#Little Cockoo

[calmdayslifestyle]

[fipindustries]

one of the funniest things neil gaiman ever did was in the "a game of you" arc in sandman where a girl has to go inside her own mind because there is a terrible monster destroying her imaginary world and her subconcious and there is a great big battle and in the end when she finally faces the monster the monster looks like her as a little child. so she freaks out and is like "holy shit was this all like a metaphor for me being raped as a kid or something???" and the monster is like "no, actually you had a very boring childhood, im a cockoo monster and i came into your mind and burrowed into your memories, that's all"

[heliianth]

omg return of the king (HTTYD FIC!!!!!!!) 🌟🌟

ya!!! i cant promise anything man i dont even know if ill add anything but like . im thinking abt it yanno? anyway. uh. the wip (its long be warned). becuz i luh u <3 <3

When escaping the circle of midnight sun, usually waiting for the melt was the most tedious part. The sky hung grey with slow day, clouds of snow-fog blanketing his ship with frost. Though winter was slowly releasing her grip, this far north still felt her fingers, long and bloodless. Under his boots cracked a thin layer of ice.

They made this journey annually, at the peak of Cockoo’s Month. Their ship pioneered past razored ice sheets and an ever-fluctuating landscape of bergs as they were swept south by cold ocean currents. Lantern light reflected against their dark surfaces, waning like so many little moons, a great blanket of manmade stars. This crew was used to plodding around during the forever morning, the sun a constant overhang and daytime an insidious cloak. Lesser men’s heads might ache with pervading sunlight and their cheeks grow feverish with sickness. If the sleep deprivation didn’t rot the mind, it was the calls of unreachable Seashockers and Northern Scauldrons as they fought in pods underneath the ice. And if it wasn’t them, it was the already captured dragons, whose rest cycles were so disrupted that attempted sleep was always accompanied by a cacophony of bellowing. 

By design, their single ship, Skinfaxi, was meant to withstand it all; both the fragile mind and their conditions. A tall, bulky seamaiden with a metal hull and winches anchored to the deck by foot-long nails, she held them over while they trudged around the outskirts of dragon territory. Her three floors, each connected by worn stairs, were dark and humid enough to soften sores in frostbitten nostrils, and her cargo bay was stuffed with mead and exotic seasonings which flavored even the driest jerky. Every vulnerable part was plated with expensive dragonproof metal and while they rarely encountered dragonroot arrows in markets, they used stockpiles wisely. Skinfaxi hadn’t been so much as grazed by a dragon in at least a decade. 

Dragon hunting was a southern trade, down near the floor of the archipelago, where nests teemed with fuckers of all kinds to net and cage. Hunting brigades never travelled into the midnight sun circle—populations tended to die further north than that and the rough waters were too much for the convoys usually employed by contractors. Dragon territory only started up here if you went way past what sane people would consider safe, but Briger had earned him and his men a small fortune offering to net here. When you arrived at that sweet spot, where the sea gave way into an actual continent instead of miles of walkable ice and seal holes, the breeds grew big and the yield became bountiful. 

Despite their competency, Briger and Skinfaxi were used to being looked over. His crew, mostly consisting of family and family’s friends, were from poor fishing villages beset by raids, whose ancestors were no-names and whose yellow, crooked teeth hid behind yellow-frosted beards. They bet on Gris games and bit their nails bloody and smelled like sweat and dirt. At least a few men had replaced limbs, thick, untranslatable accents, and bastards running around somewhere at home. They were not esteemed and shaven like southmen, but they got the job done well enough. 

Briger held pride in his work, his ship, his men. They were a reliable service and got reliable results. Sometimes contractors would specify something outrageous just to be difficult, but their cages housed everything from Snow Wraiths to Stormcutters and all came back in nice enough condition to be marketable. Their reputation was contained but good, and Briger was seeing wealth the likes of which Daddy never could’ve imagined hadn’t he been drunk off his ass before he kicked it. Now, he could even afford to be stingy with who he dealt with. Who would’ve thought? 

Still, Briger knew when to haggle and when to be hired. 

Right before Briger planned to make his annual trek, a bear-furred man with a large, tattooed underbite docked in the Northern Markets. His was a recognizable presence and his convoy was ill with riches; the frequents tittered about his arrival in a way that piqued Briger’s interest. Apparently, the bear man’s hunting business was renowned down south. Briger might’ve invited him to a drink had he not thundered towards him first with a small army in tow. 

Sporting a healthy sense of self-preservation, Briger accepted the rate he was offered like a flogged woman without an ounce of backchat. And when the nutjob uttered his request, face red with sweat and his fingers black with the gnawing linger of ice, Briger knew that he’d done something to make the gods mad. 

He fully expected him and his crew to drown in the northern ice sheets looking for a crazy man’s myth. 

======

The melt took almost a month; dangerously close to moonrise. In northern dragon territory, that was not good, to put it lightly. To be caught out on the snow the minute the midnight sun went down was a death sentence, and Briger’s crew narrowly missed it the minute a wide channel cleared in the ice. By the time the frost on the wood melted, the ship was so noisy with dragon crying that Briger had forgotten the sound of his own thoughts. They quieted right up by the time night came—real night, that would end in at an appropriate time instead of overstaying six months. 

The Northern Markets were a constant landmark; a misty silhouette on the horizon. Briger couldn’t help but observe what they were bringing into port, more self-conscious than he’d been in his life. Their emblazoned sails were hoisted high, oars lined in piles against the deck railing. The dragon cages had been pulled to the side, blanketed in soaked extra sail cloth, to keep their accursed eyes from staring and their fire down. 

The weather these past few days had been abysmal; the air down here wasn’t what could be described as wet, but it was right tropical compared to the ice sheets, and that meant sleet storms pulled through every few days. It had given him a few bloody noses, which he’d rubbed raw enough to hurt in every inhale. But Briger couldn’t mind it. His fingers could already feel the coin. 

“These requirements are gods-damned ‘bleedin us,” Svend groused from beside him. His breath wheezed the tiniest bit, and he pulled down his hood to separate his greasy hair from his forehead. “We’re gonna lose more than we’re getting, boss.”

