Broken

Chapter 3: Council

The evening air was still and quiet. The darkening skies promised one or two more snow flurries before spring would be allowed to settle across the face of Berk for good. A wide shouldered man with a broad leather belt and heavy fur cloak gazed at the quiet homes of his village, grateful for the peaceful moment.

As Stoick stepped from Freygerd's small cottage, he felt as lost as he had when he'd entered. He'd come seeking answers to his questions, solutions to his problems. He'd been given answers, but no solutions. Not that he'd honestly expected any. His own father had taught him that true leaders either created solutions or destroyed problems. As a Viking, destroying problems was the preferred method.

Some problems, he'd eventually discovered, couldn't be destroyed.

Despite the fact that his visit to the village elder hadn't helped him, Stoick did not despair. He had other resources. And it was early enough that his next visit would not be unusual or unseemly.

The tribal chief moved through his village quietly, keeping his eyes open for movement. No one else seemed to be stirring outside their homes at the moment, and the few dragons he noticed were perched atop the larger buildings or lazing in the newly built barns that had been constructed for their use. It still baffled him that dragons, beasts used to the outdoors and all manner of weather, would want to spend their nights confined within wooden walls. Not that many did, but enough of them took to their stalls with a willingness that made the construction worth the effort. To some people, at least.

Stopping in the middle of the village's gathering circle, he gazed at the houses that surrounded him. Light from fires and candles leaked around doors and shutters. Voices muted by distance and walls reached his ears, calm and comforting. He drew a deep breath, letting the familiar scents of earth and wood and stone fill him.

Stoick looked first to his own house. There was light under the door, so likely his son and his pet were within. He turned away with a frown. Toward the cliff, he gazed at another specific house. There was dim, flickering light coming from behind the shutters there, too. As he stared, he also saw small, flitting shadows moving around the building's roof. His frown intensified for a moment, then faded. He shook his head and headed instead toward the training ring.

Even the solid familiarity of the stone arena couldn't ease Stoick's discomfort. It had changed, and largely for the same reason everything else in Berk had changed. The wooden doors that had imprisoned captured dragons were gone. The cavernous granite pens were now used as stables and storage. The heavy metal rods and chains that had formed the top of the arena's cage were partly missing, dismantled and put to better use.

The sight of the arena warred bitterly with the memories he had of this special place. Some of the most important moments in his life had happened here. He could see them clearly in his mind. He closed his eyes and remembered. It was all there, as if it had only just happened; the sounds of cheering villagers, the roar of angry beasts, the satisfying clang, thud and rip of weapons biting deep into his enemy's flesh. The floor would be covered in shadows and blood, some of it his own. He could smell sweat, leather and steel, heated by the bright summer sun and mixed with the heady tang of spilled dragon guts. Such glory!

He opened his eyes and it was like a hammer blow to his heart to see the new way of things. For a moment, he felt a red rush of anger. It was as if everything he'd ever valued had been thrown away, declared foolish and of no use. But the moment passed, his anger cooled. He knew full well the changes that had happened had actually been for the benefit of the entire village. That was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? To keep his people safe and fed? Maybe even find a way to bring them a bit of prosperity? Those were things any good leader would want for his tribe.

He'd done the very best he could, leading his tribe in the only way he knew, the way he'd been taught by his father. He'd fought the enemy head on when it showed itself, he'd tended to the greatest needs of food and shelter, and he'd made certain the young were taught the ways of a true fighting Viking. In this way, he'd believed that when he found himself in the halls of Valhalla he could greet his forefathers with pride.

His greatest challenge had come not from dragons or the destruction, hunger and death that those flying beasts represented, but from his own issue. Hiccup had proven capable of little more than thwarting his best efforts at raising a proper son. Frustration and sometimes real anger had stood between him and the one person he'd hoped he could count on. More than once he'd found himself balling up his huge fists, wanting to simply beat sense into his son. Not that Hiccup's slim, fragile body could have withstood such a blow.

The boy had failed Stoick's hopes completely despite his best efforts. His slender frame was unfit for fighting, his mind unable to focus on the most important lessons he needed to learn. And that meant Stoick himself had failed Berk. When the day came that his empty body was placed on a pyre and the smoke rose to stain the sky, there would be no one who could take his place.

