Hey y'all. Guess what I wrote?

A freaking long HTTYD fic.

I've been working on it since about March, but refused to post it until it had a beginning, middle, and end; no need to repeat the two-years-no-update nightmare of Earth Day. So on the whole, this should be one chapter a day; if I have to skip a day, I'll try and update two the next day to make up for it, but please be aware: I'm at a dig in Ireland until the 16th, and then I have to get everything ready for college, and then I have to begin my sophomore year on the 22nd.

But it should be roughly one a day for the next month or so. Hope you enjoy... Special Gifts.

CHAPTER ONE

If I didn't want to risk gaining Oðin's ire, I'd wonder what kind of ale he'd been drinking when he'd made Ask and Embla, the first human beings.

He had to have been drunk. There's no other explanation. Why else would the god of wisdom leave the Mortal Realm in the hands of such a pathetic species?

I mean, look at the rest of the creatures we share Midgard with—colorful, dangerous, specialized, and excellent at what they do. They've fit themselves perfectly into their environment, making use of everything around them and keeping themselves alive long enough to let their entire species continue. They've got defenses against predators, or ways to escape from them, that let them live to see another day. They're powerful by nature—Jorð blessed them.

Humans… not so much. Whereas everything else is either small enough to miss or big enough to give off a sense of don't mess with me, humans fall into the pit between the two good sizes—we're too big to hide away but small enough to still fit inside the mouths of most carnivores. And that's not the only disadvantage: we're trapped on the land, unable to venture far out into other areas that other creatures can exploit. Fish can swim, take advantage of the seas and the access it gives them to so much below the surface—but humans drown. Fast.

Birds fly—humans fall. Faster.

We stink, and can't even tell because our sense of smell is pretty much worthless. We've got long-ish legs, but they're not that powerful; humans aren't built for high speeds. We don't have talons, or fangs, or claws. There's no human venom, no poison or built-in defense that makes us unsavory to anything bigger that might want to eat us—which is pretty much everything that eats meat.

We can't camouflage. We can't hide away in small spaces. We need food pretty much constantly—but no hibernation for us, so we need to find food in the winter too. Our fur doesn't even cover all of our bodies. And don't even get me started on how vulnerable we are as babies—little red mammalian worms of squishiness that'll die without at least fifteen years of guidance under their belts.

Nothing less than the will of the gods can have gotten us as far as we have.

Actually, now that I think about it, that's probably exactly what did it. Because people don't have any of what our fellow Midgardians do—nature gave us very little to work with. But while nature gave us our bodies, we were really made by Oðin, the god of seiðr—the god of magic.

Most people don't actually have seiðr, which is good because no one really wants seiðr—the whole magic-thing kinda takes away the pride of war and battle; after all, if you can just magic something into existence, who knows if you're not just poofing up your glory and honor? And then you're thrown into the same boat as Loki and possibly shipped off the edge of the world to boot. But though only a few have a lot of it, with the human race being built from magic, there was a little bit of… rub-off. On everyone.

Because of Oðin's magic, every human being is born with a Special Gift. Humans as a species are weak, squishy, unprotected and vulnerable to the entire world around us—but every individual has that something extra, a new gem or a vein of ore in the useless rock. It's that oomph that lets a person, in a group, thrive and survive in a world which has left them so completely undefended otherwise.

It's pretty much unique in everyone. Beauty, charm, wit, an ability, even something material—you name it, someone's probably had it, has it, or will have it. Most of the time, it's not enough to let a person survive on their own, so groups have to be made. Luckily, people are social creatures anyway.

(Well. Most people are. Mildew… and me, I guess.)

Anyway, in Berk, there's all different kinds of Gifts. My cousin Snotlout can fling a hammer farther than some adults. Ruff and Tuff bring their special brand of chaos to the mix. Gobber is a brilliant teacher and has the best collection of prosthetic legs this side of Yggdrasil's branches. Astrid is beautiful and strong-willed, and deadly with her axe. There are great farmers, great families, great warriors, great leaders.

Sometimes these things aren't that noticeable, and even a person's best friend and shield-brother might not know about them. Sometimes, they—their true selves—are hidden, like black silk against the night sky. Maybe a boy is actually an excellent singer. Maybe a twin has a soft spot deep down for a person they say they can't stand. Maybe a guy cares more than he lets on, or maybe someone collects ceramic unicorns.

Or maybe you can go faster than anything else ever born.

Most of the time, you know what's yours. Whether it's knitting or killing, having an army or being able to talk one down, people are usually pretty good about knowing what they can do—how they get to that point, though, differs.

Some people know what they can do from birth. They know who they are and what they should become…. These lucky few are born with their Gifts. But the gods are warriors, Vikings, and love waging war and going on adventures, and they love seeing mortals do the same. So others?