“Nah.” Briger’s fidgety, itchy hands were worn from cloth-pulling and rope-rubbing, and a few of his callouses bled from pinching. He looked down at Svend’s, the exposed of which was decorated with an angry bite mark. “Little shit got you good, didn’t ‘e?” 

Svend displayed it with a deep scowl. “The sagefruit ain’t work, if that’s what you’re asking.”

A wave rocked the boat, blew salty spray on board and into their mouths. Briger wiped his, stroked his spittled beard and tucked it under his elbows. “On the savage or the dragon?” 

“The fuck you think?” Svend rubbed it with his other gloved hand, making a face that looked like he’d eaten something expired. His crooked pinky stuck out sideways with a pink flush and his teeth were still spotted with tack and his nose flared with indignance. 

“Well, put ‘somethin on it if it’s making you so sour,” Briger told him. 

“We got other problems too, man,” Svend raved with a peculiar petulance. He was usually a casual man, with a habit of gambling and a hobby for pissing self-important knobheads off and getting his face smeared for it. He was an adrenaline seeker and usually lived for scraps. Not with their new catch, apparently. “Thing ‘won drink, ‘won eat. Smart enough to figure it all out after the dragon passed out. Like a mangy dog with twice the fight in ‘et.” 

“The thing’ll starve if it don’t eat,” Briger gestured with a hand, like he was showing off an array of plated food options in front of him. “Et’ll get taken care of in shipping. Eret’s got a contractor, ‘member?” 

“Bo tried knocking ‘em out to treat the tag and came back with his tail between his legs. ‘Yer guy’s gonna get a fucking finger taken off.” Again, Svend showed him the bite. He’d been gotten deep, and it looked like there’d been a struggle. They’d likely thrashed each other and both of them probably regretted that. “I mean it, this was a bad call. We’re mucking around in bad shit.”

Skinfaxi’s sharp bow parted the fog. The Market loomed despite their distance. Already he could taste it—“We’re gonna draw a crowd,” he hummed absentmindedly.

“‘Brig,” Svend insisted, laying his gloved hand on his shoulder. Briger shrugged him off, callous. “C’mon. I know ‘yer smelling gold, but this is my whole life.”

“What, you got a wife and daughter?”

“Don’t say that shit,” Svend sneered. The bite mark he was once nursing like a mother was suddenly unimportant enough for his hands to curl into fists. “You’re just scared of Eret and you’re scared of ‘givin this to ‘em.”

If Briger were more arrogant than he was, he might’ve taken him up on the aggression and knocked another one of Svend’s teeth loose. As it happened, they parted before either of them could get pissy enough to escalate further. They’d have a nice long drink of cheap market wine and this would be forgotten by the morning, Briger thought, then they’d get back to normal once they offhauled. He would never see Eret or his southern business again. 

Briger spent his time at Skinfaxi’s bow, leaning over the whorling ocean with a creased brow, as they approached that island speck. The tip and sway of the water was that of a cradle, his men’s hollering as they made landfall a lullaby. But as the island grew bigger, the colors vivid, idea erupting into true destination, the Market became so much more daunting. If before it loomed, now it threatened. What small vessels usually circled for precious space were absent, and the entire place exuded the same haunt as the ice wastes they’d just escaped. Something was amiss, and not a moment sooner Briger spotted why. 

A dozen or so warships awaited them, much too oversized for the Market’s harbor, which was merchant-crafted and merchant-minded. Each was massive, with armor that reflected what meager sunlight aimed true and gleaming ballistas which faced like spines outwards. Their masts waved high in the air and their sigil was one Briger had never seen before, painted bright red. 

His face paled and he threw himself into preparing to dock, throwing down the anchor furthest away from the sea tanks. Skinfaxi rocked into a halt. Her sails folded, her rigging slack. The captive dragons lowed and screeched, recognizing the place’s smell. 

Briger watched his men dive below deck. He stayed above and searched, skittish for their man. 

Eret met them punctually. He was with his same bearskin and his combed hair that looked far too princely for such a brutish face shape. He was stained with shadow; the man wasn’t big, but he filled his space well enough, and yet he was dwarfed when compared to…

Briger froze. 

When compared to his companion. 

If Eret drew eyes, this man was so immense that he dragged everything around him into a vortex. His hair hung in dreads across his expansive shoulders and his two exposed arms displayed flesh thick with muscle and as wide as tree trunks. He was a brick of a man, armed to the teeth, and Briger recognized him on impact. 

Oh gods, how he wished they’d been stuck in the moonrise back up north. He’d thought he’d won back his life by the skin of his teeth, but dying out there would’ve been quicker and kinder. Even though Briger was not a particularly religious man, he found himself praying as he forced his arms to lower the ramp. The greeting sound of it against the harbor was an explosion that threatened to take off his head. Then, feeling choked, he stumbled down it like a drunkard. 

Usually dragon hauls attracted the attention of the whole market. Northern breeds were exotic and dangerous, and sometimes buyers would take days to arrive, leaving the beasts on display next to the ships where onlookers could gaggle at them and make hunters preen. Auctions were held and often fighting rings swept by to advertise or invest. To say the Northern Market oozed with dragon addicts would be an understatement. But to have it so silent was unheard of. 

He couldn’t tell if the arrival of their cargo or the presence of Eret’s previously anonymous contractor was what shut the seabirds and gossips up. Even the dragons up top were utterly noiseless. 

The top of their cargo became visible, then the whole thing, metallic teal warps standing out against so much wooden brown and neutral steel. The cage’s wheels squealed, rusty from melted frost, and it bumped along the ramp and clattered when it went horizontal. Bo and Ulf pushed it with their backs and shoulders, unwilling to stick their fingers in there for even a moment. 

Though the reek of sagefruit still clung to every inch of it, the Night Fury inside was very much awake. Its wings were spread for balance, making the thing look like it filled out the whole oversized box. Its ears turned, radars picking up nothing, its teeth bared at everything. Half of its delicate tail fin had been torn by the grapple; the combination of sharp metal meant for traction and the thing’s sheer velocity a recipe that led to damage. It was a nasty wound, with leftover gore, though they cauterized and fixed up what they could to make sure it didn’t die on them. And despite the fact that its hurting tail was lashing and making a racket of the bars, its attention remained single-minded, tongue flicking between those razors like it was imagining the taste of flesh. 

