He looked around him, observing his surroundings carefully. He stood in an unknown room of a house, it had a sense of familiarity, yet it seemed so distant to him. Before him was a fire, making a soft crackling noise as the flames consumed the wood. The room was empty, apart from some furniture. Next to him stood a table, he turned to it, recognizing the piece of furniture from a far and distant memory. He laid his hands on it, feeling the rough wood underneath his finger.

He remembered the feeling, but it felt out of place on his hands. He looked around, wanting to make sure he was alone for some reason. He wanted to be alone, yet his heart longed for someone to be there, someone who he felt he would never see again. The house felt like it missed something, something important. He kneeled next to the table, letting his chin rest on the wood. That was it, the rough feeling against his the skin of his chin. It was so familiar, so comporting. He looked down, finding himself standing instead of kneeling. But when he looked back at the table it hadn't changed, it was still at the height of his chin.

He stepped back in shock, looking to his left. The fire still burned softly, but was now also twice as high. Instead of reaching to his knee it reached to his hip, while the logs had also seemed to grow larger while he had his eyes closed.

He looked around, discovering that the entire room had grown, it had become something bigger, something larger, broader, longer, and familiar. This was their room, the room he had spent many years in, but not enough. He carefully took a step, suddenly treating the room like it was a very delicate piece of work, and fearing that he might break or shatter the building. Everything was still the same, the old table he had already met. The old chairs that stood by the fire. Even the old logs that held the second floor of the house up were still high in the air, unreachable for him.

He took another step, slowly walking through the open room. There was something about it, something he still had to discover. There was something wrong. He walked further, hoping to find whatever he was looking for. He now stood in front of a richly decorated piece of furniture. A tall cupboard. It was made of sturdy pine, and was richly decorated with various pictures. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, and he slowly traced his finger along the carefully carved pictures on the doors. It was a carving of a town, laying seaside with a small dock next to it. The houses were detailed, even having small smoke trails coming from their chimneys. He took a step back, now being able to see the full picture. Behind the town lay a small forest, and behind that a mountain. It was a beautiful piece of art. And it must have cost a fortune.

He reached for the knob of the cupboard, hoping to discover whatever was inside. But as he opened the wooden masterpiece he was surprised to see that it was empty, void of any materials or actual cups. That wasn't logical, was it? He stuck his head inside, checking behind the other door that was still closed, but also that place was empty. He looked further in the cupboard, opening the smaller doors on the bottom. They creaked lightly, which for some reason gave him an enormous satisfaction to hear. He looked inside, but also this place was empty. He calmly crawled inside, the room easily able to fit the small boy. He pushed himself up against the side of the cupboard, before for some reason closing the doors.

It was dark, very dark, only a small strip of light shining through the crack between the two doors. It was very tiny however, which was another indicator that the cupboard was perfectly well created. It smelled a little bit dull inside though. Like it had been used to store old rags and it hadn't been dusted recently. He pushed to doors open with his foot, new light shining back into the cupboard.

He immediately noticed that his head was way closer to the ceiling than when he entered the bottom part of the piece of furniture. He had a little bit of trouble with getting out of the thing, since his body had apparently grown extremely in the last few seconds, that, or the furniture had again changed size. He slowly got back on feet, discovering that everything around him had also shrunk. The fire now reached halfway his upper leg, and the table ended a bit above his hip. Now everything was particularly familiar. And he felt like he had been there just a few days before, no more than a week. But he knew that it was impossible for him to be there. It was like nothing ever happened.

He looked around, spotting some light from the fire reflecting off something in the chair next to the fire. He slowly walked to it, curious about the strange object that was resting in the chair. The reflection was almost blinding, and the glow surrounded the item. He reached out with his hand, shielding his eyes and attempting to grab the strange item. His hand was met with something cold, but also very sharp. He brought it towards him and turned his hand around, finding a small carving knife. The blade was short, curved and very sharp. Which made it perfect for carving small details in elaborate artworks. But what he also realised was that it was his father's.

"There it is!" A voice sounded from behind him, startling him. He quickly swung around quickly, clutching the knife close to his chest. In front of him stood a tall man, strong and sturdy like most Vikings. His hair was messy and brown, and his face was covered in dirt and filth. He kneeled before him, his head now lower than his own. "You know you're not supposed to touch my stuff, you could hurt yourself." The man said with a gentle and caring voice.