It had finally gotten so bad that he'd started sending out ships to find the lair of their enemy and strike at their heart. He'd come to believe that destroying the dragon's nest was the only way to secure Berk against the inevitable failure that Hiccup would be as leader.

He'd failed there, as well. Loss of ships and men the village could barely afford to lose had made things worse. Before, the dragons had routinely taken whatever extra provisions they'd managed to accumulate and destroyed enough houses in the village to ensure that most of Berk's time and energy would be spent in restocking and rebuilding. Eventually they had to face the fact that their efforts to find the nest and destroy the beasts for good had pushed their resources beyond their limits.

The idea had finally come to him that it may fall to his brother's son to lead Berk when the time came. He'd not spoken of this to anyone, but the more he'd thought on it, the more obvious it had become.

Stoick had left Berk one last time, hoping to find a way to destroy the menace that had plagued them all for centuries. If he failed, he would have no path left to take but to begin training Snotlout to be the chief of the tribe when he eventually fell. The desperation of that voyage had been like a lump of cold, rotting meat in his stomach during the entire trip.

He'd returned to face several unexpected shocks.

First his son, his stick-limbed and ever-distracted offspring, had finally shown skill in the arena. Hiccup had succeeded in winning the honor of making his first dragon kill as Stoick and the entire village looked on. The pleasure of that moment had so eased his mind that he felt he could charge directly into a Monstrous Nightmare's gullet and kill the beast from the inside.

Then, the most unthinkable betrayal. Hiccup, son of Stoick the Vast, apprentice to Gobber the Belch, future leader of Berk, had shown himself to be a traitor of the worst kind. He'd been cavorting with the most feared dragon known. He'd somehow tricked a Night Fury into being his pet. To make matters worse, he'd shown no remorse in his deceit. The boy's only concern had been the welfare of the black devil. Stoick had reacted the only way he possibly could; he'd disowned his son and gone in search of the lair of his greatest enemy. The tool of the dragons undoing would be the very beast his misbegotten son had ensnared.

The final shock was the battle, starting with the appearance of a creature so immense and powerful that Stoick uttered words he'd never before spoken; "Odin help us!" His plea had not been answered. At least, not by Odin.

How could he have known? What could have possibly prepared him to see his wisp of a son appear in the sky riding a dragon? Only minutes before, he'd been forced to see that his eagerness to destroy the dragon's nest was going to be the ultimate undoing of Berk. Then he saw, with his own eyes, what his son was truly capable of. He finally understood where Hiccup's power lay. And with that last, numbing acknowledgment had come the slender thread of hope that they might all live through the day.

From that day to this, Stoick's world had been utterly reshaped. His son, in the inconceivable role of savior, had begun molding people and dragons into new forms.

Failing to find comfort in the place he'd become a true Viking so many years ago, Stoick the Vast turned to leave the arena. As he moved up the ramp to the permanently open gate, he looked to his right. His axe still hung in its place of honor, the plaque beneath showing his name and the year he'd killed a Skrill within those stone walls. Pleased something of the old world hadn't changed, he plucked it from the bracket. He swung it experimentally, remembering the way it had cleaved the dragon's skull in two. Running his thumb over the rusting edge, he was dismayed to find it brutally blunted. It looked as though someone had slammed it hard into the stone floor of the arena.

Then he remembered. Astrid Hofferson had used it to force open the inner door of the arena the day of Hiccup's final trial. She'd done it to save his son. And while he couldn't fault her for using whatever was at hand in a time of crisis, he still felt a simmering anger, like a banked fire. Was there nothing in Berk that had remained unchanged after that day?

Besides himself?

No, that wasn't true. Stoick had been forced to change along with everything and everyone else. He hadn't any other choice. That, he realized, was probably what bothered him most.

Turning his back on his memories, he headed for Gobber's house.

He rapped lightly on the door with the axe, glancing with displeasure at the Terrible Terrors that were flittering around the roof of the blacksmith's home. For some reason those smallest of dragons seemed to prefer his friend's company.

A heavy shuffling and a low rumbling growl set Stoick's hand tightening around the handle of his trophy axe. The great snaggletoothed head of the Boneknapper dragon Gobber had claimed as his own snaked around the side of the house from where the huge beast had been sleeping. It blinked lazily at Stoick before giving a quiet 'growf' and disappearing again. Before he could decide whether or not he'd just been insulted, the door opened and Gobber's solid frame filled the entrance.

