How A Hofferson Trains Her Dragon

Chapter 1: This Is Berk

This is Berk

This is Berk. It's twelve days North of Hopeless and a few degrees South of Freezing to Death. It is located solidly on the Meridian of Misery. My village. In a word - sturdy. It's been here for seven generations yet every single building is new. We have fishing, hunting and a charming view of the sunsets. The only problems are the pests.

A nearby sheep bleated as something snatched it out of nowhere. The other sheep continued grazing.

You see most places have mice or mosquitoes; we have...

A blonde girl opened the door of her house but slammed it shut almost immediately as a river of flame was sent in her direction.

"Dragons!" she breathed. Outside the villagers were battling with the almost nightly raid of dragons that Berk had experienced for Thor-knows-how-long.

Most people would leave. Not us, we're Vikings. We have stubbornness issues.

The girl ran outside, ducking and dodging as the chaos raged around her.

My name's Astrid. Great name, I know, but it's better than most. Parents believe that a unique name will scare off gnomes and goblins. Like our charming Viking demeanour wouldn't do that.

Astrid was, by this point, flat on her back and had a Viking screaming in her face. When he realised that she wasn't a dragon, he gave a cheery "Morning!" and ran off. Astrid continued to run through the village, despite the constant warnings for her to get back inside, in order to get to the one place where she felt needed. On the way, she nearly ran into a stream of fire when she was scooped out of the way (more like, grabbed by the scruff of the neck) at the last second by the one person no one wanted to anger.

"Astrid!" the man shouted. "What is she doing out again...what are you doing out?" he snapped. "Get inside!"

That's Stoick the Vast, chief of the tribe. They say that when he was a baby, he knocked a dragon's head clean off its shoulders. Do I believe it? Yes, I do.

"What have we got?" Stoick asked a nearby Viking.

"Gronkles, Nadders, Zipplebacks...oh, and Hoark saw a Monstrous Nightmare!" the Viking replied, ducking as a shower of sparks hit the house behind them.

"Any Night Furies?"

"None so far."

"Good."

Meanwhile, Astrid had made it to the forge where a large man with a hammer as a hand was waiting.

"Oh, nice of you to join the party," he greeted. "I thought you'd been carried off."

"Who, me?" Astrid smirked, throwing her work apron over her blue top and spiked skirt. "Nah, come on. I'm way too muscular for their tastes. They wouldn't know what to do with all this," she added, lifting a heavy hammer onto its stand and then gesturing at herself before striking a muscle-pose. Not that it had any effect – Astrid was one of the skinniest teens on Berk and she knew it.

"Well, they need toothpicks, don't they?" the guy asked in equal cynicism as Astrid ran over to the window to grab some weapons that had been dropped off.