"Sorry dad." He softly said as he presented the knife, waiting for his father to grab it out of his hands. He looked down at the ground in front of him, looking at the thick boots and old pants of his father, a small hole near his knee.

The man sighed, looking around to make sure the two were alone. "Your mother will kill me for this." His father said softly. He wrapped his hand around his own hand, closing it with the knife still inside. "Keep it."

"Really?" The boy asked as he looked at the large rough hands covering his own. Still not wanting to meet his father's gaze.

"Yes Ragnar." His father spoke softly. "Just never carve towards yourself, you might get hurt."

"Thanks." Ragnar said as he looked up. He immediately regretted doing so. It was everything he remembered about his father. He wore his gentle smile on his face, and his nose was still a bit off, something he had never explained. His hair was messy and long. But what Ragnar remembered the most were his eyes. They were blue, and in a fain and distant memory he remembered them as beacons of light. But currently they resembled his last image of his father. Dark and lifeless.

He blinked, the room suddenly changing into a devastated house. The large beams above the fire had broken and had fallen down, onto the fire pit below. The chairs had been smashed, and there was a hole in the roof, through which he could see dark grey clouds in the sky. He could smell the burned wood, along with another scent. It was strong and present. He could recognise the smell of beef, and a bit of pork, but it was then masked by the sinister sweet smell of burning flesh. He felt his stomach turn as it reached his nostrils.

"Son." His father shook him out of his thoughts, drawing his attention back to the lifeless eyes he wanted to avoid. He spoke with a panicked voice, but he wasn't fearing for his own life, but for that of his son. "Can you do that?"

"What?" Ragnar asked confused as he looked around the room, the room was even more familiar now, the burning building, the horrible smell, it all added to form the best remembered picture of his old house. The beautiful cupboard had almost been totally destroyed by one of the large beams falling down on it, one side of it remained, the door showing the village now in flames, dead bodies covering the streets.

His father looked at the door with worry. "You'll have to run." He said with a stern voice, holding his son with a strong and secure grip, not wanting to let go. "Run for the catacombs, they won't go there."

"But what about you?" Ragnar quickly asked out of instinct. "Where will you go?"

"I'll buy you time!" His father said as he stood up, turning walking over to the door and grabbing the sword that lay beside it. "Take the back door, your mother will be waiting for you at the tombs!"

Ragnar ran to the door on the other side of the room, looking back one last time at his father. He had grabbed the sword and had opened the door, looking out of the small opening to see when it was a safe time to go out. He looked back, his dead eyed staring straight into his son's soul, he nodded and headed out of the door.

Ragnar turned around, opening the door to be met with a familiar and disturbing sight. The village, his village, was burning. Every building he could see had flames rising through the roof. Some burning even harder because of the thatch roofs that they had. He stood there, stunned, observing the traumatising sight around him. It felt surreal, it could not be possible. This was the village he lived in, how could it be destroyed? Then where would they live?

He turned left, knowing the way to the catacombs. His father would take him there once or twice a year, to pay respects to their elders who had died. Most of the villagers would have a typical burial, a cremation at sea. But for some there was a tomb. Old leaders, former elders, this was their final resting place.

He still remembered the way, first he headed left. Only to see his old neighbour standing in the street with an axe and a shield. He was screaming loudly as other villagers ran past him, all armed and heading towards the docks. His neighbour turned to him. He was a nice man, always kind and willing to help others. He was a farmer, and it was strange to see him clad in armour that didn't quite fit.

"Ragnar, get out of here!" His neighbour yelled loudly. Motioning the boy to leave with his axe. Ragnar looked at the sight, frozen, he knew what was going to happen. He wanted to stop it, save him, maybe he could? What if he could?

But he couldn't. The familiar whistle of the arrow was softly heard and he closed his eyes. He turned around without looking and headed off, there were other ways towards the catacombs. He had seen his neighbour fall too many times already, and he didn't want to see it anymore. He ran further, heading for the catacombs. But he knew that his road was shrouded with doom. He kept his eyes on the ground, for everywhere he could look he would see familiar faces, dead or dying.

The catacombs were easily build inside a small hill, at the far end of the village. He reached them quickly, now being far away from the fighting, at least, that was supposed to be the plan. One of the large wooden doors had already been opened, and the other had three arrows sticking out of it.

He felt a lump grow in his throat as he approached the opening. A shining and clear trail of red liquid on the floor. He slowly stepped inside, his foot landing inside a puddle of blood. The sound of the battle behind him died out, and he could now only hear the silence of the old tomb.