The blacksmith seemed surprised to see his friend so late in the evening, but smiled all the same as he stepped aside to let him in. Neither said a word as Gobber sat himself back in his favorite chair and resumed filing the edges of a strange bowl he placed in his lap. Stoick took the other large chair in the room and watched him work for several minutes, content to let the harsh metallic scratching sound of the rasp smoothing the bowl's rim mark the moments. The piece looked familiar somehow, though he felt certain he'd not seen it before. He placed his own axe across his lap and let the memories of friendship and kinship ease his mind.

He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until a ringing thud caused them to open. For a fleeting moment he was confused. Gobber's left arm stump was totally bare, the pale calloused flesh showing a faint red ring where the ropes normally helped secure the metal socket against the damaged limb. Stoick had seen the results of that particular injury during and after the healing process and its lumpy, misshapen form was nothing unusual to him. But it did remind him of an uncomfortably vivid image far newer to his memory. His eyes drifted down to his axe, and he felt vaguely ashamed for looking away.

After a few more minutes of stroking the flattened edge of his weapon, Berk's leader heard, "Ah, that's got it." He looked up to find the bowl Gobber'd been working on was a replacement socket for his shortened arm. The smith reached down beside his chair and picked up his work tongs, sliding the tang of the instrument into the socket's round opening. He gave the tongs a twist before pulling on them, seeing how secure they fit. "I finally wore it out," he explained, lifting his gaze to his friend's eyes. "My sticks kept falling out."

Stoick gave a nod and a smile, remembering the first time he'd called Gobber's interchangeable tools 'sticks.' The smith had grimaced at him with both humor and the pain of a recently healed wound and replied, "Eh, you're just jealous because my stick is longer than yours."

The master blacksmith leaned back in his chair, the worn and stained leather creaking comfortably. "So, what brings ye?"

With the ease of long practice, Stoick hefted the axe single handedly and tossed it to Gobber. The younger man caught it easily and gave it a cursory glance. He immediately noticed the dulled edge and the rust. "Mmm, the rust is old but the blunting is recent. Where'd you get this?" Then he noticed the mark on the handle and the silver end cap that signified a trophy weapon. "Hey, I recognize this blade." He looked up at his friend. "But I don't remember that Skrill's head being all that hard."

Stoick smiled thinly, the memory of that struggle bringing a spark to his eyes. It had been a fight to remember, lasting a full five minutes before he'd slain the monster. The axe had been his third choice after a mistimed blow shattered his war hammer and the dragon had managed to latch its powerful jaws on the sword he'd grabbed next.

His smile faded as he thought of the arena in its current state, of the dancing shadows that hovered over Gobber's roof, of his son and the black beast that clung to him.

The smith sighed and stood, stumping over to a pair of mugs on the mantle. One he socketed to his arm after dropping the tongs and the other he held in his remaining hand. He filled both from the small cask he kept for his own comfort and took Stoick's to him. After he'd thumped back into his chair and both men had raised their mugs in silent salute, they drank.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his remaining hand, Gobber said, "I'll take a wild guess and say you're not here to get an old head lopper cleaned up and sharpened for sentimental reasons."

With a shrug, Stoick waved a casual hand at the simple but comfortable appointments of the smith's house. "I just wanted to spend some time where nothing's been changed."

An understanding smile creased Gobber's smudged face. Traces of soot and his supper were clinging to his cheeks and chin. His eyes crinkled with humor as he leaned back in his chair. "I know what you mean. No beasties in here, not even the little 'uns. George has tried a time or two, but a good swat with a mace sets him to rights."

Stoick's brows dipped in confusion. "George?"

A meaty, recently burned thumb pointed at the door. "My Boneknapper."

He wasn't really sure how to take his friend's statement. "George."

It was Gobber's turn to shrug. "Well, I couldn't name him Phil. Not after he ate...Phil." The big man sighed sadly for the loss of his pet ram. "So...George."

Stoick got the disturbing feeling the last place in Berk he could go where things wouldn't change had, in fact, changed more than he'd realized. For a moment, just a brief space of a few heartbeats, he felt as if he'd been betrayed. The only place left in Berk for true Vikings to take their ease and remember the world as it had been was tainted by the pervasive scaled presence of dragons, even if only in spirit.

