straight through his and cleaving off a chunk of metal from one of the blades, batting the heavy weapon aside with apparent ease. The sounds of shock around her were irrelevant, as was the wild stare the guy gave his weapon, and the tip of the blade hitting the wooden floor.
She guided it around her person, slowly picking up speed and walking forward, the heavy weights that had slid from the handle to the outer ends of the weapon giving it an odd balance that she had no problem controlling as the air hummed around her. It almost took on a life of its own, spinning freely and only guided by her fingertips.
Her opponent clenched his teeth and swung, the weapon jarring as the two blades connected, halting the spinning of hers and cleaving another piece from his, and she gripped her weapon firmly and-
Dagur was suddenly between them, holding the shaft of her axe and the wrist of the other guy – she distinctly heard the cracking of bones, and redirected her focus to the new threat as Dagur grabbed the guy's weapon and swung it at her.
A new type of fight ensued, Dagur wielding the axe much more deftly and not nearly as recklessly, forcing her to grip both handles to keep up. But every strike she blocked only added power to her next attack, seamlessly turning his own inhuman strength against him, slowly overcoming his defence-
She saw the slight smirk on his face the moment before she worked her way around his guard, and the blade of her weapon froze a hair's width from his throat. He stared at her. She stared at him, noticing her wild breaths and the creaking of her hands as she gripped her weapon. Everyone stared at them, silent.
"Berserkers!" Dagur suddenly shouted, grabbing her wrist as she lowered her weapon and then hauling her up onto the table. "My SISTER!"
The hall exploded into roaring cheers and fists pumping the air, and Heather's head spun. She felt herself slipping back to herself, her aching joints and muscles, the pain in her side where the guy had hit her, though it wasn't nearly as bad as last time, luckily; had she actually punched him as she'd intended, she probably would have ruined her own hand and not even noticed.
She continued gasping for air while Dagur helped her down into her seat, and a haze crept over her vision and momentarily blacked out her sight, though she could still hear just fine. She didn't know what she was hearing, it had changed, but she wasn't falling unconscious. The mead suddenly looked a lot more appealing while the haze cleared, and she grabbed it and took deep gulps between trying to pull enough air into her lungs.
"I figured you didn't really want to kill him," Dagur said casually.
She had been about to do that, hadn't she? "No," she agreed on an exhale, then groaned and leaned on the table.
"Now tha' was a figh'!" someone nearby said loudly, and she blinked the haze away to recognise Ulf. "Never seen no-one take on the Chief a' all, even if 'e were only usin' one axe." Right, she hadn't actually beaten him, he'd just let her win…
She propped herself up, finally getting her breathing somewhat under control. "Still… getting used… to this…" Thor, she'd be as toned as Dagur himself if she kept this up.
"Even more then!" Ulf laughed, took a swig of mead, and slammed his mug on the table. He then stood, roared a battle cry, and waded out into the…
Heather looked around and took stock of the massive brawl the feast had become, just in time to see a table get knocked over and spill the remaining food and scraps all over the floor. Over half of them were already either on their sides or broken entirely, caught up in the fighting as people were thrown around and, in one case, using one as a weapon. "But…" They were supposed to bring these people together, not… this!
"Whew," Dagur whistled, then picked up a drumstick and took a bite. "I was getting worried we wouldn't get to this point."
Heather blinked. "Wait… This is normal?"
"Oh yeah, it's not a feast if it doesn't end in a brawl," he said happily. "Don't worry, if anyone knocks over the Chief's table, we're honour bound to kill them. Good ol' Dad set up that rule." Indeed, now that she looked, the few tables at the end were being given a wide berth. "Which is good, gives me an excuse not to participate. Not that it isn't fun, just…"
"Don't worry," she huffed, "I get it."
"Really?" he glanced at her with wide eyes, mouth half full. "I'm glad you do, 'caus I sure don't. What's not to like? Fighting, food, the occasional injury…"
"Seems a bit impersonal for you," she said, then reached to pull some of the plates from the next table onto hers; she couldn't remember it last time, but she was suddenly starving.
"You might be right," he agreed thoughtfully.
She hadn't thought during her trance, at all, same as the first time. He was like that all the time. She couldn't even begin to understand what that was like… but… she found herself feeling… protective. He barely understood himself, let alone anyone else. Only battle, in all its forms. The thought sent a chill down her back, it was no wonder he needed someone he trusted. Someone like… her.
Everyone thought him crazy, while the reality was so far in the opposite direction as to appear to be the same thing. Even now, he was grinning like a complete loon at the ceiling. But she could use that assumption. She could help keep these people in check, and living happily. She didn't feel remotely qualified for it, but… she felt she could do it.
The question was… Did she want to?
She looked around at the fighting, seeing that no blades were involved and the punches were all telegraphed by loud shouting. This wasn't just some bloody punchup, they were legitimately enjoying themselves, both in giving and receiving blows.
She thought about how Ulf had spoken to her, so casually, but also respectfully. She might have to fight them again, but she didn't dread the thought. She had to admit, it was invigorating. Maybe, just maybe, she really could find her place here, among her tribe…
Dreamer snorted, blowing a dusting of frost across the roof beneath his paws. Some of it fell through the crack he was peering through, but he didn't think anyone would notice… Anyone else, other than Dagur, grinning up at him from where he and Heather sat at the head of the table.
So this was normal, then. Heather seemed to be calming down, and was now eating ravenously, meaning there wasn't anything to worry about. Even if everyone now seemed to be fighting each other. He rolled his eyes. Vikings.
His tail twitched restlessly, excited at finally having an end in sight to this long war. He stood and leaped into the air to burn some energy and fly back to where they'd set up camp, an hour's flight away in a little copse sheltered from the wind; they weren't staying in one place, keeping themselves mobile and their new enemy off-balance, hopefully.
This was just the start. Once this lot set out and started pulling other Berserkers back in… It could all be over in a matter of weeks. Maybe not, depending on how many Hunters were left without the Berserkers in their midst, but he was optimistic, which he expressed by enthusiastically beating the air with his wings and roaring joyously out into the night.