And between its legs, spine arched against its belly, was the thing’s little devil-boy. He wore a new bruise on his jaw which was framed by strands of greasy hair that hid a different head wound in piles of shorn clumps. His rapid, terrified breaths clouded in the air, seeped from behind his curled lip, bloody gums exposed. All in all they were an aggressive, unhappy, sorry sight. 

Briger was intimately aware of the drop of sweat carving a path down the nape of his neck. 

With an embarrassing flourish of showmanship, he presented their catch, goosebumps sending burns down his spine where the two demons pressed their hating stares into him. 

Drago Bludvist appraised the merchandise indifferently and sniffed. “You tagged them.”

pretend this is a new chapter woooo yippeee yay ^-^

Hvergelmir gurgled spring water from the depths of the south. From it spilled the eleven rivers Elivagar into the vast nothingness and their venom congealed into slush, hardened by void’s touch. Rimed with sour venomous dribble, layers of ice and hoarfrost created a frozen, biting realm in the Ginnungagap: a great and desolate Niflheim.

Lurgy Island was shaped like a pillbug, low to sea level, and sloped. The east side tapered off into a pebbled beach littered with debris and the west side ended in a dropoff from which an inconsiderate man might fall to death from, body brutalized by the invisible rocks underneath the whitewater. It was guarded by natural barriers made of wind-sharpened stones that threatened to gore passing ships, and small whirlpools formed in the sea shelf that marked the abrupt edge of Lurgy’s shallow coast. It was far enough south that Skadi kept her snow for the winter months, but high enough north to be considered part of the Barbaric Archipelago. 

Lurgy, the hamlet for which the island was named, consisted of just over a hundred living in only a handful of timber longhouses. When a Lurgy man married, his wife’s family would move into his place, so you could be forgiven for thinking the amount of houses entirely inadequate for even such a small number of people. 

Despite their awkward economic position and geographical hazards, the people of Lurgy found the island was inundated with rain-watered soil rich enough to grow crops. They made their living exchanging barley, rye, and oats with the northmen whose islands were rankled by ice and forests. They managed a port twice the size of the village with imported wood and had a proud and longstanding, tight-knit community that valued hard work and occasionally indulged in humble luxury.

It was just over Lurgy’s hundredth winter when Randi Tovesdottir, who’d grown up in the quiet village her whole life, decided staying any longer was utterly unbearable. 

Winters past marrying age, Randi’s disposition drove away the few men her age that might’ve been willing. Any suitors her family tried to cajole into her were already brothers, or knew far too many embarrassing stories for her ego to withstand. Randi was a seamstress’ daughter with a lumberjack’s build who knew her way around an axe and a needle. She handled both with grace yet enjoyed neither, with a plaintive sort of restlessness that beguiled a trapped thing.

To put it simply, she thought she was uncontainable. Her voice was loud and brash, she towered over her childhood friends, and the skills her father introduced her to were sharpened until she believed herself invincible. By age eight she’d explored the whole island with an obsessiveness that only predators hunting down a kill could replicate. Around the age of her first bleed, she began to find the smell of their hearth intolerable, the chatter of her parents incessant, the generous spaces between longhouses confining. Every gentle prod about growing up was a deeply troublesome reminder of something undefinable to everyone but Randi herself. She was claustrophobic in the extreme. For a girl in Lurgy, these things boiled over into tense, sleepless nights after a collage of colorful arguments about her place in life. Truly Lurgy occupied a special place in her heart, the way only homes could, but she had a habit of running eastward and gazing out at the horizon. Her mother, Tove, called her dreams unfathomably big, but Randi believed the world was wide enough to fit all of them. So she kept casting her fishing lines towards the sun. 

And one day she caught something.

Randi was only looking for her daily aloneness she so craved on the eastern cliffs when she spotted a pair of longboats approaching them. She recognized the crest, and her eyes reflected the morning light, and she ran barefooted into Lurgy with a big grin on her face. The ships from Berk were here!

Berk was Lurgy’s biggest trade partner. And unlike many of the other islands in the Archipelago, including Lurgy themselves, they were startlingly isolated.

Randi had seen dragons before, she knew people who’d killed more than they could count on both hands. She’d taken a few herself. Lurgy was no stranger to the Dragon War. But with the Berkian longboats always came the scales and the teeth and the claws. Their village was overrun with dragons of all shapes and colors—so many they had nothing to do with their remains. It scared off any traveling merchant types, blocked trade routes, and recently there had been a rumor of a nautically-spread Berkian disease that attracted dragons to the smell of your piss. 

It was a surety that Lurgy might’ve never taken up business with them had their Chief—if you could call an ornery old man with wispy smatterings of patched blond beard and no family name who governed through age rather than any real lineage Lurgy’s Chief--not had such good relations with Berk’s own Chief. “Battle-brothers,” Aleinn called them, “forged in fiery dragon’s blood and good old tribes meeting mead.” 

The arrangement was for the betterment of both villages. Berk was so infested with dragonfire that any crops they might have tried to grow would burn up if snow didn’t smother every winter. They had enough land to grow yaks, sheep, and chickens, who ate from grass pastures and grass seed, so they were wealthy enough to buy Lurgy’s stock. In return, Lurgy bought dragon scales and teeth in droves, which were as good as coins in the North. Nadder scales were like silver, Nightmare scales like gold. To islands down south, it was an untranslatable worth and every tribe would be considered dirtily poor. Up here flourished an economy built on savage heroism. Randi couldn’t help but marvel at Berk’s collections every time they pulled in.

She cut knuckles and sliced calluses digging through the beach for seaglass, which she would painstakingly shape into ornaments worth Berk’s scales. She got herself a neat trade working with tool and thread to create things she was proud enough to sell, but too connected with to let go. Every time she gave up one in an exchange and watched the ships sail out to sea days later, it felt like Berk was taking little bits of her with them. 

This was especially true when she met Knat, the son of the Berkian representative that led their trade ships to Lurgy. 

