I think everyone will be happy to know that I am officially planning a sequel to this story (based upon popular demand). There's not a whole lot in the works right now as it's still in the planning stage and I've created a balancing act between writing, college, work, and art. Green and Castle Utgard may or may not be updated as most of my notes for them both were lost when my old computer died but I'll see what I can do in the meantime. I have been mostly focused on my own original characters so forgive me if my HTTYD Characterization is a bit rusty.

It's been a while after all.

I don't know how many reviews I can get to but I will try to respond to everyone if I can. I don't remember where I left off or, perhaps, I'll just respond to the reviews on this chapter.

One Year Later

The hiss sputtered and died about halfway through and the knob inside rattled noisily as the can was shaken roughly, impatiently. Dark paint stained pale, freckled fingers—black in the dark, black in the light. Fumes made the painter press the bandana closer to his face, tilting his head down so that they wouldn't sting his eyes.

It was like burning permanent markers and he grunted, tossing the empty can aside with a clatter before grabbing a new one. The lid was already cracked from where he had tossed his ragged old Florida Gator's bag over the fence… but it didn't matter. His arm moved in even strokes, curving with ease. It was done soon enough and he rummaged through his cans again, searching for a color, skipping others.

A flashlight flickered in the distance and he paused, looking back and then scrambled for the neon green. Even in a hurry his movements were precise, perfect. Years of practice kept his hand steady, eyes forward under the dim moonlight.

Steps grew closer, gravel crunching under boots and a cloud shifted, covering the moon for an instant, concealing the wall in shadow. Cloth rustled, cans clinked, but by the time the flashlight lit up the wall, the painter was gone. Above the old, faded names that had been signed there, next to large, colorful signing of King Robbo (left alone in tribute? In respect?), was a large, black dragon. It's head was in the shape of a salamander, eyes bright like a cat's—except for the green, of course, that shone eerily in the light. A tail with two sails on either end whipped out in challenge, bat-like wings spread as if ready to take flight.

There was a faint buzz as the radio clicked.

"There's a new Dragon painting on the graffiti wall in the train yard—"

Sitting on the lift above the tracks, the painter looked over his work from afar, grinning to himself. Beside him, the back pack moved a bit before a head stuck out, wide, yellow eyes staring down.

"That stuff smells awful, Speaker."

Hiccup sighed and rolled his eyes. "If I remember correctly you were given the option to stay home, Zalath."

"I think it is too late for that."

Climbing carefully down, the young man sighed and pulled his hood further forward, walking as if he had always been there. "It's too late for a lot of things…" He murmured as the moon came out again.