Chapter 3: of Fishlegs

"...and I added this coating of oil into the wood, so it is even more pliable. It loosened the frame up without reducing strength, so It can shoot almost 50% further without shortening the lifespan! All I need now is some of the frame pieces and a new trigger to handle the extra strain..." As always, Fishlegs was exuberantly chattering away about whatever discovery or invention he was currently interested in. At the moment, it was the new design for his dragon-bow. He had always been intensely curious, and over the course of many years of curiosity, combined with mostly being ignored by the other Viking children, had led him to doing things on his own. He had taken to trying things to see what he could make happen. To see what he could cause and bring into being. And thus, the inventing. Originally, it was small, useless things. But as he grew, so had his experiments. Fishlegs was undoubtedly one of the smartest and most knowledgeable Vikings around, but he was also a pacifistic geek. Most just left him be, shaking their heads when he would so energetically try to explain something they had no knowledge of or interest in knowing.

Which was what Gobber was doing while working the forge. Fishlegs continued to jabber away like a sparrow, saying all of his findings on trajectory, aiming, calibration, and other large words that Gobber barely had any concept of. Fishlegs was barely pausing to breathe, other than when he was giving specific directions on the shaping of the metal Gobber was forging. "Alright, I think that shoul' do ya, lad." Gobber finally handed the specific pieces over, and watched as he trotted off into town.

"Thanks, Gobber!" The boy called over his shoulder, turning around the corner and off towards his lab. The old smith just shook his head, happy the boy was at least content with himself. Unlike Snotlout. He thought sourly. He really worried about that boy. But he couldn't always be protecting him. He was a young man now, and he had to chart his own course. He turned back to the fire, cleaning up for the day.

Fishlegs whistled merrily as he walked up towards his favorite place in the village- his laboratory. Originally, he had done his experiments anywhere that suited him- the forge, an open field, his house- but it was quickly proven to be a poor and unpopular idea. The townsfolk had banded together, pestering Stoick until he had allowed them to build him his own space; a space away from them. So now Fishlegs had his own private compound at the top of the village. It had taken quite a few months of hard work, but the villagers did so with all the speed of Sleipnir. They would have done nearly anything to keep from having rocks shot through their windows or gas explosions rocking the foundations of their homes. As it came into view at the top of the hill, his pace quickened. The thick, sturdy walls of the sprawling building were a dark grey stone. A caged-in area similar to the dragon arena rested immediately against the back wall. A small shack sat off to the side of the two.

He leaned the pieces against the front wall of the lab so he could use both hands to open the heavy bolt. He gave the door a push, and took the pieces inside, setting them on one of his many work tables. With all of the myriad of projects, you could expect the lab to be a mess. Only it was spotlessly clean. Lamps hung from all available beams, combining with light from a sky light to illuminate the room with a bright light. Tables and bookshelves covered all the walls, and several more were lined through the center of the room. Each work table had its own separate project, and quite a few had open books, or possibly a small stack of scrolls. Scientific journals sat labeled with the strange properties of the objects near them.

But Fishlegs ignored all of the strange stones, lumps of glass, and bits of sketches. He was focused intently on a single workbench that had several pieces of beautiful curved wood, a thick cord, and now some metal pieces. His large fingers started to sculpt the pieces into a singular entity, surprisingly delicate and gentle for such meaty hands. He would glance at several drawings and designs every once in a while. After shadows started to creep down the walls, he finally finished his work. He hefted the invention on his shoulder, pleased as he walked out the back door into the arena. set up was a target, as well as a thick base for the large crossbow he was carrying- the first crossbow. Though if you went by his numerous failed attempts, this was the eighth in line. He set it on the base, and slid a bolt into place to hold it there. Then he walked over to the shack, whose door was set into the wall of the arena. He pulled out a weighted rope that was a common weapon for catching dragons. He locked it into place, and stood behind, lining it up on the target. Three breaths. One. Two.. Three! The trigger twanged as the projectile shot forward, slicing the hay and burlap in half. "Yes! It worked!" He was elated, and quickly was pleased to learn that it fired rocks, mace heads, and short, thick spears as well. He was about to pack it up, when he heard the shouts. Dragon raid! He grabbed his sack of assorted projectiles, and hefted the dragon-bow off the base and onto his shoulder. He jogged towards the chaos of town.

When he finally gained the town square, he kneeled down, preparing to shoot down as many dragons as he could. He wouldn't fight any of them directly, but would happily shoot them down for the others to handle. He fired again and again, missing all the quickly moving targets. But he was getting closer. He memorized patterns, quickly learning with each shot how to do the next one better. Until one came that connected. A sharp-spined mace-head hit a dragon squarely in the wing, shredding the material and stunning the creature. It spun out of control, falling out of the dark night sky and onto the thatched roof of a storage shed.

Instantly he was congratulated by any that had seen the shot. They started to surround it, listening to its shrieks of rage and pain. But.. They seemed a little off. Not quite the nadder he thought he had shot. As it struggled to its feet, it folded the decimated wings away, leaping about on all fours, and then onto the hind two, hunching over and growling deep in its throat. It seemed equally able to use either four legs or just the two, as it switched back and forth as it looked for a way out of the circle. The chief showed up just in time to see it make a leap at the closest Viking, who knocked it back with their shield. "Just what is it?" He asked, watching the strange creature. The chief turned to Fishlegs, who was most likely to know. He simply shrugged as he was for once at a loss. "Well then, better let me deal with it." The Vikings parted, letting their leader through to battle the smaller dragon. Though size meant nothing of deadliness, as most any dragon could be deadly. Especially an unknown one. He hefted his favorite hammer, wary of this unknown, but determined not to let it hurt anyone. "Come on, beast, let's finish this." The dragon snarled at the intrusion on its shrinking space. No fire yet, at least. The chief advanced, causing it to spring and unsheathed a set of large, sharp claws to slash at his exposed abdomen. He blocked just in time. And they went back and forth, the dragon trying to bite and claw the Viking towering over it, while the said man tried to make a connection with the weapon. But neither could touch the other. One was fast; the other strong. But they both tired, and the dragon saw its chance on the aging chief. It leapt, knocking him over as it went for a swipe to the face. He brought his hammer up, blocking, and attempting to knock the claws aside. He gave a quick swipe- but he missed, glancing off the back of the head near the horns. After a seemingly deafening ripping noise, the horns went flying into the crowd. The beast snarling on his chest was now more terrifying than ever. It was a man.