CHAPTER 1

I live in a village called Berk.

It resides on a bitter cold ocean, in bitter cold temperatures, currently in a bitter cold spring…

If you haven't noticed, I'm not fond of Berk.

My village is, in a word, dull. It's full of predictable people following their daily rituals, today being no exception. The only thing remotely interesting would be the foreigners. The travelers, the traders, and the dragons.

My name is Toothless, no really, it is Toothless. The Vikings believe that using horrible names will protect them from trolls and other threatening mythical creatures. That and my parents had nothing creative in mind when naming me at the day of my birth. My name is not the worst, but I can guarantee that it is one of the top ten.

I stop to nudge a stray lamb back into the rest of the herd. My eyes darting above the night sky, looking for any dragons in case they come my way. While doing that, I hear a painful screech over towards the central part of the village. Squinting to see in the distance, the now lit torches show me a dazed Nadder faltering in mid-flight. And in looking slightly below, I could barely see a glimpse of what was once a wheelbarrow, now nothing more than splinters.

I knew whose handy-work that was; it was none other than the village chief, Stoic the Vast. Stoic was a man who had tree trunks for limbs, and hair as red and bushy as my sheep during the sunset hours. He would have had a teenage son by now, but his wife gave birth to a stillborn. The nursemaid took note that the babe was runty, a true hiccup. She said to the elder that even if the lad managed to stay alive, he would have been too weak and sickly to last the rest of the winter. A few months later, the chief's wife died an impressive death against a Zippleback. Rumor has it that he is still in mourning, and refuses to marry another woman to sire an heir. So Stoic passed on his title to his brother's son.

In fact, I can see the chief-to-be now aiding in the fire brigade. Snotlout Jorgenson is your typical Viking, all brawn and not a lot of brain. I can promise you that as soon as Stoic croaks, I'll be taking the first ship out of here to ensure my survival. There is no possible way that I will be living in a place where I have to look up to Snotlout to solve my problems. The Thorston twins are also there as well, fighting and busting each other's head as per usual. Everyone here has heard at least one of the twin's "grand pranks" at one point or another. I've actually been targeted for one or two of them, but I showed them how unamused I was at playing the part. Fishlegs Ingerman is hard not to spot, being the behemoth he is. I don't know much about him to be honest. What I do know is that his great size and girth didn't allow him to continue the family business of sewing and patchwork. So his parents sent him off to become one with the front lines. The last person I spotted was none other than Astrid Hofferson. The Hofferson's have been known as the most skilled in battle, be it between man or beast. She is the most dedicated Viking, as well as the most promising. But she may be the last of the mighty Hoffersons. Although a valiant warrior, she is still a woman, she'll have to carry her husband's name.

I was interrupted again by a passing Gronkle, stopping once spotting my sheep. I quickly darted across the field to scare the straggling sheep back in line. The dim, white beings making their way to a trail I made in the forest. Said trail is wide enough for the sheep to pass without being snagged and leads to a fenced area in the woods. There is enough grass there for the whole flock t last a few days, more than enough for waiting out a raid.

The Gronkle now was heading for one of my smaller sheep, runts that have their fuzz carefully -and painstakingly- fluffed to appear larger than they really are. That way if I can't make it across the field on time, I wouldn't lose anything important. I turned away, focused on making sure my prized rams were making their way safely. I owned two rams, a young one with three-inches of horn growing from its scalp. The other was older, having an impressive rack that circles once around the ears with thick, long fleece. Both were strong and healthy, but the elder was more valuable to me.

Unfortunately, when I perched myself on a rock to peer over the sea of white, I could only hear one bell ringing above the sounds of fearful bleating. I tried to look ahead of the flock, trying in vain to find two sets of horns within the brush of white. But I only saw one pair, that of a three inches. I looked up at the Gronkle, resigned to see a handsome ram within its claws. However, it was only a hiccup.

My hand was now rubbing my temple, now feeling the beginning pains of a migraine. Somehow, someway, a stupid dragon managed to snag one of my rams! If I was a dragon now, I'd be bellowing smoke rings. My eyes were now scorching the ram in question, body tense in keeping my yells inward to avoid further attention. But as I look closer through my red haze, I'm taking in more details. Such as the bell and horns that circle completely around each ear.

I only had about two seconds to recognize my ram before it was suddenly yanked out of my sight, disappearing into the forest.

How to Train Your Dragon belongs to Dreamworks.