𝐙𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐑, race to the edge³

001. the legend of the boneknapper

prelude one!
001. the legend of the boneknapper
translated for reading

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     A LONG time ago there was an island called Berk.

    (Well, not that long ago, give or take ten years).

    There, on that wet heap of rock, lived the toughest of the toughest. For only a certain type of people could survive on an island location precisely twelve days North of Hopeless and a few degrees South of Freezing to Death. Not many could handle the freezing land that was planted solidly on the Meridian of Misery, where frostbite to one's spleen and a few lost limbs was quite the fashion statement.

     But despite it's dry food, it's freezing-cold waters and it's dangerous cliffs, the island of Berk was more than beautiful. Valkyrie remembers how the morning sun would shine down upon pastures of green, filled with Dragon Nip and bright flowers in the Summer and Spring. She remembered the tranquil lakes and lagoons, the private sanctuaries hidden between fissures of rocks and the birds nested in the arches of sea stacks just off the Berkian shore.

     When she was sixteen-years-old, she lived the most adventurous life▬exploring the oceans waters, the deepest and darkest caves, finding treasure amongst sunken pastures and discovering dragons dwelling in the highest cliff faces.

     For that was what made Berk far different than any island in the world. While most islands had sheep, maybe some yaks and by the off chance a boar or two, over ten years ago, the island of Berk had:

     Dragons.

     And with dragons, came lots and lots of▬

     "FIRE!"

     The darkest hour before the dawn reigned heavy down upon the Vikings of Berk. But it was lit up in the flames of a fellow favourite's home, twisting up his wooden posts and cracking away at the dragon figurehead over his front door. Vikings ran aloft on foot and in the air, doing their best to dampen the flames before this man's house would be lost forever.

     "I GOT IT!" shouted a boy of merely fourteen-years-old. He lugged a bucket filled to the brim with water against his chest, struggling to cart it all the way from the trough to the house. Strands of blonde hair fell over small blue eyes underneath a helmet that sat slightly askew in all of the commotion. "I GOT IT!"

     He weaved in and out of sprinting Vikings, heaving heavily from his chest as he tried to see over tall shoulders. He set his jaw, determined as he grew closer and closer to Gobber's house. "I GOT IT▬!" His boot struck a stone, and Hott Frode started to tumble forward, "▬I DON'T GOT IT▬WHOA!"

     In the nick of time, the beak-snout of a bright yellow Deadly Nadder snagged the back of his fleece vest. Careful, the intelligent dragon (though, some might argue it was more bird than dragon) sat back on her two legs, trying very hard not to spill the water her rider had almost overfilled in his bucket. She let out a guttural squawk, chiding her young companion in his little thinking.

     "Oh," sighed out Hott, relieved, "thanks, Spikey, I almost lost it all, there." Despite the shouts and the dragons racing above to douse troughs of water down onto Gobber's home, Hott made a face and slumped in his dragon's hold. "Do you think Astrid saw that? That would have not been cool if she did."

     Spikemoth the Deadly Nadder set Hott back down onto his two feet and he almost spilt the water again, but managed to keep a good grip of the bucket against his chest. She huffed at him, and he knew exactly what she had said. He shot her scowl, "Hey! That's not fair!"