He stepped down the stone stairs. Slowly going down into the depths of the catacombs. The tombs had always had an eerie feel to them, especially since people had spread tales of draugr that roamed the tombs, but he had learned that these stories were only made to prevent children from playing in the catacombs.

The catacombs consisted of a large burial mound, forming a barrow or tumulus. There was a large, thick wooden door that sealed the mound, which could be locked from the inside by a large beam of sturdy pine. The walls were lined with holes, in which ancient bodies lay to rest. They often had small urns next to them, containing the ashes of family or pets.

Ragnar remembered the eerie and strange feel of the burial mound perfectly. The cobwebs hung lifelessly in the corners. And small puddles had formed on stones from water, either from rain or from the dampness of the deep mound. However, this time the water was red, tainted with the blood of someone, someone he feared that he knew. He slowly walked down the steps, further and further descending into the mound. The trail lead downward, and the stairs seemed infinite. They kept on descending, heading deeper and deeper into the tumulus. Next to him the dead seemed to mind their own business. Keeping to their infinite slumber.

Ragnar looked behind him, where the stairs lead back up to the door, but it was far away. If this was right, then he would be far below the sea at this point, far below any depth that Vikings could dig.

There was a bashing on the door, loud and clear as he heard the soft clattering of armour, like a soldier was slowly walking towards him. Kept walking as he looked back, suddenly finding the stairs to have disappeared. The ground was still covered in blood, but he was no longer in a mound. He was in a stone room, small and damp. A little bit of moss grew on the rocks of the wall. And a bench stood beside him. He had regained his normal height, but that meant that he almost hit his head on the ceiling.

"It can be over." He heard a deep voice say. It came from behind a wooden door, thick, with a small window that was covered with sturdy bars. "The pain, the suffering."

"Who's there?" Ragnar asked, looking for a way out of the cell he was in. He checked the walls, the floor, the ceiling. But there was no way to go other than the door in front of him.

"Don't you remember me?" The deep voice repeated as the soft clattering of armour continued. "We've spend so much time together."

"Where are you?" Ragnar asked, a feeling of insecurity rising in his chest. He headed to the door, hoping to see something when he looked out of the window. He felt a sharp sting in his back, falling to his knees from the unimaginable pain.

"Do you remember?" The voice asked softly, its origin close to his ear. He hissed loudly from the pain is his back, a throbbing and painful feeling arising as he felt something cold enter his skin. Making a slow and painful cut in his skin. "All you need to do is remember."

He dropped further to the ground, using his hands to support himself. One hand went fine, but the other arm felt painfully wrong at his shoulder, and it also didn't look like it should have. The shoulder was lower than it should be, and a strange lump was pushing the skin outward. He hissed softly, the pain feeling as present as it had every day.

He fell to his side, the open wounds on his back being filled with dirt and other filth. He breathed loudly, his chest rising and falling with every ragged breath. He opened his eyes slowly, looking up at that face, the face that haunted him for a full year, almost every night. It was round and fat, with blonde messy hair and piercing brown eyes. He didn't care for information, which was a side effect to him. He enjoyed his work, he enjoyed it too much.

The whistle of a whip sounded as clear as ever. Piercing the silence that hung in the air. He could feel every single one of the cords on his back. And although it was painful, he thanked the gods that it was the knotted rope he felt on his back, and that the ends were not hooked like other flails and whips he had felt.

"Give up." His torturer said again, mockingly, as he walked away. Heavy rustling of armour was heard, and he was grabbed by his shoulders. He winced loudly as the guard forcefully grabbed his dislocated shoulder. Dragging him with them, his legs dragged lifelessly behind his body as they pulled him across the stone floor. "It's so much easier."

They dropped him, and he now lay before a large trough of water. He sighed heavily, being pulled onto the edge of the stone trough. He looked down, staring into the reflexion in the water. He could see the drops of blood and sweat on his face, falling towards him in his reflexion. He could see the way his hair was wet with sweat and blood, and he knew it would soon be soaked by the cold and unforgiving trough of water.

He closed his eyes, taking a soft breath of air so that his torturers wouldn't notice it, and accepted his faith. The water was cold, and didn't feel right. He calmly waited, knowing that they enjoyed it when he struggled. He wasn't going to give them the pleasure. But his breath ran out, and his lungs began to spasm to inhale air. His body involuntarily began to struggle too. Trying to pull his head out of the water.

