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knight-hiccup · 2 months ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₂

This is Chapter 2 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 6.1k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 2

The Night Fury's eyes had flared, green and fierce, at Hiccup—making the young boys triumphant grin falter, the knife trembling in his hand before lifting it high again determined. Until you see him pause—then begin cutting the ropes.

Confused—You leaned over, frozen, "Hiccup—" you started, but the words choked off as he scrambled back, blade flashing in a desperate arc. Ropes snapped, and the beast erupted—wings thrashing, a roar splitting through the woods.

It lunged, pinning him against the boulder, jaws inches from his face, and you staggered forward, trying to get over the ravine with struggle—heart in your throat—unable to see what was happening as it roared. Then, just as fast, it bolted—black scales swallowed by the trees, leaving only the echo of its flight. Hiccup, much to your relief got up, swayed, eyes rolling back, and crumpled to the dirt.

"Hiccup!" you cried, horror clawing at you as you lunged over the ravine's edge. Roots snagged your boots, rocks skittered underneath as you half-slid, half-fell down the slope, scraping your palms raw. He lay sprawled, half-awake, a groan slipping from his lips as you dropped beside him, pulling his head into your lap.

You checked if he was hurt, nothing. Your fingers brushed his hair from his face—damp with sweat, streaked with dirt—and you held him there, breath shaky, willing him to stir. His eyes fluttered open, hazy green colliding with yours, and for a beat, you just stared.

His head a heavy lump in your lap, your pulse thumping like a war drum in your ears. It was all very heroic, very tender, until it wasn't—silence stretched into a gaping maw of awkward, and you both hacked out coughs like you'd swallowed a flock of gnats.

Hiccup flailed upright, too fast, a gangly tangle of limbs that toppled him back into your lap like a newborn yak. You shot a hand to his shoulder to keep him upright, but he face-planted into your lap again anyway mumbling embarrassed.

"Easy, dragon-slayer—let's not make a habit of making my lap a pillow. . ." You blurted out. Hiccup dug his palms into the soil, lifting his head from your lap, his face blooming blood-red like a tomato kissed by Thor's hammer. "S-sorry, sorry, uh—gods, sorry," he mumbled, a string of apologies tripping over themselves as he scrambled back, dirt smudging his tunic.

You shook your head, unbothered, a grin tugging at your lips—honestly, you'd seen him in worse states—and grabbed his shoulders, giving him a firm shake to snap him out of it. He turned, wide-eyed, still flushed from forehead to neck.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" you asked, voice steady but laced with worry, eyes scanning him for scrapes or worse. "Are you okay? That dragon had you like a snack on a skewer." His face stayed red, a messy stew of embarrassment from the Toothless fiasco and your lap-turned-pillow, and he struggled, words fumbling like fish on dry land.

"I—I'm fine," he managed, nodding gently, though his voice wobbled like a cart missing a wheel. "Really, I'm. . .yeah."

But you saw it—the disappointment shadowing his eyes, dimming that spark he'd had when he'd crowed about bringing down the beast. His shoulders slumped, gaze dropping to the torn ropes scattered like broken promises across the ground.

You tilted your head, brushing dirt from your hands, the sting of scrapes sharpening your focus.

"What happened?" you pressed, softer now, curiosity tugging at you. "Why'd you decide to let it go?" The question hung there, heavy but gentle, the air thick.

Hiccup rubbed his neck, wincing as he glanced at the trees where the dragon had bolted. "I. . .I don't know," he muttered, voice low, like he was piecing it together himself. "It looked at me, and—I couldn't do it. It wasn't. . .it didn't feel right." He huffed a shaky laugh, half-hearted, and shot you a sidelong glance, still red-cheeked. "Guess I'm not the mighty Viking I thought I'd be, huh?"

You shook your head, nudging him with your fist. "Oh, I don't know—takes guts to stare down a Night Fury and live to blush about it." Your tease was light, but the worry lingered, threading through your words like smoke. He managed a grin, faint but real.

"There are other ways, Hiccup—" you started, voice soft but firm. But he cut you off, hauling himself up with a sigh that seemed to drag his whole frame down.

"Let's head back," he said, emotionless, his voice flat as the still water of Berk's harbor after a raid. It wasn't odd to catch this grim edge in his voice, a rare Hiccup-only-you-got-to-see. He brushed dirt from his tunic, avoiding your gaze, the faint grin snuffed out like a candle pinched too soon.

You opened your mouth to protest, then shut it, swallowing the words as you stood too, the ache in your heels flaring from the morning's trek. He started up the ravine's slope, steps heavy, and you followed, the silence between you thicker than the mist rolling off the cliffs.

The woods spat you both out hours ago, Berk's smoky skyline swallowing you back into its bustle. Hiccup had turned to you at the village edge, still pale, and pulled you into a quick, clumsy hug.

"Well! I guess that brings me back to this meridian of misery!" He jokes sarcastically unamused.

"Hey, thanks," he'd mumbled, voice rough, "for, y'know. . .coming with me and everything. Sorry I brought you along for nothing. I'm gonna crash—nap time." He'd flashed a tired grin, then shuffled off toward his house, leaving you with a nod and the echo of his flat.

Now, late afternoon draped the Great Hall in a warm haze, the clamor of Vikings clinking tankards and gnawing on bones a dull roar around you. You sat alone at a weathered table, head plunked on your folded arms, staring past a plate of food that might've tempted Thor himself—crusty bread, still steaming, its golden edge begging to be torn; a hunk of roasted chicken, juicy and flecked with herbs; and a smear of mashed turnips, glistening with butter, flanked by pickled herring that gleamed like silver coins.

Your stomach growled, but you ignored it, too sunk in thought to care. Hiccup's face—red, then ashen, then hollow—looped in your mind, his disappointment a weight you couldn't shake. That dragon had let him go, and he'd let it go, and now he was. . .what? Lost? You flexed your scraped palms, wincing, and sighed.

Marta's voice still jabbed at you, too—hours earlier, she'd cornered you the second you'd stumbled back into the kitchen, flour-dusted and late. "Gallivantin' off with that twig of a boy while I'm drownin' in breakfast orders!" she'd bellowed, ladle waving like a war axe.

"Lunch is a mess, and you're off chasin' dreams—ye'll be knead'n dough 'til midnight for this!" She hadn't been wrong—you'd paid in sweat, hauling sacks, shaping loaves, and dodging her wrath 'til your arms screamed louder than your heels had in the woods. Now, slumped here, exhaustion clung like wet wool, and worry for Hiccup gnawed deeper than hunger.

A shadow loomed over your table, sharp and deliberate, and you lifted your head to find Astrid standing there, axe slung over her shoulder, blonde braid swinging like a battle banner. Her gaze—fierce enough to scatter a flock of Terrible Terrors—softened a flicker as it landed on your untouched plate.

"You gonna eat that or just stare it into Valhalla?" she asked, voice dry but edged with something warmer, a ghost of the days she'd sneak small cakes you would save at her request from your oven and mutter thanks under her breath. You shrugged, too tired to muster a grin.

Before you could answer, a raucous laugh split the air—Snotlout, swaggering up with Ruffnut and Tuffnut trailing like a pair of gleeful tornadoes. "Oh, look, it's Hiccup's personal bread-maid!" he crowed, slamming a meaty hand on your table, rattling the chicken.

"Where's your twiggy hero now? Nappin' off another disaster? Heard he took down a tower and a dragon last night—too bad it flew off before he could trip over it!" Ruffnut snickered at Snotlouts' remarks, elbowing Tuffnut, where she pretends to shoot him down and he mimed a dramatic faint, sprawling across a bench with a wheeze.