When he caught her eye, Knat was not so remarkable. Every Berkian subsisted off of a protein-heavy diet which wore down their teeth and made them heavy-bodied. He was a thick, dark-haired, and short boy with a few balls of fuzz on his chin and a dense forest on his upper lip. Unbeknownst to Randi, who saw the best of his demeanor, Knat had a juvenile fascination with competition. His youth was spent one-upping his peers, jeering at stragglers, quarreling with his brother, and idolizing his father. At Randi’s age, he hadn’t shed any of these traits, only buried them underneath a generous coat of rightful humbling. By Berk standards Knat was ordinary in the extreme. His only particularly noteworthy claim to superiority at this time in his life was the fact that he was the second in line to the Hofferson clan. 

But Knat’s jaw was sharp, and his nose was strong, and his eyes were kind whenever he spoke to strangers. He had a voice that carried so far one might think it was stolen by birds, and a countenance that belied expertise handling weapons taller than grown men. These were the only things Randi, who had no idea of his familial status nor how Berk’s clans even worked, needed to fall madly in love. Without speaking to him once, she began to think of him as a representation of escape; the Berkians, with their untamed hair, masses of pelted cloaks, scars, and dragon scales were the definition of wilderness and adventure. Whatever Lurgy was, Berk was more so. And Knat was the pinnacle of it all. 

She became so preoccupied with the rugged ferality of Berk and Knat that her mother began to take notice. When she indicated she knew of Randi’s new fixation, her daughter became paralyzed. So long had she associated her hometown and those native to it with entrapment that she feared she’d be forced into an unhappy marriage and tied down forever. But Tove took the harrowing first step for her and told Knat as he was in the middle of selling boar hooves to her husband, with only the bluntness a crone could manage, “My daughter is obsessed with you.” 

At first, Knat was wary of her advances. Any other boy his age might’ve jumped at the opportunity to get involved with a young, reasonably pretty and certainly skilled girl so interested in him, but Knat was painfully conscious of his father’s acceptance and his brother’s opinion. He was entirely occupied with appearance and his place back home, and though he began to notice Randi’s shy, sneaky stares whenever he happened over at Lurgy, he never did anything about her brewing determination to be seen. Then, two winters later, Knat gave into the preening, tingling part of his mind that told him to take a chance on something wonderful.

He worked for a month learning womanish crafts to make her a bag out of Zippleback bladder and reindeer hide she could use to put her seaglass in so she wouldn’t scrape up her hands. Despite Finn inciting vicious mockery over the image of his mountainous Viking older brother hunched over to make a poor man’s attempt at embroidery, he felt not a smidge of shame. The end result was similarly misshapen, crude, and plain, but it glowed with time and care. Then, Knat got on his knees and begged to be on the next expedition out to Lurgy. 

Their romance was young and swift. Knat indulged wholly in Randi’s ideas by spinning tales of victory in Berk’s Kill Ring and imagery of grand coniferous forests backdropped by glaciers which made mountains lopsided with weight. What she imagined of Berk’s arching landscapes and fields of sea stacks only worsened the pain in her chest. Her staring out onto the horizon became pointed northward, with a chin rested mournfully on her hand and a heaved sigh. Tove described her as a wife waiting for a husband to return from war, and she supposed that with Berk’s dragon problem, one part was true.

The other part became true soon after. Randi’s father, a gruff man with staunch worldviews that often got him into trouble with her mother, had a weak spot for his daughter and found no fault in Knat, who had truthfully approached him last quarter to ask the same thing. That spring, Berk pulled into Lurgy’s docks with a dowry. It wasn’t a surprise; Randi helped work on the small pen for the livestock that she’d be worth—Knat had wanted to pay more, but Lurgy didn’t have that kind of space, and the Hofferson clan didn’t want to spend that kind of wealth on a girl from a little farming village. Nonetheless, all parties were satisfied. 

The first night, the newly betrothed found themselves overwhelmed with their proximity. The cabins were cramped, the bed singular. Actually leaving home wasn’t nearly as weightless as Randi had believed. Instead her stomach rolled and her bones went numb watching Lurgy disappear. Seeking adventure, she pushed Knat down on the bed and they filled the room with sweat. Knat pulled her close, body a furnace and hands quivering. He told her they needed to get married quickly after arrival, just to be safe, because there were no contraceptive herbs on the boat. Randi cried so hard her head pounded, suddenly ill with indecision. 

On the eve of the second day on the boat, Randi caught her first glimpse of Berk. She expected to be invigorated, energized, but she couldn’t move as they swayed towards the arching, spired landscape. The growing dusk didn’t light up the sky in wonderful colors, the newborn stars didn’t shine. There was a thick miasma of storm clouds hanging onto the peak of the giant mountain which stuck out of the water like a monumental shard of ancient stone. Quilts of trees protruded from nearly every slope like hairs, and the village itself sat on a wide shelf overlooking the water, directly bathed in the struggling sunset. It stood out so harshly against the empty, ruthless ocean. It was a grand and daunting sight. After a life devoid of humbling, how could she not stare? 

Twelve days north of hopeless and only a few degrees south of freezing-to-death, floating towards her new home directly along the meridian of misery, something quenched her. Like the freezing air had erased all of her wanderlust with a gentle scrape. Under the descending night, eyes locked with her new home, Randi was now perfectly content standing still. 

======

“How are you doing?” Astrid balanced the supper tray on the nightstand and perched on the edge of the bed. Her body sank.  

Móðir reached a hewn hand toward Astrid, her face grim. “This is humiliating,” she said, and sent herself into a flurry of hoarse, grated coughing. 

“It’s not,” Astrid reached for the mug on the tray and placed it, delicate, into Móðir’s fragile fingers. She strangled it and looked at Astrid with some disbelieving derision. “I’m serious,” Astrid insisted. 

Móðir ignored her attempts to help her sit up so she could drink. The straw-stuffed pillow crunched underneath her weight, fabric crinkling. She eyed the warm milk, something contemplative coming over her, before speaking. “So there’s been luck with the yaks?” 

Knowing what she was attempting, Astrid made a motion that conveyed she’d whack the mug’s bottom and spill it if Móðir didn’t hurry up. “Just drink.” 

Móðir sighed and leaned back, tipping the mug upward. Sweat beaded down the hollow of her neck, her forehead and cheeks and nose grew rosier. The wet sheen to her hairline made her skin metal underneath the candlelight. Despite her exertion, like every convulsion of her throat threatened to strangle her, Móðir refused Astrid’s assistance. 