He sat upright, sweating heavily and breathing even heavier. Slowly blinking to adjust his eyes to the darkness around him. He felt trapped, not being able to spread his legs properly. He had to get out, get out fast. He struggled to escape the trap, kicking and clawing his way from where he was and heading for the dim light that he saw outside. He finally got out, his leg finding solid ground and immediately pushing his body away from the thing that had trapped him, his sleeping bag.

He stood outside the tent, the sleeping bag hanging from the opening, defeated. Ragnar stood in the cold of the night, his feet standing on the soft grass and dirt of the forest. The breeze gently blowing over his uncovered torso. He needed to sit, he needed to rest. He was still breathing heavily, his heart racing to pump blood through his entire body. He felt like he had ran for miles, but he also wanted to keep running. He slowly stepped away from the fire, it felt too hot on his skin. He felt like he stood inside a burning building, entire logs being eaten and consumed by flames around him. But in reality he stood eight feet away from the last embers that burned on the fire.

He slowly walked away, careful to not awake any of the dragons. The beast would sleep like the dead if you tried to wake them, but if you tried to be silent they would hear everything. Luckily, tonight that wasn't the case. He walked to the edge of their stack, safely away from the fire and the tents. Here he could sit in peace and calmness. He could think, although he really didn't want to.

He kept his eyes open, not wanting to review the images that he had seen again that night. They were always way too vivid, and this Nightmare hadn't been as bad as the others. He held his shaking hand against his other, trying to hold it still. He could feel the cold ground through his pants as he leaned against a rock, his breath hitching when his scars hit the cold stone.

Meanwhile, back at the camp, Heather was stirring in her sleep. And she had accidently kicked Astrid while doing so. The blonde had, ever so politely, replied with a gentle, but still pretty powerful, kick back. Heather, now fully awake and lying still in her sleeping bag, was actually surprisingly awake.

"Astrid?" She softly asked, gently shaking the shoulder of the blonde. "Are you awake?"

"Go away." The blonde softly replied. "I don't want to race."

"Okay, somewhat awake." Heather muttered as she shook her shoulder again. "I'm not tired, wake up."

Astrid produced an inaudible sound as Heather was sitting up, turning around and moving her hand in her sleep to find Heather. She found her face and in her sleep clamped her hand over her mouth. "Shhh." She said as she found a more comfortable position on the bed. "No words, just dreams."

"Alright." Heather softly said as she removed Astrid's hand. "Vast asleep."

She pushed her sleeping bag down and crawled out of the tent, heading towards the fire pit in the centre of their camp. It was cold out, but luckily her night clothes prevented her from getting too cold. She calmly watched as the group of dragons lay next to their camp. She observed them calmly, watching their chests rise slowly as they calmly slept. The necks of the Zippleback lay twisted next to Hookfang, who had his long neck tucked between his wing and his body.

Shimmer and Bolt lay next to each other, the two dragons occasionally sharing a small bolt of electricity. Toothless hung from a tree not too far from them, his wings wrapped around him and his head tucked between them. Meatlug lay alone, as did Stormfly, both near their rider's tents. The tents were a simple design. Two sticks could support a large piece of hide that served to keep water and wind out of the tent. The excess leather on both sides of the sticks were used as flaps to close the endings, and they were spacious enough for two people to fit in there.

She looked at the most right tent, where Ragnar and Hiccup slept. It was the same as their tents. Maybe a little bit more weathered but otherwise the same. But what she also noticed was that the flap of the tent was open, and that the last few bits of a sleeping bag were laying form the opening, empty.

She looked at it curiously. All the dragons were present, so whoever left their bed didn't leave the isle. Maybe they'd gone for a short walk because they also couldn't sleep. If so, she had someone to talk to before she'd grow tired again.

She walked to the tent, finding soft footprints in the dirt around the campfire, heading off into the bushes around the camp. They were easy to follow, since the person who left them had apparently focussed on moving quietly, using only the front part of their foot to walk. This meant that it had to support more weight on a smaller surface, and it left deeper and clearer prints in the soil.

She pushed a branch to the side, since it was blocking her path. The moon was full and the sky was clear. It illuminated her surroundings very well, and it didn't take long for her to spot a figure sitting against a rock, watching out over the sea.

"Hey," She calmly said as she walked up to him, recognizing the person as Ragnar. "Is this spot free?"