He glanced down at his mug, the ale less than half gone. His knuckles had gone white around the handle as he unwittingly squeezed it as hard as he could.

Gobber noticed. Berk's master smith had, in fact, been watching Stoick closely since they'd first sat down. He knew the man well enough to know that he hadn't shown up just to pass the time drinking with a friend. The village's leader obviously had a problem and wanted council. Gobber considered it a matter of pride that Stoick would come to him like this now and again. But whatever was on the man's mind was not an easy thing to discuss or he would have already said something.

He decided to take advantage of the situation. With luck, Stoick would find a way to bring up whatever was troubling him.

"As it happens," he said casually, taking a moment to bring his thoughts to order and down another swallow of ale, "I need to talk to you about Hiccup." Stoick's expression moved quickly from surprise to mild confusion, then to a more deliberate calm. The man had many mixed feelings about his son right now, he knew. But he'd made his opening and pushed on. "I'm sure you've heard about what he's been making in that little forge of his."

Mild contempt showed plainly in both Stoick's expression and voice. "Metal that doesn't rust? That's not even possible."

Gobber held up his hand. "Now hold on. It's no idle boast. I've looked at it, and it really is what he says it is." The contempt in his friend's eyes faded, replaced with surprise and confusion, again. "I know, it sounds crazy. And it's not perfect. But you can throw something he makes into a bucket of water for a week, or leave it lying on the ground outside. Aside from a few tiny specks, there's no real rust."

"But, how can he possibly do that?"

The smith smiled widely. "With dragon fire, of course!" He chortled at the look of disbelief on Stoick's face. "Have ye not wondered why he never uses any coal in his forge? Why there's no smoke in your house when he's working?"

"I've been busy."

The tone of his voice told Gobber it might be best to leave that topic alone. "Anyway, he's been getting that great black lizard of his to heat metal. Something in the beast's breath seems to change it. He's said something about wanting to try getting other dragons to do the same, to see if there's a difference between species. I've been trying to get George to do it in my forge, but I can't get the lummox to concentrate long enough." He laughed again, remembering his last attempt. "He'd rather play fetch with my tools!"

"What of it?"

Gobber's laughter quickly tapered off when he heard the cool tone in Stoick's voice.

"Well," he said simply, "I was wondering if maybe we could start trading with some of the other villages. We haven't heard from them for so long, I wonder if some folks don't think we're the only people in the world."

"Every child gets taught that we were cut off from other tribes by dragon attacks," was the even reply. "Ships stopped coming after the first dozen or so were sunk in our harbor."

"Ach, I know that." Gobber waved a dismissive hand. "But that was so long ago. When was the last time we even tried to get to one of the other tribes? I mean, we've been on our own all this time. If we could start trading again, we could start living a bit better. Without dragons burning up or stealing everything we need just to get by, we could start trading on a regular basis." Now that he was approaching the topic he really wanted to discuss, he got a bit excited. "We'll need more metal, eventually. Oh, we're making do with what I'm pulling out of the arena, but I'd like to get more. And Hiccup has this idea about mixing metals, now that he can get them hotter than my old forge ever could. There's no telling what that rustless stuff he's making could be worth to other smiths. Maybe we could even-"

"Are we still Vikings?" Stoick interrupted, his head down and his eyes dark.

The wind was snatched out of Gobber's sails quite thoroughly. He stared at his old friend, blinking and trying to understand the question. "What do you mean?"

The older man's gaze rested firmly on the contents of his mug. He spoke slowly, and Gobber realized whatever was bothering him was finally working its way out. "I was out hunting with Anvindr a few days ago. He asked me that question. I said it was a crazy thing to ask. But he got me thinking."

"I don't understand. Why wouldn't we be Vikings?" The phrase itself seemed insulting to Gobber. He frowned and waved his hand in dismissal. "Bah. We'll always be Vikings and that's that."

"Last autumn I would have agreed with you. To be a Viking you went out and killed dragons or you waited for them to raid and killed them here. You went out and hunted and fished and got your own food. You practiced with your weapons and you taught the young to fight." Stoick's smoldering gaze lifted and he stared his friend straight in the eye. "Now dragons are pets. They wander all over the place and never bother anyone except by accident. And they catch fish for us and bring us deer and boar. We eat meat that we didn't catch ourselves and play nice with our enemies."