“I’ve also brought cheese and bread.” Astrid distracted herself by pulling the supper tray onto her lap, which pushed her into the cushioned bed even more. She’d refused to let Móðir lay on the wooden slabs they normally used for sleep, and created a huge mattress out of her own blankets and grass. 

The unfamiliar terrain made her feel ten times as heavy, especially when she looked back at Móðir and saw the way milk ran down her chin in undignified rivulets, then sprayed when she hacked into her elbow. Móðir tried to clean it away with her hands mittoned by the quilt, but Astrid recognized the shake in them.

“This is humiliating,” she repeated. 

“You’re sick,” Astrid told her. Then she held up an ugly chunk of cheese. “What sort of daughter would I be if I let you starve?”

“Oh, everyone’s getting thin nowadays,” Móðir dismissed her with a croak. Even so, she took Astrid’s offer and let the cheese melt on her tongue, bitten nails lingering on her chin as if to manually chew. Her next words were coated with spit: “The next Giving is coming up.” 

At the mention of the Givings, Astrid’s face soured. She manhandled the slices of bread and tore them into bite-sized balls with far too much force. Her jaw, clenched, refused to form words. 

Móðir inspected her. “Astrid.”

“I know,” is all she could provide. Then, to make up for it, she produced a torn slice, which her mother frowned at. “I don’t know what I’m going to put out.” 

“Well,” Móðir rolled the bread into a compact ball, thumb knuckle going white. She braced her temples with two fingers, concentrating. “What did you put out last time?” 

“An axe,” Astrid mumbled, not wanting to look her mother in the eyes, “...my axe.” 

She’d polished it for hours, until she could see her own reflection. The steel wasn’t pure, but Gobber never half-assed workmanship, and it was the best axe she had. It swung like an extension of her own arm, weighted beautiful and dangerous in her palm, the ashwood handle weathered. She won dragon training with it--she’d knocked a tooth out of the huge purple Nightmare with its blunt and killed the thing by driving the head into its neck. 

She fidgeted. Maybe the Dragon Master could smell the blood on her. Maybe that’s why he left it to collect dust outside for three days. 

All of the Hofferson clan’s Givings since she’d killed it at fifteen went unnoticed, and people in the village began to look at her sideways. Truthfully, it enraged her, and she had no desire to leave things out any longer. When the Givings started she thought it ridiculous, and now she believed it even more so, now that she could not conquer it. Rooted into her core was a deep and cantankerous sort of rebellion she’d never experienced before. What was one Giving without an offering if the Dragon Master never accepted anyway? 

“Astrid…” Móðir admonished again. The feeling of skinny, wide-jointed fingers twisted Astrid’s irate expression into exhaustion. Móðir was one such superstitious proponent; a believer in absolute destiny and holy belonging ever since she set foot on Berk. Her mouth opened and closed, partially searching for something to say and partially gasping in air like a fish. 

Astrid ripped another clump of bread from the crust. “I think the Givings are stupid.” She watched Móðir’s shifting face carefully. When she got nothing, she barreled onward. “They don’t work,” her hands clenched, “and not just for us! Not just because of me, Mamma!” She accused, “Did you know a month ago Gothi’s hut got stolen from? Even though her granddaughter’s offering worked the night before?” 

“Astrid,” she echoed, trying to sound stern with her brittle voice.  

“No!” She leapt up. The tray clattered all over the ground, bread and cheese spraying like blood from a wound. “It’s only been here three winters but everyone kowtowed immediately! What, because the merchants fear it? We’ve been dealing with dragons for centuries and now--” she grasped her tunic, sewn and modified to fit a muscular woman’s figure, cinched with the standard masculine belt for its shape. Now it hung off of her in drapes. To emphasize her point, she gestured with both of her arms to Móðir’s condition, barreling on despite her mother’s wince. “We’re thralls in our own village, Mamma! And--!” 

“I’ll make you a new one,” she interrupted. “And your father will help you pick out an offering.”

“There’s no more thread!” She waved her arms around, voice pitching. “This is insane! What happened to Vikings, Mamma?” 

Móðir’s throat bobbed when she swallowed. The mug she held on her lap, still trapping a film of milk, was easier to stare at than her face. 

Astrid turned away, rising indignation strangled by a sudden awareness of her blowsy. She was pierced by something barbed which made her feel like a child. All of that work to restore the Hofferson name after Uncle Finn, and it was useless. She’d sweated, and sacrificed, and whittled her skill into a knife’s point until there was no option left but success. Now someone else would have to work to restore the Hofferson name after her, all because some demon on the back of a Night Fury knew where to hit them the hardest. 

The last one to approach Berk had been shot down almost fifty winters ago by the Chief’s grandfather. Felled by the last dragonroot arrow from an indulgent investment, it had careened into the sea and they retrieved nothing of it. Freed of devilspawn, that summer’s was the best harvest they’d had seen, and their defenses flourished without explosions big enough to bring them down. The last five decades had been some of the most prosperous in Berk’s history, despite the uptick in raids. At least, that’s what the adults said. 

Astrid first heard the whistle when she was fourteen. She’d been on fire patrol. Fear had struck her stupid and she narrowly avoided being crushed by the southern catapult that had exploded into a fiery shower of shrapnel. For days afterwards she’d pick out splinters or discover burns she didn’t remember getting. 

After that, things started going missing. Their hunting traps broke, taken apart and dumped somewhere else, often down cliffs or into lakes, and would keep breaking even if they set new ones. Gobber’s shop, which had once been a go-to for trading items due to how much scrap it’d accumulated over his decades working there, would be ravaged. Tools and leftovers and once even a whole anvil were gone by sunrise. Their bolas were stripped of rope, their fishing boats robbed of nets. 

Astrid won dragon training in trousers so raggedy she could’ve been mistaken for an Outcast. 

One night, devoid of raids, the village woke up to resounding booms coming from the direction of the sea. Standing outside, they realized it came from the Kill Ring. Investigation yielded a chilling scene—all of their captured dragons released, the doors methodically deconstructed and then blasted into useless lumps of metal. In the soot remaining were boot soles and a single, small handprint, walking side by side with unfamiliar dragon paws.