Ragnar was at first startled when he heard someone greet him, but he quickly relaxed when he saw that it was Heather. Still, he'd rather be alone at this moment, since he didn't want anyone to see how vulnerable he could be at moments. However, he still agreed with her company. "No, it isn't." He calmly answered. His mind still swarming with thoughts about the Nightmare.

"Good." Heather said as she sat down next to him, noticing that he was only wearing pants. She leaned back against the rock. Following Ragnar's gaze out towards the water. She could feel he was skittish, and something was wrong. "Couldn't sleep?"

Ragnar was still staring at the sea, not responding to the question, because he hadn't even heard it. That was until Heather asked it again, this time shaking his shoulder a bit to get his attention.

"Yea, sure." Ragnar answered, distracted. "I, erm, I woke up."

"Alright." Heather said as she observed the young man next to her. It was strange to see him like this, skittish, afraid. Like a small child that had seen something terrible. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

"I, eh, had, I had a lot on my mind." Ragnar said. It wasn't a full lie, but it sure was a part of the reason he couldn't go to sleep again. "I had to think about, things."

"Things." Heather repeated softly. She was curious now, he talked mysteriously, and it was like he refused to look at her. And she couldn't really see him very well in the dark. "What sort of things?"

"Just, some old stuff." He said softly. "Days gone by and such."

"Right." Heather said, calmly trying to pry information loose from him. "Want to talk about it?"

She could see how he bit his lips, before turning his head a bit more to the left, away from her. "I eehm, I don't think that's necessary."

"Sure?" She asked as she playfully swung her arm around his shoulders, feeling his entire body tense up underneath her. His breath was heavy and ragged, like he was trying to calm his mind and heart, however, she had the feeling she usually created in him. She could see how he turned his head slightly, just the slightest movement towards her, but he quickly turned it back, staring out towards the sea again.

"Ragnar." She softly called his name, not willing to stop until she got a proper response. He didn't response, he kept his head turned away from here. His mind cluttered like the mead hall after Snoggletog. "Ragnar."

He didn't want to look at her. It wouldn't be as bad in the morning, he would have had the time to get himself together, now he was still as broken as when he woke up. He wanted to say something, but his throat felt dry and he couldn't speak.

"Hmm?" He hummed softly. Hoping Heather would accept it as a response.

"Ragnar." She said softly. "Look at me."

But the young lad did not listen, for his mind was still clouded with thoughts, he was shocked to discover that the image he sees most is the vivid memory that had never been included in his dreams. He remembers what he found once he reached the bottom of the stairs. What he'd see once he turned around the corner of the cold and cobwebbed stone corridors. He remembered seeing her lying there, pressed up against the stone wall of the tunnel. He remembered the words she spoke, breathed. And the question she still playfully asked him. He remembers finding his mother, the arrow ever so present as the end stuck out from stomach, the head of the arrow buried somewhere in her body. He remembered every last word that she had spoken, every single thing she had told him. And he remembered that she had did as she'd always told him.

He turned to Heather, and if asked she'd admit that what she saw scared her. She knew Ragnar as a proud guy, who walked straight and with his head held high. His eyes would shine with joy and energy, for they were filled with life and love. He was passionate about almost everything, but he didn't show compassion to those who dared to attack or hurt his friends.

But now, now she was looking at a shell of a man. His shining white eyes only had a small rim of white around his blue iris. From there the colour quickly changed to a pink colour, before turning to a bright and almost glowing red. His bloodshot eyes were filled with water, almost glassy. The entire way he sat described defeated, but also tensed. Like a hunted animal that knew it was done for.

It was scary to see him like that.

The moment only lasted for a moment though, since he quickly turned his head away afterwards. Pulling his knees close to his body and wrapping his arms around them, resting his head on his knees. Heather sat next to him, her arm still around his shoulders. She did the only thing she thought was smart, the same thing you did with a child who was scared or hurt.

She wrapped her other arm around him, hugging him tightly. At first he didn't respond. But after a little bit she could feel his weight shifting her way. But his arms still remained fixed around his legs. She held him close, hoping that it would help him with what was wrong.

First his arms slowly slid lower on his legs, eventually reaching the ground. He looked up after a while, turning his head to Heather. Although they were still red, she could see a small sparkle behind his glassy eyes. And he wore a small smile on his face.