"Probably tripped over his own trap and took out half the woods instead." Tuffnut added, cackling as he flopped upright, nearly knocking Fishlegs off the bench—who'd shuffled in behind them, clutching a tattered dragon manual in one hand, an entire chicken-on-a-stick in the other. Fishlegs squeaked, adjusting his grip.

"A-actually, if it was a Night Fury, statistically, it's got a wingspan of—uh—forty-eight feet, give or take, so. . .maybe just a tree or two?" His ramble faltered muttering about flight velocity. While everyone inwardly questioned what exactly he meant.

You rolled your eyes, shoving the plate an inch away. "He's fine, Snotlout—unlike your aim, which couldn't hit a sleeping sheep." The twins hooted, and Astrid's lips twitched, almost a smirk, but your heart wasn't in it. Hiccup's hollow look clung to you, and this lot's noise—Ruffnut's snort, Tuffnut's wheeze, Fishleg's stammering stats—only sharpened the headache. Frustration boiled over, a hot coal in your chest, and you shoved up from the table, the bench scraping loud enough to cut through their cackling. "Take it," you snapped, gesturing at the untouched plate—steaming bread, juicy chicken, buttery turnips, and all. "Stuff your faces." Snotlout whooped, lunging for the chicken as the twins dove in, squabbling over the bread like seagulls on a fish haul.

Astrid's gaze followed you, sharp and steady, a flicker of confusion crinkling her brow as you stormed past. She didn't call out—didn't worry too much, either—just leaned forward, snagging a piece of herring on her own plate and popping it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as the others tore into your leftovers with gleeful chaos. You didn't look back, boots thudding against the Hall's stone floor, the din fading as you pushed through the heavy doors into the late afternoon chill.

The village sprawled before you, smoke curling from chimneys, the tang of salt and soot sharp in your nose. Your home wasn't far—a squat, sturdy thing tucked near the forge—but your legs felt like lead, each step dragging the weight of the day: Hiccup's situation, Marta's crazy rant, the endless knead-and-haul that'd left you flour-streaked and bone-tired. You just wanted a bed to collapse in, to shake off the worry gnawing at you like a persistent yak, when a familiar bellow stopped you cold.

"Oi, lass!" Gobber waved you over from the forge's open maw, his hook-hand glinting in the fading light. You sighed, veering toward him, too weary to dodge. He grinned as you trudged up, peg leg tapping a rhythm on the dirt.

"Well, look at ye!—Held up against Marta's wrath, did we?" He chuckled, a booming sound that rattled your skull, then squinted, taking in your state. "Gods, ye're a walkin' bakery! Flour head to toe, bits o' dough in yer hair—did she dunk ye in the stew pot for good measure?"

You huffed, brushing at your tunic—useless, the white dust clung like a second skin, and a stray smear of turnip mash streaked your sleeve. "Felt like it," you muttered, managing a tired smile.

"She's still cursing me for breakfast. And lunch. I'll be kneading 'til I'm old as Mildew." Gobber laughed again, clapping you on the shoulder—hard enough to jolt you—and you winced, though his gruff warmth thawed the edges of your frustration.

"Ye're a tough one, lass—always have been," he said, leaning on the anvil, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Runnin' after Hiccup, facin' Marta's ladle—ye've got more spine than half this village."

You snorted, kicking a pebble, and he rambled on, waxing about the time you'd rigged a bellows to spew flour instead of air, nearly choking him in a white cloud. The memory tugged a real grin out of you, fleeting but there, until he straightened, tone shifting.

"Ah! Yes. By the way," he said, scratching his beard with his hook-hand, "while Stoick and the rest go off to find that dragon's nest, I've decided it's finally time to prepare ye to become a Viking. I'm signin' ye up for trainin'."

You blinked, bewildered, the words slamming into you like a rogue barrel down a hill.

"Training?" Your voice cracked, confusion piling onto the day's mess—Hiccup's dragon, Marta's wrath, and now this?

"Wait—Gobber, I can't! I've got Marta's kitchen, your forge—I'm too busy hauling sacks and trays all day for lectures to swing an axe!"

He waved you off your excuses with his chicken wing, like they were flies, grinning wider.

"Already squared it with Marta—told her to go easy on ye, by Stoick's orders no less. Future o' the village, future o' the clan—ye're not just a baker, lass, ye're one of us." He clapped your shoulder again, softer this time, but the weight of it sank deep.

"Ye' start tomorrow. No backin' out. Stoicks even havin' the same talk with Hiccup."

You stared, mouth half-open, flour-dusted and dumbfounded, as he turned back to the forge, whistling his happy song "Viking thru' n' thru'" like he hadn't just upended your world. The day's chaos spun in your head—Hiccup, dragons, training—and you trudged toward home, legs heavier than ever, wondering how you'd stumbled into all this mess.

The night had swallowed you whole after you'd staggered home, exhaustion dragging you under like a riptide. You'd collapsed into bed—limbs a sprawled tangle over the edges, one arm dangling, the other pinned beneath you, face buried into your wool pillow as you drooled unknowingly—your hair a wild snarl with strands stuck in your mouth. Feet and toes exposed as the blanket had risen up.

Sleep hit hard, a dreamless void, and you didn't stir as the clan's ships sailed out at dawn, Stoick at the helm, chasing the dragon's nest with the village's might. The world spun on without you, and you stayed blissfully dead to it—until the sun clawed its way up, slicing golden beams through your shutter slats right into your eyes as you finally turned.

You winced, nose wrinkling in annoyance, a groan rumbling up as the light stabbed at your lids. Then came the knocks—sharp, insistent thuds rattling your door.

"Go away," you mumbled, words a gibberish mush as you yanked the bearskin cover higher, burrowing into its musty warmth like a stubborn Gronckle in a cave. The knocking stopped, and you smirked sleepily, victorious—until the door slammed open with a bang that could've woken Thor himself.

"Rise and shine, lass!" Gobber's voice boomed, and before you could yelp, he ripped the bearskin off in one brutal yank, leaving you flailing in the chill. A bucket of water followed—icy, straight from the wells of Hel—and splashed over you like a tidal wave.

You shot up with a shout, arms wrapping tight around yourself, toes wiggling near freezing as you danced in place, teeth clattering like a sack of loose bolts. Water dripped from your hair, plastered to your face, and you blinked wildly, spinning to find Gobber grinning like a madman, empty bucket swinging in his hook-hand.

"You!" you sputtered, glaring as your breath puffed in the cold air, finally locking eyes with him. "What in Odin's name—"

"Ye're late!" he cut in, undeterred, peg leg tapping an impatient beat. "Let's get goin' afore the rest o' the trainees beat me there—and ye'd best not make me look the fool!" He tossed the bucket aside with a clatter, already half-turned to the door, like he hadn't just drowned you awake.

You shivered, still clutching yourself, the shock warring with a flicker of amusement—Gobber's wake-ups were the stuff of nightmares and sagas. "Late?" you croaked, voice hoarse from sleep and the dousing.

"I—I didn't even—" Your brain lagged, piecing together yesterday: Gobber's training bomb.

The clan was gone, and now this. You groaned again, louder, but he was already waving you out, bellowing about "no dawdlin' get ye' boots" as you stumbled for dry clothes, teeth still chattering.

You stood there, dripping and shivering, as Gobber's peg leg tapped out the door, his whistle fading into the morning clamor of Berk. "No dawdlin', lass!" echoed back shutting the door behind him, a taunt wrapped in a command, and you snapped into motion, teeth still rattling like a smith's loose gears.