Berk broke into hysteria. 

thats all i got :) thumbsup

[larebiscornue]

I FINALLY FINISHED WATCHING S4. Some of the little rational thoughts I've managed to muster under the cut

Amalia!!!!! Her character arc ... Love. I can ot believe sje finally is the queen bug at what cost

Armand :(

I guess efrim, by looking a bit dif in the end, could somehow get back to life? Or I'm cockoo

Ik they'll expand things in the s5 comic but the ending felt a bit abrupt to process. But it's fine. Flopin and Madagaskane.... ;,; I want flopin back

Where's the goddess eliatrope ahshdkflf

GOULTARD YUGO N JORIS DREAM TEAM YES

The percedals... Amalia and Eva friendship

WHERE'S RASHA. I THOUGHT PIN'D USE HIM FOR THE FINAL BRAWL BUT NO?

As u can see the end feels rushed in a lot of stuff imo but. Well it was good. If they had have the budget for a buncha more eps.. imagine

As u all know I'm not the biggest fan of yu/malia however at the v least they're both equally adults in all senses in the ending so it doesn't peeve me that much. I'm happy their story had a nice closure at least.

Cofrerie de Tofu my beloved.

This show means so much to me I am so glad to having seen it get a nice end even if not perfect.

Can't wait for the s5 comic!

[chaoticgoodcaptain]

today, i'm here to defend gen alpha (mostly)

1) skibidi toilet lore kinda slaps and if some of you haven't seen it and feel compelled to vilify gen alpha based on the fact that those are 30-seconds-long videos of heads in a toilet, i'll take that as a very orange red-flavoured flag, on the other hand i must point out that it is indeed a hidden propaganda (not sure what side it is favorable towards yet but it is) and i feel like we should make sure the little guys know that

2) you can make fun of them for being illiterate, but trust me, don't be surprised if they bite you back, they might not read much, but they love to read if they want to, in case they don't read though, they are the perfect viewers, it does not matter if they are bad at grammar if they can defeat you in a debate with relevant facts

3) i love that they take no shit and are genuinely not afraid to talk about stuff they don't like, but most of them i think still does not realize that people on the other side might have their own boundaries too (i'm still crying about being told that one flew over the cockoo's nest and newton's cradle are boring, for the record i was asked to explain them by almost a 7yo)

4) and this is not much of a praise but, if someone from older gen alpha reads this, you don't need pricey stuff on your skin, especially stuff that sound like your grandma has them in her bathroom, i have had the most problematic skin since i was like 13, and i tried so many stuff (including the ones certified to work) and by last year i was about to give up, but then i found out that all i ever needed was gentle cleanser and a light moisturizer both for like 10 euros, so please stop spending so much on pricey skincare and rather try over the years what works for you as your skin develops, because if your skin looks like trash after using drunk elephant, nobody's gonna think "omg, look they are using drunk elephant and their skin looks bad after using it", they will most likely think you are either lying about using it or that you are just a "faulty piece", find something that works and keeps your skin healthy so you can shine brighter than the trend,

and

5) (because i have a thing with odd numbers) i cannot wait for the trends they'll set up when the majority is older than 13 (i noticed that's where gen z started to peak so, i'm coming from here), the memes they create, isn't anyone excited, dammit???

[fictionallyinparadise]

{ask game} pistachio & raspberry swirl for ur TF2 f/os? all of them or whichever one you wanna answer for, up to you✨

Omg the bastards (affectionate),,,,,

pistachio: when was the last time that you or your F/O cried during a movie?

Fuck that's such a good question omg,,,

Scout: The Exorcist but not in a sad way but in a fear way pSGHSG. I don't really scare easily but I think just seeing him cry would make ME cry.

Sniper: One Flew Over the Cockoo's Nest for sure. I have watched this movie and it did almost make me cry so.....just. God it hits hard. I imagine Sniper would be half paying attention and then that part comes and we both sob.

Pyro: Carrie because the bullying bits just Hit Hard for the both of us,,,,wahhh.

raspberry swirl: how does your F/O cheer you up when you are feeling down?

OOO!!!

Scout: After figuring not that no, he cannot beat the bad feelings into a pulp, he'll just. Sit with me. Distract me with jokes or the latest comic he obtained thru legal means or tell stories about himself.

Sniper: He'll just hold me. Sometimes we'll go up to like his little sniper nest and cuddle there. Sometimes I'll vent to him and he'll listen with the most gentle and patient face,,,,

Pyro: They also distract me! More with just doing things that will keep my mind off of things. Making food, doing the dishes, taking a walk, playing cards, etc.

[urururur56]

カレーとコーヒーゼリーラテが最高でした🤤

[lesbiandivorce]

i’m glad i don’t live in an area with those cockoo motherfuckers. evil little bird shits

[ask-gpt]

Corvidae is a cosmopolitan family of oscine passerine birds that contains the crows, ravens, rooks, jackdaws, jays, magpies, treepies, choughs, and nutcrackers. [1][2][3] In common English, they are known as the crow family, or, more technically, corvids. Over 120 species are described. The genus Corvus, including the jackdaws, crows, rooks, and ravens, makes up over a third of the entire family. Corvids display remarkable intelligence for animals of their size and are among the most intelligent

Corvidae is a cosmopolitan family of oscine passerine birds that contains the crows, ravens, rooks, jackdaws, jays, magpies, treepies, choughs, and nutcrackers. [1][2][3] In common English, they are known as the crow family, or, more technically, corvids. Over 120 species are described. The genus Corvus, including the jackdaws, crows, rooks, and ravens, makes up over a third of the entire family. Corvids display remarkable intelligence for animals of their size and are among the most intelligent and intelligent birds alive today.In 1854 Crows were first discovered by C.S. Lewis who also was one of the first Europeans to discover a bird who could fly for long distances over woodlands. He named the bird the "Cuckoo-Cuckoo-crow". As it is also native to Africa, it is widely used in commercial and agricultural agriculture. For an overview, see Cockoo-Cuckoo.Crow ancestry in EnglandCrow ancestry in BritainCrow ancestry rates in EnglandCrow ancestry in EnglandCrow (Hominidae) is a sub-family, found in some of the oldest known bird families including the crow family and the jay. There is a high likelihood that this form of the crow is associated with early birds of North America or Europe. Although the crow genealogy was discovered during the Victorian Era, a few researchers have since reconstructed it, including Richard L. Gifford who has written a few books as a historian.There has been little research in this field, however. Some of the most recent publications by individuals from this family include:A survey of the early coop populations by A. D. Williams and D. Gershwin published in 1997. Williams studied the survival and reproductive success of early crows at four different ages. His findings indicated that many of these birds were surviving long enough over the course of their lives to have evolved new behaviors and even found new mates. These findings have led many researchers to believe that early coop populations did not require the development of elaborate behaviors and strategies. Williams' experiments showed that coop survival and reproduction rates declined rapidly as they were moved into higher densities during the course of their life, as their densities increased throughout their existence.Darrell G. Moore in 2001 found that a total of about 40 percent of a crow's genome was lost during its life. Although the genetic research in this field was initially focused on early corvids, Moore's study proved to be very fruitful, revealing that such genetic evidence can sometimes provide insights on the evolutionary history of a population.As the C.S. Lewis work showed over the years and until now, DNA sequences from young to old were relatively easy to identify and date by using a modern method for testing DNA sequence by sequencing. These are very high resolution and reliable DNA sequences.The C.S. Lewis work also reported in 2007 that corvids