Stoick's face darkened as the wrongness of it rose up in him. "We don't fight anyone anymore. We might as well become farmers and start planting crops." His eyes narrowed. "Or merchants, sailing around in fat cargo ships full of wool and… and… iron that doesn't rust!"

Gobber stared at his old friend, deeply troubled by his words. He was careful to keep his worry from showing, but he had to admit that Stoick had a strong argument. "So," he said softly, "what do you think we should do?"

Berk's leader shook his head slowly. "We can't do anything! Dragons aren't a problem anymore and we have no ships to spare. It's all we can do to feed ourselves right now." He grimaced. "Gobber, I don't want to eat any more fish with dragon tooth marks in them!"

The smith frowned slightly. "Wait a minute. Are you mad that we don't have enemies to fight or that dragons are helping us fill the larders?"

Stoick banged his mug hard on the arm of his chair, sending a small geyser of ale slopping over his wrist, the arm of the chair and the floor. "I don't like the way things are now! I didn't want them to change!"

They stared at each other, the silence broken only by the small fire on the hearth. Gobber understood what was troubling his friend. He hadn't expected it, though he realized he probably should have. He'd had much the same kind of confrontation with him after the loss of Hiccup's mother. The man who was responsible for the welfare of the village occasionally needed someone to help him with his own welfare.

But this was very unlike his friend, this outburst. It sounded petulant, almost childish to his ears. Stoick didn't like the changes his son had unwittingly forced on all of Berk. Gobber could understand that. Maybe his friend felt powerless in the way his attack on the nest had failed and his disgrace of a son had saved them all from that folly. Gobber could understand that, too.

To say that the people of Berk were no longer Vikings as a result, however, did not sit well with him at all. To Gobber's eyes, the dragons were simply animals that had been domesticated. Much like the dogs that now took the place of wolves, they'd been turned from predators to pets, and all for the better. If Stoick didn't like the fact that he couldn't kill a dragon without its owner getting upset...

Gobber held up his mug. "I didn't want to lose my hand," he said softly, but with a hard edge to his voice. He lifted his leg stump. "I didn't want to lose my leg, either. But it happened. Nothing to be done about it but go on." He stared down at his peg leg, as thought it had suddenly offended him. "Look at me," he muttered. "Mangled, pieces missing. I'm no warrior. A bloody blacksmith. Aye, I can kill dragons. I can kill men." He looked up at Stoick, his face flushed red, his eyes filled with anger. "I'll never get into Valhalla. It's been years since I actually killed a dragon, and now we don't even do that any more." He balled up his hand and slammed it down so hard on the arm of his chair the wood frame fractured. "But I'm still a Viking! I was born a Viking, I'll die a Viking and any man who says different will get my axe across his skull!"

Once again silence settled over the two men as they sat, glaring at one another. They'd been here before. In their youth, they'd have next been on the ground grappling, trying to win the argument with fists. Age and maturity had eventually pushed that out of their minds. In its place had come respect and a willingness to listen and consider the other side of an argument.

Several tense minutes slid by as each man considered what had been said. Having said what was in their thoughts, it was only left for them to see if the argument continued or had been settled.

Eventually, Stoick's grip on his mug eased, his knuckles gaining their color once again. Strangely, though, his expression was still grim. Gobber could see there was something else in him that needed to come out.

"Anvindr thinks we should start training dragons to raid other tribes."

And there it was; the other half of the puzzle. Gobber nodded slightly. "He does, eh?"

This was not a surprise to the smith. He'd had the same thought himself. He knew others who'd mentioned it in passing. But he'd spent some time thinking about the idea. He didn't know if anyone else had, including Stoick.

"You can see what's wrong with that idea, of course."

Stoick drew a long, deep breath and slowly let it go, his posture and expression easing as he did so. "Aye."

Gobber was heartened to hear that, but just to make sure, he said, "If we take the few ships we have left and go on a raid, we'd be lucky to carry it off, even luckier if we didn't lose some of those ships. If we succeed, we'll likely get attacked in return. If we get attacked, it's a sure wager the dragons will wind up helping to defend Berk. If word of that gets out, other tribes will start to fear us for being too powerful. They'll band together to destroy us."

"Right," was the quiet response. "And if we trained the dragons to do the raiding, the others would just come after us that much sooner."

