On a bright morning, Grimmel strolled through a lively gallery of merchants at a remote yet bustling tradepost. The chill in the air fought to dominate the warmth of the sunlight pushing thrpugh the clouds. His couple of soldier captains trailed behind him closely, yet took liberty to branch off for a sale when they found the supplies that were at the top of Grimmels' list.
They were weapon linens, bandages, alcohols, soap, wax, fruit, rain canteens, feed for his captured dragons for sale, feed for his Deathgripper dragons he nursed with experimental venom in his own lab quarters, and finally plain letter writing parchment with two months' supply of tannin and iron salts to mix his own ink.
Before his ship was stocked to leave, Grimmel spotted a merchant with her own carved hair tools. He bought a handsome one for himself with tiny teeth, but hesitated when he saw an exquisite wide-toothed comb. He inspected it, and asked about it quietly. The merchant confirmed it was meant for long tresses and would last a century, guaranteed. He paid for it, and then he also paid for a host of her homemade hair products.
Grimmel's comrades looked to Grimmel in confusion after the sale, but didn't question him.
Later, Grimmel finished nailing a small box and roping it tight, intending to ship it soon, before snow would fall. He sat down to read a new letter from his former prisoner by a candle, only the squeaking of his ship for company.
When he was finished, he found a slender stylus and plunged it in an ink vial, making sure to tap it dry. He felt relieved to not sacrifice another contracting scroll, which could not be resupplied until the summer, when the air was scorching enough to dry the thick pulp of such paper.
Keep the map, you insufferable woman. If it was in your cellar, it must have been a simple draft. The trading post you found for an address must have been a mainstay in my route, there is no other explanation for how your letters reached me.
Study the map well, and memorize it. Mesmerizing, isn't it? I doubt your chief has ever shown you such a map of the New World. If an entire kingdom had such knowledge everyone would become an explorer, and the chief would have no subjects left to protect him. Hiccup is not much different from Stoick than he believes. (Now, that was a chief.)
I will have a guess at your problem. It is just below your nose and never stops moving.
Here is your comb, and a few more presents you can't afford. There is no need to thank me, only be careful with the perfume, and sparing. It is very green.
I have not lied to you. I have had sleeping sickness since I was a boy. I have no sympathy for your loneliness, but if this helps you as it does with me, in a small way, who am I to stop you? Do as you wish.
P.S: Since you have agreed to keep writing, will you identify yourself?