Dry clothes—where were they? You lunged for a crumpled tunic on the bench, nearly tripping over your own sodden legs, and yanked it on, the fabric snagging on your wet arms. Trousers next, a frantic wrestle as you hopped, one leg in, the other flailing, your hair still plastered to your face like a drowned rat's nest.

"Gods, Gobber," you muttered, spitting strands from your mouth, "next time, just set me on fire—warmer way to wake up."

Boots—there, by the door, caked with yesterday's mud. You snatched them up, bolting outside barefoot, the icy ground biting your soles as you hopped after him, one boot halfway on, the other clutched to your chest.

"Wait—Gobber!" you yelped, teetering on one foot while jamming the other into leather, laces flapping like a dragon's loose scales.

He didn't slow, his lopsided gait eating up the path to the training arena, and you cursed under your breath, hopping faster—left, right, stumble—until both boots clung to your feet, sloppy but secure. Your lungs burned, your scraped palms stung as you waved them for balance, and Gobber's chuckle floated back, rich and maddening.

"Ye'll wake the village with that racket, lass—move it!"

The arena loomed ahead under the gloomy morning, a rough-hewn ring of stone, chains and timber. Its gates and chains wet from last night's cast still dripping here and there—no sign of Snotlout's swagger or the twins' chaos. More surprising—No sign of Astrid quite yet. You caught up, breathless, as Gobber swung the gate wide, his hook-hand glinting in the light.

"Good—beat the rest o' the rabble," he said, nodding approvingly. "Help me set this mess up afore they stumble in." He jerked his head toward a pile of gear—axes duller than a sheep's stare, shields dented like they'd lost a fight with a Monstrous Nightmare, and a tangle of ropes that smelled faintly of singed wool. You groaned, but hauled an axe anyway, its weight tugging at your sore arms, and shot him a look.

"Training, huh?" you panted, dragging a shield into place. "Thought I was busy enough dodging Marta's ladle and your lectures—now I've got to swing this?" You hefted the axe, nearly clipping your own shin, and Gobber snorted, tossing a rope coil your way.

"Aye, and ye'll thank me when ye're not dragon bait," he quipped, limping to the center to wrestle a wooden dummy upright. "If yer all gonna be future o' the clan, I'm not lettin' ye flail like a fish on a hook."

He grinned waving his own hooked-hand, and you rolled your eyes, but a flicker of pride sparked beneath the exhaustion—Gobber believed in you, flour-dust and all. The arena hummed with morning chill, the quiet before the storm of trainees, and you set to work.

The arena stood ready, a gritty testament to your morning's toil with Gobber—axes among other weapons lined up like a row of sullen teeth along the rack, their edges blunted by years of clumsy swings, glinting faintly in the pale sun that clawed its way over the arena walls.

Shields piled in a haphazard stack, their wooden faces pocked with gouges and scorch marks, some still bearing the faint stink of dragon spit; and ropes slung across the dirt, coiled like sleeping adders, their fibers frayed and dusted with ash from past fires.

You'd wrestled every piece into place, sweat streaking through the flour still caked on your skin from yesterday's kitchen penance, your arms quivering under the strain as you'd shoved a final target upright—a warped plank painted with a snarling dragon, its red jaws chipped to a sneer. Your hand brushed a rack of weapons—axes too heavy, spears too clumsy—and settled on a knife, slim and balanced, its grip worn smooth like the one you wielded in the kitchen. It felt right, an extension of your slicing skill, and you twirled it once, testing its weight as you waited.

Now you lingered at the arena's edge, boots scuffing the wet stone, breath fogging in the crisp air as you leaned against a splintered post, waiting. The silence buzzed with anticipation, heavy with the tang of rust and salt, and your scraped palms throbbed as you flexed them, Hiccup's tired grin from last night flickering in your mind like a stubborn ember.

It didn't last long. A roar of voices and stomping feet shattered the quiet, rolling in like a wave crashing on Berk's shores, and Gobber burst through the gate, his peg leg pounding the ground, hook-hand thrust high like a battle standard.

"Welcome! To dragon trainin'!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap that bounced off the stone walls, his beard bristling with a grin that promised chaos.

The trainees spilled in behind him—Astrid first, her stride a blade's edge, axe slung—ready beside her, her braid swinging like a pendulum of gold; she caught your eye, offering a brisk nod you returned before she marched on, her boots kicking up the wet puddles that glittered in what little sunlight.

Snotlout swaggered next, chest puffed out like a barrel ready to burst, his smirk a greasy smear of confidence, trailed by Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who barreled through the gate in a tangle of shoving elbows and wild hair, their laughter a grating duet.

Hiccup slipped in last, a lanky shadow at the rear, his green eyes darting nervously under tousled auburn bangs—he was here to your relief. You waved, a reassuring smile breaking through your fatigue, and he waved back, mirroring it with a flicker of warmth that steadied you both.

The twins wasted no time, their voices clashing like hammers on anvils.

"I hope I get some serious burns."

"I'm hoping for some mauling, like on my shoulder or lower back."

"Oh, I'm gettin' a scar today for sure—right across the gut, deep and gnarly!" Tuffnut declared, clawing the air with his fingers, while Ruffnut shoved him aside, getting them both crowing.

"Nah, mine's gonna be epic—eye patch material, full face shred!" Snotlout got involved.

"Yeah, it's only fun if you get a scar out if it. Why not," Astrid planted the bottom of her axe in the stone with a solid thunk, rolling her eyes as she cut in, voice dry as bone.

Hiccup, lingering near a shield pile, piped up, his monotone dripping sarcasm like sap from a split pine: "Yeah, no kidding, right? Pain. Love it."

He leaned back behind them, arms dangling like he despised being there, and you caught the glint of mock-defiance in his gaze—same old Hiccup, dodging barbs with a quip.

"Oh, great. Who let him in?" Tuffnut remarked.

But Gobber's bulk loomed over, his hammer-hand nudging your shoulder with a jolt that nearly sent the knife spinning.

"Enough chatter, ye lot—Let's get started!" he roared, stomping to the arena's heart, his voice slicing through the air like a cleaver through meat.

"Listen up! Learn quick, be sharp, and be ready—'cause whoever wins this trainin' program, lasts 'til the bitter end, gets the honor o' killin' a dragon in front o' the whole village! Full witness, full glory—so quit yer yammerin' and prepare!"

Snotlout pounced like a cat on a crippled bird to take the opportunity, his laugh a harsh bark that scraped your nerves. "Hiccup already killed a Night Fury, so does that disqualify him or . . .?" He pointed to Hiccup.

"Thought you'd be hiding under your bed, Hiccup—didn't the dragon tuck you in last night?" The twins hooted, Ruffnut miming a cradling motion—"Wittle Hiccup and his dragon nanny!"—while Tuffnut flopped backward, wheezing.

"Bet he cried when it flew off!"

Hiccup's jaw clenched, a tight line of frustration, and you flicked your boots toe out—quick, subtle, a baker's reflex honed from dodging Marta's ladle—catching Tuffnut's ankle mid-step. He didn't see it coming, flailing forward with a yelp, arms windmilling as he hit the wet ground in a graceless sprawl, his helmet skittering away like a startled crab.

"Can I transfer to the class with cool Vikings?" he whined, hauling himself up, brushing off clumps of wet pebbles and ash as he stomped deeper into the arena, rejoining Ruffnut with a theatrical huff that made her snort. You shot Hiccup a sidelong glance, catching the faintest twitch of his lips—gratitude, maybe, or just shared exasperation.

Gobber's voice boomed over the chaos, his peg leg thumping as he hobbled closer, eyeing Hiccup with a mix of pity and gruff cheer.

"Don't worry, lad—ye're small and weak! That'll make ye less of a target. They'll see ye as sick or insane and go after the more Viking-like teens instead!" He clapped his good hand against his shoulder, chuckling like he'd just handed out sage wisdom.

"That's not helping, Gobber," you snapped, voice cutting sharper than your blade, laced with a protective edge that surprised even you.

The old smith blinked, eyes widening a fraction, then shrugged, muttering something about "tough love" as he returned back to the task at hand. Hiccup glanced at you as you shrugged, his clenched jaw softening, a flicker of something—thanks, maybe—passing through his green eyes before the beast's roar yanked you both back to attention.

Gobber stomped to some other arena iron gates, their rust-streaked doors looming like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast, and thrust his hook-hand high, his voice rolling out like a storm over the cliffs.

"Behind these doors are just a few o' the many species ye'll learn to fight!" he declared, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and menace as he turned to the trainees, pacing before the shuddering gates. The wood and metal rattled faintly, a low growl seeping through the cracks, and he launched into his litany, naming the dragons with the relish of a bard spinning a saga.

"The Deadly Nadder!" he barked, gesturing at a gate that twitched as if something sharp and quick lurked behind it.

"The Hideous Zippleback!"—a twin sound of hisses slithered out, two-toned and eerie, curling the air.

"The Monstrous Nightmare!"—a blast of heat pulsed through the cracks, creating a furnace like heat radiating from it.

"The Terrible Terror!"—a scrabble of claws, small but frantic, echoed like a swarm of furious rats.

Fishlegs, hovering at the group's edge, muttered under his breath, his chubby fingers clutching his dragon manual like a lifeline, eyes wide behind a mop of sweat-damp hair.

"Nadder—speed eight, armor six-teen. . .Zippleback—gas plus spark, plus eleven stealth times two. . ." His stats tumbled out in a nervous stream, a quiet chant that buzzed like a gnat in Gobber's ear.

The old smith's patience snapped, his peg leg grinding to a halt as he whirled, hook-hand jabbing the air. "Can ye stop that!" he shouted, voice a cannon shot that made Fishleg's flinch, the manual nearly slipping from his grip.

Gobber huffed, shaking his head, then pressed on, undeterred. ". . .And the Gronckle," he finished, slapping the lever beside the nearest gate with a clang that shivered through the stone, the promise of chaos glinting in his grin.

Fishlegs leaned toward you and Hiccup, his whisper a conspiratorial hiss, wide side-eyes darting like he'd just spilled a village secret.

"Jaw strength eight," he breathed, voice trembling with awe and dread, his breath puffing warm against your cheek.

You raised an eyebrow, knife still twirling idly in your hand, while Hiccup shifted beside you, his own weapon under his grip. Snotlout, pale beneath his bravado, jolted forward, axe wobbling in his meaty fists.

"Whoa! Whoa! Aren't ye gonna teach us first?!" he yelped, his voice cracking high enough to wake a hibernating bear, sweat beading on his brow as the Gronckle's growl rumbled louder behind the gate.

Gobber turned, slow and deliberate, his grin stretching wider, a gleam of mischief dancing in both his eyes. Oh no. . .

"I believe in learnin' on the job," he said, calm as if he'd just suggested a stroll to the mead hall, and yanked the lever down with a screech and clang of metal, his hook-hand flashing in the gleam.

The gate shuddered and burst open with a resounding crash, unleashing a guttural snarl that reverberated through the air, raw and primal. From the shadowed depths, the Gronckle's squat, formidable bulk surged into view, its rugged scales glinting ominously like wet stone under the flickering light. Its snarl rolled forth, deep and menacing, a promise of pain and chaos of the mayhem to start.

The sun hung low, a molten smear bleeding gold and amber across Berk's cliffs and cloud break, casting long shadows that stretched like claws over the jagged rocks where you and Hiccup slumped over a thin piece of wood separating you both from the wet grass—heaving from the day's ordeal.

Training had been a relentless beast—hours of dodging the Gronckle's snapping jaws, its molten spit sizzling inches from your boots, its roars rattling your skull until your ears rang with the echo. Axes had flown wild, shields had splintered, and you'd lost count of how many times you'd yanked Hiccup from the path of those boulder-like paws, your kitchen knife flashing uselessly against scales tougher than forge iron.

Now, sprawled on the cliff's edge, the sea crashing far below in a restless churn of white and gray, your limbs felt like sodden dough—heavy, bruised, and protesting every twitch. Sweat streaked through the flour still dusted on your tunic from yesterday, your hair a tangled snarl plastered to your neck, and your scraped palms throbbed as you flexed them, the salt air stinging the raw skin.

Hiccup sat beside you, just as wrecked—his tunic torn at the sleeve where the Gronckle's tooth had grazed him, his auburn hair a sweaty mess plastered to his forehead and every direction, his breaths puffing shallow and ragged.

You'd skipped breakfast and lunch, the training swallowing the day whole, so you'd pulled out his favorite—cheese-egg meat muffins again—wrapped in a cloth you'd stashed in your satchel. The bread was crusty, golden, but cold from your pre-dawn baking binge; the egg froze in an oozy rich, yolky tang, flecked with herbs; the meat, smoky and still tender, melded with sharp cheese that melted into every bite. You both could care less if it was cold.

You handed him one, your fingers brushing his, and he took it with a tired grin, exhaustedly sinking his teeth in with a groan that was half-starvation, half-bliss.

"Gods, you're a miracle," he mumbled through a mouthful, eyes closed, crumbs tumbling onto his lap as he leaned back on one elbow, the cliff's wet mossy edge soft under his sprawl—He didn't care.

You sighed tiredly, biting into your own, the flavors bursting against your tongue—a small victory after nearly becoming dragon fodder. The wind whipped past, sharp with brine and sea breeze, tugging at your clothes as you chewed in companionable quietness, the distant bleat of sheep and the rhythmic crash of waves filling the space between you.

"That Gronckle's a monster," you said finally, wiping your mouth with your sleeve, the memory of its jaws snapping an inch from your arm flashing hot in your mind.

"Thought it'd have me for lunch when Snotlout tripped into me—thanks for the shield shove, by the way." Hiccup chuckled, a low, dry sound, swallowing another bite.

"Yeah, well, I owed you one—couldn't let it chomp my muffin supplier." His grin flickered, playful but frayed, and you nudged him with your elbow, the ache in your side flaring at the motion.

"Gobber's 'learning on the job' nearly made us the job," he added, mimicking Gobber's gruff burr, and you snorted, the absurdity of it loosening the knot in your chest. He fell quiet, picking at the muffin's crust, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the sea met the sky in a hazy blur.

"That Night Fury," he said suddenly, voice dropping low, almost swallowed by the wind. "I've been thinking about it—him—all day. I'm going back out there. Tomorrow, maybe."

His fingers tightened around the bread, crumbs scattering to the rocks, and his green eyes flicked to you, bright with that restless spark you knew too well—half-thrill, half-dread, the same look he'd worn in the ravine.

You froze, muffin halfway to your mouth, the cheese's tang souring on your tongue as his words sank in. The sun dipped ever lower, its golden smear thinning into a fiery thread along the horizon, painting the cliff's edge in a warm glow that danced across Hiccup's freckled face.

You leaned up, facing him fully, your shadow stretching long over the mossy rocks as your words hung in the salty air—"Are you sure about that? What if this time he doesn't let you go? He might not even be around anymore."

The questions hung there, heavy as the sea air, your breath catching as you pictured that black-scaled beast pinning him again—or worse, not letting him walk away next time. The muffin sat forgotten in your hand, the wind tugging at your hair, and Hiccup stared back, his face a tangle of determination and doubt sparked a silent shift between you.

Hiccup shifted, propping himself higher on his elbow, crumbs tumbling from his lap as he met your gaze, his green eyes flickering with that restless spark—half-thrill, half-doubt.

"I don't know," he said, voice soft but steady, like he was testing the words aloud. "He—I mean, it—didn't feel. . .dangerous. Not like the Gronckle today, anyway." He huffed a small laugh, rubbing his neck where a bruise bloomed from training, his fingers smudging dirt into the mark.

"Maybe he's still out there, waiting to finish the job—or maybe I just got lucky." He glanced at the horizon, the sea's gray expanse swallowing the last of the light, and you frowned, shifting closer, the moss cool under your knees.

"Lucky's one thing," you said, voice edged with a mix of exasperation and care, "but going back out there alone? That's asking for a dragon to make you, its supper. You barely dodged those jaws today and yesterday—don't push it."

Your knife-calloused fingers flexed around the muffin, crumbling its edge, and you shot him a look, half-pleading, half-scolding, the ache for him to see reason warring with the ache that'd lived in you since you were kids. He tilted his head, studying you, and something softened in his face—a flicker of that secret he hadn't unraveled himself.

"Maybe I won't go alone," he mused, his grin creeping back, lopsided and teasing as he leaned a fraction closer, his voice dipping low. "Could use someone brave enough to stare down a Night Fury and bake me back to life after—y'know, my own personal hero."

His tone mocking what the others always say about you two. Eyes glinting a spark of flirt in the way they lingered on you, and heat rushed to your cheeks, blooming red beneath the flour and grime. You blinked, caught off guard, a flustered laugh bubbling up as you ducked your head the opposite way from him, shoving his muffin at him to hide the blush.

"Shut up," you muttered, shoving his shoulder—light, playful, but enough to jostle him—your smile sneaking out despite yourself.

"Eat your muffin, dragon-slayer, before I feed it to the gulls." He laughed, a real one this time, bright and unguarded, and took the muffin, his fingers brushing yours again, warm and deliberate. The wind carried the sound away, leaving a quiet sweetness between you, the cliff's edge glowing soft as the day faded, your worries tucked aside for just a moment in the dusk's gentle hold.

This is Chapter 2 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

#chapter 2 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge

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opal-owl-flight · 11 months ago

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Quick lore question, did marie considering the idea of replacing 4 play into the insecurities she has later?

Absolutely.

I wanna preface this by saying one thing: Young 4 was a COMPLETELY different person before she got recruited by Marie. And Marie...responds to her accordingly.

Long read abt Hero2 events below!! Its. A lil messy sorry qisjke these are my notes

Young 4? A bitch.

Everything she ever wanted was given to her. Moved out of the highlands with an ego the size of a planet (and also bc she felt suffocated there), thinking she can make it in the big city.

...she struggled to make it alone. She had moved out bc her family was suffocating her with love, but now theyre not here, so now she feels homesick and underappreciated.

All that is expressed by her harsh, bitchy attitude. Shes gonna be mean bc no one has seen her for who she is. She'll show them!!

She finds her way around like this, and discovers that shes just as good at turf war here and at home. In fact, shes *so* good that she got the status of a rising star!

It aaalll just gets into her head. Shes "proven everyone wrong" now. Shes got the superiority complex and can back it up.

Marie...

...saw this. She was looking for a new agent to help find the missing zapfish. The second 4 heard this from her, she flexed her arms and...

"Look no further, your hero is RIGHT HERE!"

Marie at first adored the spunkiness of this new agent. Uuuntil 4 started thinking that shes better than her.

"Watch out, Agent Four!"

"You watch YOURSELF, grandma! Think Im a damn idiot to not see that coming? WAHA!"

Marie rolled up her sleeves after several stages full of her ignoring orders or sassing her out of nowhere.

Is that how shes gonna be? Fine.

When 4 finally trips and falls, hard, on a particularly difficult level, Marie pulls her to the side to fix her up and give her a lecture that tore her fucking ego to shreds.

She says something so fucking harsh like "That attitude will make SURE that you die sad and alone. I wonder how anyone puts up with you."

4s too hurt by her own failure to say anything back.

The reality of war finally gives her a reality check. Each victory is earned. its her life on the line. And the world.

She regains her spunk after saving the world.

------

Silly 4. She gets the job done but it takes a LOT of pushing in the mid-stages. Its like she got legitimately bored after the initial super easy ones, and thought the entire campaign a joke.

She went back to her turfing life topside between stages. And she takes a WHILE to come back to her missions -- usually late!! And then before she even goes in she just HAS to yak Marie's face off with what she was doing up there.

"Youre late."

"You shouldve SEEN ME, Marie!! I was carrying that Rainmaker round! I was-"

"Pray tell, Agent Four. How will you keep participating in turf with the Zapfish gone?"

"Whaat? Cmon. Nothing seems to be changing! Theres still power through the city!"

"The backup supply wont last forever, you know."

"Yeah yeah. Okay. Im here now. Wheres the next kettle?"

This attitude is from her high school days, clearly. She breezes by everything so fast that she can afford to do things last minute. It affects even this.

That, alongside her talking smack back to Marie, is what makes her snap at 4. Its what makes 4 stick to the mission fully starting late area 4 and area 5. (This is also around the time 4s life was threatened. God help me in those stupid platforming stages)

Post Hero2, 4 more or less does what 3 does. Shes the "replacement" til 3 comes back. (That cant be good for her confidence.)

At the same time, she has to deal with Callie and Marie talking out what the fuck Callie did with Octaria. "THEY SQUIDNAPPED GRAMPS!!!" and all. Why help them??? They get into squabbles where 4 was the unfortunate witness to. And peacemaker. It does NOT help that Callie for a while kept putting the glasses back on!!!

4 wishes so bad she had help of any sort. She feels 3 might be able to do something but what does she know?? Shes never met em!! She just imagines what the missing agent would do in that situation.

Callie...was also the person she got close to. Shes fun (unlike the stuck up Marie), shes empathic, she opened 4s eyes to the Octarian plight. It made her acceptance of 8 later much smoother.

Im not saying shes not close to Marie either, I bet they healed their relationship around this year too. Marie's sorry she tore 4s ego the way she did (even if deserved...). Marie's much more supportive of what 4s doing topside. Shes expressing her pride in the agent she found much more openly. (She brags abt her to Callie at times.)

The three of them heal together in that time. 4 sees them as older sisters Im p sure. Theyre both giving her tips for turfing and -- Marie even helps her with homework, HAH

And...while I say that 4 and Marie are in better terms, there are still days where Marie blows up on her. Lesser extent than before, but shes *worried* for her agent! (Its a similar plight 3 has.) In those times, its Callie who has her back. ("Hey! Its not like shes not trying!!" Callie understands how it is, and she also knows Marie best -- shes the one who makes 4 understand where Marie is coming from.)

#splatoon #splatoon fanart #agent 4 #marie cuttlefish #octo canyon #splatoon 2 #opal owl’s nest

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tally-tallyo · 5 months ago

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Shann family art (with COLOUR) + mom design reveal!

Name + details + another sketch under the cut 😘🏃🏻‍♀️💨💨

Erdem comes from the northern territories of the Shaftlands! Though I don’t wanna reveal much, she lived there independently as a Yak herder until Brody came by and lore occured hehehehHAHAHHAJDJAJ

(yes, dad used to have longer hair like shan yu)

Erdem is on the shorter side for height, but that and her muscular stature is effective for the cold and mountainous environment (you heard me, she’s buff).

#grwr #twst fanfic #my art #twisted wonderland #twst

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cabaallias · 7 months ago

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Just some doodles of Devon from my cotl save.

Some lore below pics :)

Okay, so Devon is a child from one of my followers, Baz, and Aym (I know it's crazy). I instantly fell in love with this little demon. He's living up to his pa's name (Baz is a disciple).

Appearance details:

Baz is a yak and Aym is a Maine coon, so Devon has ultimate fluff. His eyes are red (from Aym) and his pelt is the color of wheat (from Baz). Since Aym's sprite/model in the game has a red gradient on his limbs, I gave that to Devon plus his tail. Since Yak tails are kind hooked? Erect? I gave Devon the crook in his little tail. Despite all his yak featured, like his tail, ears, and fur color, he looks a lot like his father.

#cult of the lamb #cotl fanart #cotl #cotl oc

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dogseast · 3 months ago

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Sonic: Friendship is Magic

my very generic, but elaborate sonic/mlp au! many more designs and lore and maybe even a comic series? Names & species below (this au is still a huge wip so these could change)

IF ANYONE HAS BETTER NAME IDEAS feel free to lmk! The ony names I'll probably not change* are Amy's, Silver's and probably Knuckles (aka Hoofhorn) and Shadow, but I'm still open to ideas

(Left to right)

Hoofhorn Guardian of the Yaks (Yak)

Miles Perhour 'Trails' the Mechanic (Unicorn)

Blue Blur 'Sonic' the Fasted Pegasus to Ever Live (Pegasus)

Amy Rose the Face of Love (Earth Pony)

Shadow Echoes the Ultimate Lifeform

Rouge Quarts Equestrias Top Secret Agent and thief (Bat pony)

Silver Lining the Face of the Future (Abada + Zebra)

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captainzigo · 4 months ago

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other creatures should get some love. i’m slowly working my way to all of them. my Little Pony dolls have a great gimmick. They’ve had a great gimmick since the 60s. They’ve got brushable hair, and they’ve got their whole personality printed on their ass. these are extremely solid toy features, and as we have seen with friendship is magic and the other shows, it makes for intriguing designs and stuff.

i’m going to give the other creatures this treatment. at least with friendship is magic, the toys that they released for the other creatures were lame spiky plastic molds, just waiting for you to chuck them at your sibling. in the show, they are realistically colored and not as stylized as the ponies are. sometimes their lore and quirks seem a little bit, lacking in comparison to the ponies, even. I want to change this give them some magic of their own.

in real life ponies have beautiful brushable hair, and cutie marks are a fantastical reimagining of branding marks, and even further, they get unique magic powers, and ones based on mythology. this is my design philosophy

#my little pony au #mlp au #my little pony #mlpfim #mlp #friendship is magic #mlp fanart #mlp changeling #mlp yak #mlp zebra #seinop #mlp oc #mlp au art #mlp au lore #au lore #my little pony redesign #mlp redesign

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trans-mouse · 6 months ago

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Exalted Art Challenge Week 4: Beastpeople

The Amoda mothfolk are mentioned in passing as one of the Caulborn beastfolk clans… But I need way more information about them. They get two sentences, one of which says they don't believe the sun exists! What does that mean? Well, I'm a writer, so I get to make it up! This is my week 4 exalted art challenge. I couldn't really think of a way to make the weekly topic work, but the 24th was "beastpeople," so I figure that's good enough justification to get all this lore from my head onto the page!

The dozen clans of the Amoda worship Luna as the greatest of all gods beside the Caul itself, and view the sun as a feeble reflection of her divine power. She is regarded as a trickster god by them, but also as a protector against the predations of the wyld and the dragonblooded. So long as they live their lives in the moon's light, they keep themselves safe from most external threats. But walking in the moonlight means more than just keeping from sunlight; the Amoda practice trickery, and particularly theft, as a game. When not at war, practically all Amoda, from their first steps, wear lots of jewelry and adorn themselves with dangling pendants, all to be stolen. While these are meant to be protected, they are also meant to be stolen, so they tend to be crafted from pretty rocks and twists of hide and hair, rather than precious metals or gemstones. Any stolen are worn by the victor, and a pendant gains meaning with each owner attaching another adornment. Amoda folk tales regularly speak of pendants stolen a hundred times being used in battle, or in clever trades with deadly fair folk hunters.

Aside from these pendants, the most commonly stolen thing among the clans are their nocturnal cave-yaks. Boasting smaller horns and lighter but longer fur than those found elsewhere in the world, they make up the primary form of wealth and food for the clans. The most precious of them are brought with the clans, their horns decorated with charms like those they wear, while thousands more roam atop the hilly region beneath which the Amoda make their homes. It is these most precious that are stolen by other clans, rustled by night when they are grazing upon the grasses of the hills. The yaks make up their primary source of food, clothing, and tools.

In the caves beneath the hills are dozens of semi-permanent camps, and hundreds of miles of tunnels, each with stars painted on the ceiling to navigate by. These are used as the clans' primary means of travel during twilight hours, and during the summer when night hours grow scarcer. Within these camps and tunnels, the clans are at peace. While jewelry and pendants are stolen during meetings, yak and trade goods are held sacred beneath the hills. Every clan wants the others to survive, and trades are often lopsided, a clan receiving more than they offer if the other knows they need the help, in exchange for a few extra stolen trinkets.

Aside from tricksters and herders, the Amoda are expert navigators, experienced beyond simply the hills they call home, and are often hired as guides by visiting lunars; they refuse any business with the dragonblooded, preferring to keep their distance from powerful groups and stealing from weaker ones. For the most part, the Amoda clans abhor violence, preferring to lose their enemies in woods and tunnels, or to demoralize them with trickery. There are two clans that boast great warriors, often found in the employ of lunars, and they stray the furthest from their hills the most often.

Their legends are kept by priests, who have cast off their clan and family name, visiting all clans, spreading news and legends with them. While their most sacred legends are recited word for word with allowance only for dramatic sounds or gestures, any younger ones are changed to focus on favorite characters or further dramatize actions. Most of the sacred legends center around Sword-Eater, the Lunar that blessed them with their moth form, and who fought duels against hundreds of dynasts, claiming their swords as prizes. The shattered remains of these jade swords mark each camp within their caves. From Sword-Eater, they inherited fighting techniques based around disarming and humiliating their foes, as well as a hatred of the usurpers. Many newer legends center around mortals besting dragonblooded, and young and foolhardy warriors often make this their goal. The priests are also primary in dealing with the fair folk and gods that are so abundant on the Caul, though the clans typically make no rules forbidding others from doing so. Indeed, tricking a god or fae is held in high regard by every one of them. Priests are the only Amoda that do not wear pendants or jewelry, eschewing wealth and marking themselves as somewhat apart from the rest of society.

Sorcery is practiced by the sages of the clans, who practice ecstatic deprivation, gaining insight from dreams after sleepless days or feasts after a week without food. Their spells tend to resemble those cast by the dragonblooded, focussing on manipulation of elements and nature. They use these to shape the weather, ward off intruders, and in dire cases, fight those who would prey upon them. Each clan has one sage, and when they die, they select a youth to train under another clan's sage. A new sage's training complete, they return to their home clan, joining the two clans in a great feast.

Physically, the Amoda are tall, thin, and, unsurprisingly, mothlike. Their heights typically surpass those of the tallest humans they meet, thanks in part to the extra set of shoulders (and arms) they possess. They sport fluffy fur, with a soft peach fuzz over their whole body, with tufts around their wrists, legs, and neck, giving them almost a mane. The color of this fur, as well as their hair, are widely varied, seemingly not carried over from parents to children. In the rare circumstance that their hair is exposed to sunlight, it changes color, reflecting a much brighter version of their "true" colors. Their eyes are large, and they have antennae that are essential for speaking their language, which is made up not only of phonemes, but of twitches of their antennae and subvocal trills that are practically impossible to notice or hear by outsiders. Their names are made up of a personal, family, and clan name, and pronouncing them in languages aside the native tongue of the Amoda takes quite a long time. Because of this, they almost always go by nicknames to non-Amoda, who cannot hope to pronounce their names, though they appreciate lunars and gods who can speak their names.

The majority of Amoda do not have wings. They are born without them, and the process to obtain them is both exceptionally difficult and unspeakably painful. This is done via a month-long ritual of self-deprivation, drinking only water dripped from within their caves and eating nothing. As Calibration begins, the hopeful wraps themself in a handmade chrysalis, which is coated internally with a concoction that dissolves their skin and much of their muscle, reforming themselves thinner, taller, and with newfound wings. At the end of Calibration they emerge to a grand feast, where they, starved and scarred, eat their fill a dozen times over for several days. This ritual is mostly undergone by priests, all of whom must undertake the process as symbolic of Sword-Eater's ancient blessing rite that first created them, but a select few others, particularly noted duelists and sages, undergo the same process. The wings gained are not fit for flight without an enormous amount of effort and training, which many who attain them never undergo.

The Amoda have tense relationships with neighboring groups. While they are good-natured and friendly, anyone who visits them comes away with lighter pockets. When approached for trade, they are genuine and fair, but this is rare. They tend to have better trade relationships with Lunars, who either don't bring much but their necessities, or don't mind a few trinkets going missing, understanding it as the cost of doing business. While they rarely make craft with them, each clan maintain enormous underground stashes of jade and precious gems, squireling them away in hidden passageways, magically concealed from other clans. For those willing to do business with them, they offer shocking riches.

(If you've read this far, you should read my other stuff about exalted (click the tag!) and check out my patreon, https://www.patreon.com/c/NotSoLuckyLydia

It helps out a ton, and there's a bunch of free stuff on there, both about exalted and about other games!)

#exalted art challenge #exalted #exalted 3e #exalted essence

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noctusfury · 7 months ago

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Is There a Dragon Flyer "Elite"? (RTTE Headcanon/Theory)

Hello, everyone! Welcome to another HTTYD post! Sorry for the hiatus, but I'm back with another article of lore on the Dragon Flyers. Please enjoy!

This article is a continuation of my previous post on this topic (here) about dragonskin uses. And this will start my other articles about Hierarchy and Ranks.

Today's topic will discuss if these skins provide an established hierarchy of elitism in these Flyers (and Hunters) — particularly the Malevolent Twelve, a squadron of Flyers personally led and taught by Krogan who defeated the Dragon Riders in Season 5's episodes "Dawn of Destruction" and "Wings of War".

This is probably just me, but I have a headcanon that there's an elite among the Dragon Flyers under Krogan's command. Of course, naturally, there'll always be an elite group — "veterans," in other words — in every organization or unit. Doesn't matter if it's a small unit, a military or business organization, or anything else. The same with the Dragon Hunters and the Dragon Flyers.

In fact, Viggo even talked to Ryker about moving the "elite guard" (of Hunters or more possibly the Grimborn Family's personal guards) to prepare for the Riders' attack on their secret base in Season 4's episode "Twintuition".

But back to the Flyers. I've noticed something very interesting. As you know from both the picture earlier above (the top photo), and down below, you'll see that the only Flyers that are often seen with Krogan are these guys. Particularly this guy below that's standing next to Krogan in Season 6's episode "Chain of Command".

Of course, since this is DreamWorks Dragons, and since there isn't any rhyme or reason when it comes to the minion character design, I may be just imagining things and that them being near Krogan is just a coincidence.

However, as I've stated in my previous article, when it comes to the Flyers with the Zippleback skins and the gold dragonskins, respectively, they look to be more seasoned and ruthless compared to the Flyers with the poorly tanned Nightmare skins (or whatever those skins are), who often look nervous or act like they just graduated from Dragon Flyer Cadet Academy. 😂

In the Season 6 episode "Darkest Night", one of Stoick's main attackers is this guy in a gold-dragon-skin outfit, and also the Flyer with a similar outfit but different dragon (compare to the Flyer above) who tag-team to grievously wound Stoick.

(You'll find him again in later photos)

It's possible that these two were part of the "Deadly Dozen" from Dawn of Destruction and Wings of War, since it's likely that Krogan or Johann would've sent some of their best Flyers to take out an important figure, especially since Johann would've known about Stoick's legendary martial prowess and would've most likely not wanted to take any chances. Taking out Stoick would've stalled Berk's capability to continue their fight against the Hunters.

in "Dawn of Destruction", this Gold-skin Flyer was able keep up with Astrid and was able to hit her if it hadn't been for Hiccup's trap.

And let us not forget the infamous Mr. "Murderous Pile of Yak Dung", the Gold-skin Flyer that the Gang captured and interrogated in the Season 6 episode "Guardians of Vanaheim". Even while held captive, "Yak-dung" not only tries to recruit the Twins and use them to help him escape, but takes his chance to break free and steal the Dragon Eye Lens that Fishlegs and the Twins were turning Osvald's hut upside-down and inside-out to find, before leaving to escape the island. That is, if he hadn't fatally run into a pack of very hungry Grim Gnashers. RIP. His sacrifice will be remembered. 💀

"Krogan's Best"

In the Season 5 episode "Dawn of Destruction", we are met with a squadron of 12 Flyers who commence a surprise early-morning raid on the Dragon Riders' main base and quickly neutralize the Riders and forcing them to make a tactical retreat.

These Flyers are well-trained, well-armed, and well-coordinated, able to work together to out-maneuver the Riders and corner them. It's obvious that Krogan trained them in air-to-air combat for this very purpose.

In this very same episode, Ruffnut and Tuffnut even commented after nearly getting roasted by a passing Flyer protecting his wingman's six:

|| Tuffnut: Hey, not for nothing, but these guys are pretty good! || || Ruffnut: They're are kicking our butts! ||

And Snotlout even warns Hiccup that:

|| Those Flyers are all over the place and well-trained. ||

In "Wings of War, Part 1", after getting harassed and pursued by those Flyers from Caldera Cay (DOTW's home), Snotlout and Tuffnut say this about the Flyers:

|| Snotlout: Whoa! Oh, man, those guys are good! || || Tuffnut: I'd like to train with their trainer. ||

In the same episode, talking about that particular team of Flyers — whom I'd like to call "Krogan's Disciples" and "The Malevolent Twelve" or "The Deadly Dozen" — that were chasing the Gang from Dragon's Edge, Krogan himself told Viggo:

||"Those are 12 of my most fearless and gifted warriors. I doubt they'll have much of an issue."||

The Flyers which made up those 12 elites are those with Zippleback and the gold-scaled dragonskins. So it's very much possible that these skins are only given to elites, of a sort.