[maquettecoffee]

自然葡萄酒博覧会 豊田vin博2019

豊田市で開催されるナチュラルワインのお祭り

『 自然葡萄酒博覧会 豊田Vin博2019 』

MAQUETTE はマルシェブースでコーヒーをご用意しています。

チケット絶賛発売中！！

＊入場には必ずチケットが必要です

チケット販売店はこちら

HOW TO TOYOTA VIN PAKU

会場MAPとFOOD MENU

【日時】2019年4月14日 (日)13:00〜17:00

【参加費 】¥6,000 (ワイン代、ワイングラス代込み)フード別料金

【場所】旧豊田東高等学校(豊田市駅より徒歩15分 新豊田駅より徒歩13分) 豊田市美術館となり

◇屋外での開催となります◇

雨天の場合

テントのご用意はありますが、雨対策（ポンチョやカッパ、長靴など）、寒さ対策を施してお越しください。

ナチュラルワインインポーター

・アフリカンブラザーズ

・イーストライン

・ヴィナイオータ

・エヴィーノ

・サンフォニー

・ディオニー

・野村ユニソン

・BMO

・ラヴニール

ゲストワイン生産者

・オリオル-アルティガス(マスペリセール/スペイン)

・サルヴァドール-バットヤ-バラベッチュ  (コスミック ヴィニャテーズ/スペイン)

・須崎大介 (アズッカエアズッコ/豊田)

＊ゲストで来場予定のワイン生産者さんはぶ��うの生育状況、セラーの醸造状況など諸般の事情により来場が遅れる、または来日、来場不可となる場合があります＊

オーガニックチーズ インポーター

・ヴィアザビオ (つくば)

マルシェ

・野菜：農園ちいさな星 (豊田)

・コーヒー：MAQUETTE COFFEE SHOP (豊田)

・焼き菓子：Patisserie-ACHON (豊田)

・パン：koha (豊田)

・

実行委員

・粋季

・Minette

・ミネマツヤ

・レクラドリール

・wine kitchen sabori

協力

・ワインショップスールライユ (名古屋)

・地酒とワイン森田屋 (豊橋)

・珈琲・和飲 花筐 (豊田)

・Little Cockoo (豊田)

[the-dirty-mexican-blog]

Cockhold - Cockquean

Have you ever had random thoughts and wondered where and how an origin of a word came from?

These are some of the things that pop into my mind when I am unable to sleep due to insomnia.

Cockhold... say it out loud. COCKHOLD- where and when did this word come to be? Who decided the meaning? What would you call a woman who has an adulterous husband?

A cuckold is the husband of an adulterous wife. In evolutionary biology, the term is also applied to males who are unwittingly investing parental effort in offspring that are not genetically their own.

Yes, I know I have no filter. And as a Hispanic female, these are things that are never spoken about, and that’s probably why so many of us can’t wait to move out and go to college. To actually experience and experiment with sex.

It turns out the word Cockhold (yes, I’ll admit that I like saying the word cock.) comes from the Cockoo bird. This particular bird has a habit of laying her eggs in OTHER birds nest. That hussy!

Well actually, that’s pretty smart and cold hearted. Have all the sex you want and have someone else care, feed and raise the baby.

It also seems that the word also first appeared in the English usage about the 13th century, in the satirical and polemical poem “The Owl and the Nightingale “.

Now, you must be thinking “well if a woman is cheating on her man, and he’s being cockholded, what term do we use for a woman who has a cheating husband?

That word is Cockquean. Though it’s not as fun as saying cockhold.

The female equivalent cuckquean first appears in English literature in 1562, adding a female suffix to the cuck.

Go figure... this little word came from a bird.

Oh, now you’re probably asking yourself, have I ever been a Cockquean or have I cockhold anyone...

That’s for another posting when I can’t sleep to talk about.

[oneweirdtip]

a little cockoo, fartboy and pogpog

fartboy and poggergirl

[halki216]

カレーってスペーシー🌏🐓 (Little Cockoo) https://www.instagram.com/p/B00x--MAhwm/?igshid=1092uf0dg8ixj

[bowithoutadaemon]

I am back home. very tired. possibly sick. got sunburned in a small spot on my chest and it's itchy. most of my clothes and things are still covered in sand. and I don't have the energy to clean it or put it away.

but I had fun. I really am out of my depressive funk. I could just talk to people if I felt like it. didn't feel constantly paranoid about being watched. in the morning when I was too hot I would just sit in the open tent naked because fuck clothes and also fuck people assuming they know my gender by seeing my body.

there was a new stage replacing the cabaret. it is called Cloud Cockoo and it was created by queer people (and not just by white german peeps either) and there was drag shows every night that included drag kings and enbies and women because drag isn't just a thing for cis guys. at the very last drag show for the very last number I was brought on stage first and then others, we held hands, all of us both on stage and with the people in front of the stage and all through Cloud Cuckoo while the hosting drag queens sung a song about being strong together. it was the best!

and there was a super cool Australian circus group called Gravity And Other Myths who brought two different shows and I loved them and went to see one nearly every day even though it was hot as fuck in the tent.

oh talking about tents. our tent broke, not enough to not sleep in it but enough so we threw it in the trash. we would have been fucked it it rained even a little. the seams were coming apart, stuff was ripping, poles splintered, cords ripped off. it was hella noisy because it was very windy most of the time but you kinda get used to the noise. the flap flap flap and swish swish noises just got added to the background noise of the music and people talking and trees and birds and all the other sounds of an open air festival with 75000 people.

also turns out that staying till Tuesday isn't super great. yeah it's relaxing but at home it's more relaxing. but Sunday nights are WAY more fun if you don't have to get up at 8am. so I don't regret trying it out to stay an additional day.