"Thanks." He said softly, extremely softly. His voice was dry and raspy, so he swallowed before continuing. "I, I needed that."

"No problem." Heather said, not letting him go. She only moved one hand to grab his, which was still shaking a bit. "Care to tell me what was wrong?"

"I haven't been sleeping too well." Ragnar explained softly. He swallowed again, his hand gripping Heather's tightly. "I've been having, well, seeing bad things."

"Nightmares?" Heather asked softly, earning a nod from Ragnar. "For how long?"

"I, maybe a year or two." He said, his voice growing raspy again. "It's difficult to fall asleep afterwards."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Heather asked, kind of disappointed.

"Well, I" Ragnar began, swallowing again. "I didn't want to bother you with it."

"Always trying to protect others." Heather said softly. "Do you want to share the subject of your nightmares?"

She could immediately see, and feel, him tense up, he wrapped his arms around his legs again, his head tucked close to his body. Shaking it calmly with closed eyes. "No, I, they." He began stuttering. "They are not something, it's just that, no."

"Okay, you don't have too." Heather said calmly, feeling him relax, but sensing that her next question would make him tense again. "Do they have anything to do with the scars?"

Instead of tensing, Ragnar just looked down to the ground, his feet digging into the soil as he slowly nodded his head.

"Do I want to know the story behind them?" Heather asked, leaving the choice whether he told it or not to him.

"Probably." He said softly, turning to her. "But it's not something that a pretty young girl as you should worry about."

Heather giggled, he now wrapped an arm around her shoulder, laying his head in her neck. "I'm just tired." He admitted softly. Taking deep and long breaths as he lay leaned on her. She remained still, gently and slowly robbing his shoulder, making him slowly relax.

It didn't take long for Ragnar's heavy eyelids to force his eyes shut. His mind taking him away again, slowly dragging him back into the realm of dreams. But this time, they were calm and peaceful.

He was back in the same room, and it didn't change height or size this time. He sat at a table, together with three others. His father said in front of him, bright blue eyes shining with life and joy. His mother sat next to his father, her emerald eyes shining brighter than ever and her brown hair reflecting the light of the candles on the table. He felt uncertain, but luckily he didn't stand alone. For next to him sat a raven haired beauty. Who would stand by him every step he'd take.

Heather felt his head fall down the last part, finally fully asleep on her shoulder. She smiled to herself, she had a feeling that Ragnar would be a tough customer as a boyfriend, but in the end she'd pull through. They'd pull through.

She heard a twig snap behind her, seeing Hiccup standing there in his sleeping attire. He calmly walked up to her and his sleeping partner. Handing her a large fur to cover the two. Which she accepted without hesitation. It was colder than she had noticed, and she had a feeling that she'd be here for a while.

Hiccup kneeled before the two, and looked at Ragnar. He was sleeping calmly at Heather side, his lips forming a small smile. "He thinks you're good for him." Hiccup began softly, earning a smile and a nod from Heather. "I can see why."

"Go sleep." Heather said softly. "I'll watch over him tonight."

"Thanks." Hiccup said as he stood up, calmly and silently heading back to the camp, but after a few steps he stopped. He turned back to Heather, a stern expression. "For his own sake, don't let him go."

"I wasn't planning on that." Heather said with a smile, gently stroking Ragnar's head. "He's not getting rid of me."

"Good." Hiccup said as he turned back, heading off to the campsite again. This time for real.

Heather pulled the fur further over herself and Ragnar, hoping that the boy behind her wasn't too cold. She yawned softly, and after giving her boy a quick kiss on his forehead, joined him in the realm of dreams.

AN:

Oh how I love researching things for stories.

Really, go ahead and research stuff for torturing, I swear it won't make you feel good.

It won't.

Anyway, there's the chapter. I actually took half a week instead of half a day to write this, but I'm pretty pleasant with the result, so I hope you all are too.

Anyway, schools starting to come around the corner. Kind of like, hey kids, wanna do some work? And although I really don't want to, I do have to. So yea.

Anyway, what I mean is that I don't know if I'll manage to update weekly again, so it might become every two weeks again. Sorry for that :(

Don't forget to review if you want to and to check out the poll for the next story. Also, if you're interested in what kind of strange plots and scenarios my mind will think up next, check out the previews on my profile page, and if you like to help, PM me!

Anyway, I really say anyway a lot. So there's that.

Sooooooooo, I'll guess I'll see you all next time.

Take care!

R4y