Furthermore, most of the Flyers I saw in those shots had Nightmare dragonskin skirts (kilts? lol). The Flyers with the gold-scaled dragonskin shirts seem to have vambraces made of Gronkle dragonskin, based on the coloring. Don't quote me on that, since I could be wrong. Since these dragons are hard to kill, that would definitely make them skilled dragon slayers.

Also, speaking of which, there was at least ONE Flyer amongst the "Deadly Dozen," wearing Nightmare(?) skins and a Nadder wing skirt, and flying a green Singetail. You can find him if you squint in "Wings of War, Part 1".

I've edited the shots to make them more easier to see, but please forgive me for the blurry close-up shots. Nothing I can do to prevent that unless somebody has a better photo editing software than I do (I use Canva).

You see him again, here, with the others when they hit the fog bank, which covers the length of the Inner Isles.

(That alone makes me wanna do an article that goes in depth into the reason the Inner Isles in Berk seem to have a different climate from the rest of the archipelago.)

Here's a clearer shot from "Chain of Command", in S6. Considering that he's wearing the same garb and riding the same colored Singetail, he could be the same guy. However, with DreamWorks Dragons being DreamWorks Dragons, who enjoy making clones of the minions, we can only guess. 🤷‍♂️

Not gonna lie, though: that's a really nice getup. 👀

Flyer Leader: Krogan's Right-Hand!

In several episodes, but most memorably in "Family Matters," one notable Flyer stands out from the others: the Flyer Leader.

As far as elites go, he's probably as far up as one can go outside of Krogan's position as Headmaster of the "Flyer Warthunder". He's his right-hand man. His leftenant/lieutenant. His chief subordinate.

Sadly, we don't know anything about his past or about his history with Krogan and the Flyers. 😔 (I should just go and write a fanfic and create my own lore for the Flyer Leader at this point. 🤩) However, at some point, after passing his training as a Flyer, I assume he became a direct disciple under Krogan in the same way Krogan was under Drago, and he was competent enough to be entrusted with various administrative and martial tasks and to lead warthunders out for certain missions whenever Krogan either wasn't available or couldn't be bothered to do it himself.

As seen in every episode he's been in, the Flyer Leader is shown to be a capable and reliable man to whom Krogan can leave things without much thought. This is amazing considering Krogan isn't the type who shares power with anyone but himself — as evidenced by his treatment towards Viggo and Johann. Though it probably helps that, so far as we know, the Flyer Leader isn't interested in more power and authority and is content being the Chief Lieutenant. (Though it would be pretty interesting if he is capable due to his ambition to aim higher and eventually replace Krogan as Chief of the Flyers.)

Anyway, the Flyer Leader is, aside from Krogan, the head honcho of the Flyers, and, as such, has much field command whenever Krogan's not around. He's Krogan's representative, almost (if Krogan was interested in allowing that).

The fact that Krogan was confident enough to entrust the all-important task of protecting the Singetail Rookery from any intruders once again proves, in my opinion, how adept the Flyer Leader is and how much Krogan trusts him enough to leave this vital facility to him.

And he's not stupid. Even when the Riders were able to free the Singetails captured in Deathsong amber, the Singetails, in order to protect the eggs, didn't leave as expected, unexpectedly giving the Flyer Leader extra pieces to drive the Riders into a corner. And instead of attacking them, knowing that doing so in cramped quarters and risking attacks from the Singetails due to the rookery being in the cave labyrinth, he instead orders word to be sent to Krogan about the incident and to focus everything he has onto the cave entrance and pin the Riders there until help arrives.

Little did he know that the Riders (thanks to Fishlegs impromptu problem solving) did something completely unexpected and did something that no-one could've thought that they would dare to do: lure a Cavern Crasher — an egg-eating dragon — into the Singetail Rookery and cause a disturbance that would cause a panic, allowing them to escape.

Honestly, if they hadn't done that, I think he would've been able to either capture them or kill them. The Riders themselves, before Fishlegs came with his crazy plan, were beginning to doubt they'd be able to break out before reinforcements arrived.

He is sadly left behind in a cocoon of amber. How tragic. 😔🙏🏻😂

I kinda find it ironic how he lost because of plot armor. I mean, when you watch the episode, you notice that he was given everything he needed to make sure that the Rookery stayed in their hands: About 100 or so Hunter grunts to do the patrols, guard-duty, and menial tasks such as taking care of the dragons; a squadron of Dragon Flyers, assumedly all elites from his own squad (so probably between 4-8 Flyers, certainly no more than 12); no more than 5 or so catapults and ballistae; presumedly several trap devices like net ballistae or whatever; and I'm assuming he has a reserve force of men at hand to rotate shifts and replace any troops that are injured, killed, or absent. So around 100-200 men, give or take a hundred. This is a LARGE GROUP to be commanding and organizing.

I don't care what the episode showed, you'd need that much personnel, if not more, just to do patrols, manage the dragons, man the catapults and traps, etc, etc, AND have a reserve to use to rotate shifts — this is an important base, after all! It's a BIG JOB!

That being said, I could be overestimating the numbers here a bit based on my assumption that they'd need that much personnel to deal with the Riders AND any Singetails they capture and guarding the two Deathsongs and Singetail eggs as well. With that being the case, I will minus this and assume that he has, at minimum, no less than 100 men, split into companies of 50 men so that they can rotate around the clock.

Regardless of the actual numbers, the fact that he was given a lot of resources, and still lost due to an unexpected wild card the Riders played on him is just bad luck.

Personally, I don't think that Krogan would let him live for having failed his expectations and mission so thoroughly. They basically lost their source of Singetails and the island is now useless and can't be used further.

However, that being said, perhaps after hearing the explanation, and not wanting to lose a valuable fighter, he could've just let him live but demoted him, since after this, we no longer see him again, and Krogan takes over direct command in the finale episode.

Or heck, maybe the Flyer Leader deserted, knowing what his fate would be, and didn't want to be there for Krogan to find.

I'm considering the possibility that losing his Singetail Rookery didn't waylay Krogan that much, since he had a bunch of Flyers scout out and attack the Sentinals and the Riders for the next two episodes. And in the final two, it appears that Krogan came with a force no greater than 50 Flyers, including himself. I don't know if he already had this force gathered up some time before "Family Matters," or if he had another Rookery(ies) besides the one handled by the Flyer Leader.

If that's the case, then it could be likely that Honcho is doing swell but demoted. But since we know that Krogan dislikes failure, much like Drago does and — like master, like apprentice — punishes his failure with DEATH.

For more on the Flyer Leader and his possible fate after "Family Matters", click the link to my old article here.

What's also interesting is that the Flyer Leader is also the one who led that certain "Elite Dozen" team that pursued the Gang in "Dawn of Destruction" and "Wings of War, Parts 1 and 2" as well.

Personally, I love this character, and I personally wish he showed up in more episodes. He was quite the competent minor villain who was able to corner and pressure the Riders more than a few times. (He certainly did a better job than Savage and Vorg did.😤)

Conclusion:

So I conclude this article by stating that I believe that those 12 Flyers — and any other Flyers with the same garb — are elites due to the garb they wear and experience in combat. They're also, presumedly, among the most fanatical and ruthless of Krogan's Flyers (though the same could be said for all of the Flyers, as a whole). Plus, they were the ones who gave the Gang the most trouble with their excellent training, coordination, and teamwork.

What do you guys think? What are your thoughts on this? I'm curious.

Anyway, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this article! See you in the next one!

Long Live the Night!

— Noctus Fury

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