I hope we get tickets again next year. and I hope next year will be awesome again.

[kitty-kat-ty]

Game: Samurai Love Ballad Party Teatime Event - The little Cockoo Love's song Ieyasu Tokugawa This is part of the ending and 😍 this dork with a foul mouth made me fall for him all over again. I won't deny as this Mc I'd have kick his ankle at least once, my replies would pretty much be like hers when she was straight up to match him in his poisonous words game. I must say even if this event didn't include cg, just go through the whole story I felt it and I was really happy when this dork came back! I must say it felt like a dejavu, but maybe it's bc I read it in the Japanese version like a year ago, yet it didn't stop the feelings to drown me deep into the crimson sea of his brown eyes. The softness he shows when he smiles at Mc is the sweetest and makes me cry bcuz it's so pure my heart can't handle it, yet there he is on top of the list stealing my heart every time a new event including him arrives. Even if that mouth keep spitting poison, I wouldn't change that, somehow I'm the same because I can't be open with my feelings or put them into words when I have to talk. I'm more into write them than say them. Anyways, I'm his wench and he's my cute brat. #tokugawaieyasu #samurailoveballadparty #slbpieyasu #slbp #voltagegames #otomegames https://www.instagram.com/p/BxfY_F_pwd5/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=251l8dz4dkht

[heliianth]

under the cut . hasnt been edited so im a lil nervous but ^-^ whateva !

Hvergelmir gurgled spring water from the depths of the south. From it spilled the eleven rivers Elivagar into the vast nothingness and their venom congealed into slush, hardened by void’s touch. Rimed with sour venomous dribble, layers of ice and hoarfrost created a frozen, biting realm in the Ginnungagap: a great and desolate Niflheim.

Usually waiting for the summer melt was the most tedious part of escaping the circle of midnight sun. The sky hung grey with slow day, clouds of snow-fog blanketing his ship with frost. Though winter was slowly releasing her grip, this far north still felt her fingers, long and bloodless. Under his boots cracked a thin layer of ice.

They made this journey annually, at the peak of Cockoo’s Month. Their ship pioneered past razored ice sheets and an ever-fluctuating landscape of bergs as they swept south by cold ocean currents. Lantern light reflected against its dark surface, waning like so many little moons, a great blanket of manmade stars. This crew was used to plodding around during the forever morning, the sun a constant overhang and daytime an insidious cloak. Lesser men’s heads ache with pervading sunlight and their cheeks grow feverish with sickness. If the sleep deprivation didn’t rot the mind, it was the calls of unreachable Seashockers and Northern Scauldrons as they fought in pods underneath the ice. And if it wasn’t them, it was the already captured dragons, whose rest cycles were so disrupted that attempted sleep was accompanied by a cacophony of bellowing. 

By design, their single ship Skinfaxi was meant to withstand it all; both the fragile mind and their conditions. A tall, bulky seamaiden with a metal hull and winches anchored to the deck by foot-long nails, she held them over while they trudged around the outskirts of dragon territory. Her three floors, each connected by worn stairs, were dark and humid enough to soften sores in frostbitten nostrils, and her cargo bay was stuffed with mead and exotic seasonings which flavored even the driest jerky. Every vulnerable part was plated with expensive dragonproof metal and while they rarely encountered dragonroot arrows, they used stockpiles wisely. Skinfaxi hadn’t been so much as grazed by a dragon in at least a decade. 

Dragon hunting was a southern trade, down near the floor of the archipelago, where nests teem with fuckers of all kind to net and cage. Hunting brigades never travelled into the midnight sun circle—populations tended to die further north than that and the rough waters were too much for the convoys usually employed by contractors. Dragon territory only started up here if you went way past what sane people would consider safe, but Briger had earned him and his men a small fortune offering to net here. When you arrived at that sweet spot, where the sea gave way into an actual continent instead of miles of walkable ice and seal holes, the breeds grew big and the yield became bountiful. 

Despite their competency, Briger and Skinfaxi were used to being looked over. His crew, mostly consisting of family and family’s friends, were from poor fishing villages beset by raids, whose ancestors were no-names and whose yellow, crooked teeth hid behind yellow-frosted beards. They bet on Gris games and bit their nails bloody and smelled like sweat and dirt. At least a few men had replaced limbs, thick, untranslatable accents, and bastards running around somewhere at home. They were not esteemed and shaven like southmen, but they got the job done well enough. 

Briger held pride in his work, his ship, his men. They were a reliable service and got reliable results. Sometimes contractors would specify something outrageous just to be difficult, but their cages housed everything from Snow Wraiths to Stormcutters and all came back in good enough condition to be marketable. Their reputation was contained but good, and Briger was seeing wealth the likes of which Daddy never could’ve imagined hadn’t he been drunk off his ass before he kicked it. Now, he could even afford to be stingy with who he dealt with. Who would’ve thought? 

Still, Briger knew when to haggle and when to be hired. When Drago Bludvist docked in the Northern Market and thundered up with a small army in tow, he accepted the dismal rate he was offered like a flogged woman. And when the man uttered his order, Briger knew that he’d probably done something to make the gods mad. He fully expected him and his crew to drown in the northern ice sheets looking for a crazy man’s myth. It was slower but kinder than having his windpipe crushed. 

Fifteen for a Night Fury? Maybe a century earlier, and that wouldn’t have felt like a cosmic joke. Fuck, a century earlier and Skinfaxi would’ve been draped in Fury product. Now? At least Briger handed off responsibility for his own death. 

As it happened, though, Skinfaxi’s armor withstood purple fire the same as any other. 

hey if i posted the first part of the prologue for my current httyd wip here would i get ignored orrrr