"Vikings won't stand for being conquered." Gobber gave a rueful chuckle. "They'd make the battles we had against dragons seem like child's play." He had another thought. "You know, we've not heard from anyone in so long, we don't know that other tribes haven't done the same thing we have." That drew a startled look from his friend. "Maybe Hiccup's not the first one in the world to make friends with one of these scaly buggers."

The two of them considered that for a moment. It was an idea they found appealing and disturbing at the same time. If the other tribes had taken to taming dragons the way Berk had, there'd be no shame in the way they were now living. But wouldn't that also mean that there were no true, dragon fighting Vikings left anywhere in the world?

"Well, we won't know unless we send out at least one ship to go see for ourselves." Gobber took another pull on his ale. "I'd suggest looking for trade first, until we at least see who's still out there and what they're doing."

Stoick frowned. They'd come back around to Gobber's idea again. And it made sense. But there was still something wrong, something that bothered him mightily. Before he could mention it, the smith distracted him.

"I'd like to be on that ship, if it goes." He smiled faintly. "I want to make sure if we trade for any metals, we get good ingots in return."

Stoick's frown deepened. "You want to leave Hiccup in charge of the smithy while you're gone?" Gobber just looked at him. It took a moment for him to realize he was still thinking of his son in the old terms. "Right. Well then." He sighed. "One ship."

"Maybe we should take the 'Night Fury.'"

"NO!" He was about to thump his mug on the arm of the chair again when he heard Gobber burst out laughing. He gave a fair smile of his own and simply said, "Take 'Rorik'. It's the least suited for fishing anyway."

When he'd calmed down a bit, the smith began figuring what trade items they could take with them. He'd obviously been considering the idea for a while, for he had quite a list of things he believed would make for good barter. He was trying to decide what he might make in his own forge to take when Stoick interrupted him again.

"You never did answer my question."

Gobber's face slowly darkened. "Yes, I did." He wasn't happy about having to have the same argument a second time.

"You really think we can call ourselves Vikings living like this?"

With a weary sigh, he said, "Maybe I'm not the right person to give you council on this. I think Freygerd could better lay your troubles at ease. You might consider talking to her."

His friend paused, obviously dismayed. "I did."

Somewhat alarmed by that admission, Gobber quietly asked, "What did she say?"

"She said..." Another, longer pause. "She said...that we stopped being Vikings the day Hiccup killed the Red Death."

Gobber's face fell. For Freygerd to say such a thing was unthinkable. And confusing. "What does that mean?"

Stoick shook his head. "I don't really know." He gave a helpless shrug. The village elder was the only person who made him feel uncomfortable. She was tiny , she was old, and she was unimaginably wise. When she spoke it was best to listen. And she'd told him several things he'd never thought he'd hear. Not from her, nor anyone else. But what she'd said hadn't made complete sense, either. "You know how she is sometimes. I couldn't even tell for sure if she was proud of what she told me or felt bad about it."

The younger man was still shocked. "What does she think we'll be now?"

"She didn't say." He frowned, remembering her words. "But she did say that Hiccup is going to be the last true Viking Berk ever sees."

"Hiccup?"

Stoick nodded.

To Gobber, that made even less sense. In his eyes, Hiccup wasn't a real Viking. He didn't say so out loud, but he felt sure everyone understood the truth of things. The boy never completed his training, never killed a dragon. Not himself. Oh, he'd outsmarted one, tricked it into killing itself. Not that doing so wasn't a feat worthy of a drinking song or two. But Stoick's son never actually did what was needed to be considered a 'true Viking.'

So how was he going to be the last one Berk ever saw if no one killed dragons anymore?

By then it was late, and both men were tired. Stoick left Gobber to his confusion and disquiet. The smith spent a few more minutes trying to puzzle out what Freygerd had meant, then gave up and headed for his bed.

Removing his peg and the socket on his arm, he rolled himself up in the blankets and furs on his bed. His troubled thoughts followed him for a time, but soon his eyes started to get heavy.

Before he fell asleep, he heard the flutter of small wings and a soft chirrup. A slight weight landed on his hip then scurried up toward his head. He waved his hand with gentle care at the small intruder.

"Ach, leave off Phil. I'm tired."

(c)Wirewolf 2011

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission