úlfheðnar, httyd

iii. Downed Dragon

𖣯 ✹ 🌷(úlfheðnar) ꏍ ！┈─❟
╰───►chapter three; yrsa
❝ downed dragon! ❞

    SHE wasn't sure, at this point, whether Hiccup had lied or not.

    It was one thing to say he shot down a Night Fury, but whether she believed he actually did it? It was a little more far-fetched. It was also one thing for her to admit she was out here, searching for this downed dragon rather than have to deal with the jeers from the others that she actually listens to what Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III said.

    Yrsa Olofsdotter was many things, but to admit the truth about how she really felt about Hiccup was not one of those things. She wasn't going to admit she always checked by the forge to get her axe sharpened just so she could chuckle at Hiccup doing his best to heft the large weapon to the stone wheel. She wasn't going to admit she found him quite witty and intelligent. Nor was she ever going to admit her heartbeat rose whenever he was around. And of course, she wasn't going to admit the reason she was out here in the first place was that she actually listened and believed a word he said.

    Holy Hel, she grumbled to herself as she kicked a stray twig, stop thinking about a boy and realise why you're actually here.

    That would be to find this Night Fury, and take its head as her trophy.

    Yrsa Olofsdotter was a soldier; a warrior. A Hooligan Viking bred through and through. And much like every other ambitious girl her age, she wanted to be the best rising warrior there was. To do her family proud, to do the gods proud. If she returned with a Night Fury head as a trophy? Just imagine the way they'll be saying her name. Not one Viking would go away saying Night Fury without remembering Yrsa Olofsdotter; for not one Viking has ever slayed a Night Fury and lived.

    So ... was this a possible suicide mission? Very likely. But was it worth it? Oh, gods, Yrsa believed so. But it was more than that, too. To actually be the first one to see a Night Fury, even if she was going to kill it? She's read the Dragon Manual many times: there was no drawing of a Night Fury. No note of its size, or its speed, or its power. She could be the first to explain it. She would see what the dragon looked like. 

    She spun her axe in her grip, switching hands. Yrsa walked the length to Raven Point, searching each nook and cranny in the forest she could. She peered under fallen trees, hid amongst the shrubs to check the watering holes. If a dragon's first insinct wasn't to kill, it would be to survive.

    Yrsa wondered what she'll say when she returned with its head. Would she show the entire village? Or just her mother first? Or would she pray to the gods to send the message to her father, to tell him that his only child had finally given pride to his name.

    The mere thought of it pushed her onwards, more determined than ever.

    She came to a break in the trees. Yrsa checked the tree tops to look for any breakage. She inspected the ground for anything that could belong to a downed Night Fury. It was hard, because she didn't know their footprints, or whether this snapped branch could be from just a stray Terrible Terror.

    Yrsa sighed as she sat back on her legs. Glancing around the forest floor, she took a moment to breathe in the fresh air. She could smell the sea still from here to her left. Looking back over, she saw the tips of Gothi's cliff protuding out from the clouds. That old woman lived all the way up there. How she managed to get up and down when needed, Yrsa will never know.

    Snap!

    She was broken from her thoughts.

    Immediately, Yrsa got to her feet and grabbed her axe. Hauling it over her head, she yelled and went to attack, only to falter to see a familiar, scrawny boy cry and hold his hands up. "Ah!" he wailed. "Don't kill me!"