Others have to find their Gifts themselves.

When I was six, I earned myself fifteen minutes of fame.

Well, it was more like five days, of acceptance. A short, heavenly time when the others wouldn't ridicule or push me into the mud for being small or weak, when the tribe didn't scold me for everything I did, when my dad smiled down at me.

And then I blew up the storehouse and that was over with.

(Who would've thought that flour could be more explosive than a dragon? That weird, pale mushroom-shaped cloud was in the sky hours after the fire stopped burning.)

((And despite what the village thought, yes,it was actually an accident. That time.))

But oddly enough, I didn't mind the fall from grace as much as I thought I should have. Yeah, it stung to have the entire village laughing at me again, to see that one mistake could easily erase the one good thing I've managed to do in my life—and it had just plain hurt to hear my dad wondering into a mug of ale if I was really a child of the Jötunn. No, it definitely wasn't a fun experience… but eventually, after all of that, it meant I was relieved of the constant gaze on my back.

See, most Vikings are the most trouble-making people you could ever meet. And Viking six-year-olds, even more so. A single one is the equivalent of about five Terrors locked into a small space—screaming, chaotic, and more than likely to bring the house down around them.

Parents encourage that kind of violent, destructive behavior. Most of the time. We wouldn't still have a village if it was all of the time, just a big smoking hole in the ground. So the entire tribe tends to keep an eye or two on any kids running about underfoot, even if they aren't even their own children. It prevents a lot of disasters, because Oðin help the toddler who got their hands on daddy's longsword.

I, however, never really fell into that category of Viking kid. Spending my first three years living with Grandmother Gothi kept me from the main part of the village, and once I really did start living in the middle of Berk, being scrawny, clumsy, and my general all-around hiccup-ness made me ignorable to the adults. Eyes tended to skip over me, like a rock across water. Chief's son is breathing, moving on with life…

During my Five Days of Acceptance, that wasn't true anymore. Since I'd done something worthwhile, people made sure I was actually staying safe, and not just staying alive—adults would watch me the same way they'd watch Snotlout or Astrid, make sure I wasn't about to get killed doing something reckless and stupid again.

The non-stop eyes on my back were annoying, and even though it took the acceptance with it, I was glad to see it go.

I could get time alone again, once it was gone. And being alone meant two things, to my six-year-old mind: easier to hide and easier to get away.

Not away from my cousin or the other kids—I didn't exactly enjoy their company, but they rarely did anything overtly mean, since I was the chief's son and all. Being left alone meant I could get away from the village as a whole, and that meant I could practice.

Funnily enough, there were a couple people who didn't drop me like a hot stone after the Flour Incident. Gobber, as always—a nice constant at the forge, who took me in as his apprentice even before he knew what I'd done and what I could do—and the Hoffersons. They weren't out-right thanking me anymore, but they didn't scorn me for my mistakes either—and that was better than any 'thank you'.

As I grew up, that would become a pattern. The rest of the village would laugh and shout and sneer, subtly trip and shove me when no one else was looking, and when I accidentally destroyed something, the whole tribe would glare at me as I was marched back to the house.

Except for the Hoffersons. They'd just pick up their axes and start the reconstruction. They didn't acknowledge me at all, which was still better than anything else. Sometimes, even, Astrid's eyes would meet mine, and we'd look at each other for a second—just a second, but much longer to me because there was never any scorn in those eyes— before she turned away again.

The Hoffersons owed me, for Erik. It wasn't that I could do no wrong, but that no wrong could unbalance what I'd given them.

They weren't family to me, and I rarely if ever spoke to any of them—but they and Gobber were the only fair islands in a very cold sea for a long time. They reassured me, even in the middle of my spiraling whirlpool of a life, that there was hope and that I wasn't entirely useless.

I was grateful to all of them for this, and the little yellow star that was Astrid in my heart, the one I focused on whenever I shot off to the dark woods with ridicule and derision sticking in my ears like tar, glowed brighter with every year that passed.

Only one person ever asked what Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third thought he was best at—and that person received a stutter and stammer of surprise that anyone would bother asking about the talents of the village runt. Once that was over with, though, he admitted to being a fair enough blacksmith, though he was still nowhere near Gobber's level—and beyond that, he added with a sarcastic drawl, he was pretty good at running away.

That was an exaggeration. Hiccup was not talented at running—running was Hiccup's Gift.

Not that it meant much to his village—what self-respecting Viking ran from anything?

But nonetheless, Hiccup could run. More than that: unlike the others, who were big and bulky, Hiccup was made for running. He had long legs and, though his chest was thin, his lungs were strong. He was thin and lithe, and cut through the air like a whip. Escaping from the kids who liked to take their 'games' outside the purview of the village, where they could freely give the boy bruises without worrying about being spotted by the chief, had made him fast—though not as fast as he was just naturally. No amount of being chased by regular people could make him run faster than he could by birthright.

Running, Hiccup thought, was the closest mankind would ever get to flying—and his running was even closer than what any other Viking had ever managed.

When he ran, the damp, foggy air that sat on Berk didn't seem so heavy or thick anymore—it was light, playful. It threaded through his hair like an ethereal comb, playing with every strand and leaving him with a wild look the moment he stopped. He rarely stopped, once he started. His lungs would bring in that bright air, letting it fill his chest, until he was certain it would lift him off the ground and into the clouds.

Individual beats of his heart disappeared when he was running, turning into a nonstop ththththth buzz that carried blood to his legs just as fast as his feet were covering ground—his breaths replaced the rhythm of his heart, steady and deep so that he could run for ages and never get tired.

The world around him transformed into a blur—no more individual trees looming down on him like enemies ready to strike, no more shadows or hidden crevices, just a smooth mixture of colors and the ever-blue sky above. His feet were his only anchor to the world, and the thread keeping him down was thin but strong—without it, he knew he wouldn't ever leave the sky.

Sometimes he felt so close, to the clouds and the racing winds so high above—just one misplaced step, onto the wind instead of the earth, and the thread would break and he'd be in the heavens.

Though his feet always hit the ground, Hiccup never really stopped dreaming about what would happen if that thread… snapped.

He liked to imagine he'd run on the winds to Asgarð. Meet Thor and the other gods, his ancestors. Maybe there, where they already knew, he would have the chance to really prove himself. Maybe there, where they'd see him for what he was but still learn what he could do for himself… maybe there they would accept him.

Hiccup had to run barefoot. He discovered that the hard way, when he'd torn his last pair of boots into shreds stopping; there was no leather, wood, or wool sole that could keep up. Not wanting to spend so much on a new pair every day—or, Hlín protect him, make the shoe-maker suspicious—Hiccup strapped his boots to his belt when he ran.

He also had to cut himself a new path whenever he ran. He'd used to always use the same forest trails up, down, and around the mountains, every afternoon—the resulting scars in the earth still hadn't entirely healed. When they were found by Mulch, half the village went out on the search for a new, probably flightless, dragon.

Feet going as fast as his did didn't leave very human-like footprints. They just carved a line right down the path, deep into the fertile soil, little indentations where the ball of his foot hit. Hiccup knew he was lucky, when he first saw the others looking them over: the little indents were never full footprints. If they had been shaped like a human's print, the small size and thin shape would've exposed him in seconds and, like his father always told him, it was better to keep everything secret.

Secret—that when he ran, the fastest eyes couldn't stay on him; that when he took off, Hiccup needed to keep careful control of his speed and distance or else he'd be in the ocean on the other side of the island in an eyeblink.

Secret—that fires grew high and hot whenever he passed them, that he never had any trouble lighting them, that they couldn't burn any vital part of his body. That the fact that he couldn't swim was more than just his normal hopelessness.

Secret—that Thor, son of Oðin, had sired his mother Valka; that Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III was Ásmegir, a descendant of the Æsír.

Secret, that the scrawny little hiccup son of the chief was, in fact, part god.

The alarm for dragon attacks was a horn, cut off the largest ram ever born on Berk, centuries ago. This thing was monstrous, almost a foot and a half long, and hollowed out especially for this purpose. When blown, it released a deep, throaty blast of air that had a tendency to shake rafters and masts of poorly-built ships. There were rumors and stories of particularly shoddy craftsmanship that got completely sunk, shaken to pieces by the horn's echoing roll. The sound was immense and unmistakable—there was no possible way even the deepest of sleepers could snore through the Dragon Horn.

So when the skull-shuddering tone washed through my room, making my chest vibrate, I was up like a Night Fury's shot.

This is it.

For as long as I've been alive, there's been this thing behind my chest. I don't have a name for it—I barely can describe it. But every once in a while, when big change is on the horizon or when something dramatic is about to happen on Berk, it tells me.

How it tells me depends: sometimes it twists, like I'd eaten too much or swallowed wrong. Sometimes it pulses, like a dying star. Sometimes it glows with warmth like an ember behind my heart, rattling against the sides of a tough, locked chest.

Today, it was the middle of this radiating sense of clarity. Of absolute certainty.

This is it.

The thought didn't even need conscious effort—it was the first thing I registered, before I processed what was in front of my eyes or that I was even awake. It was in the way my bones settled when I stood on the wooden floor of my loft, and how my heart hammered against my chest without even having been outside in the battle yet. This was the night—this was my night, the night I would prove myself to my village and my ancestors.

Unable to contain a little dance of excitement, I quickly scrambled for my clothes, trying to make sure not to run too fast—no need to refloor the loft again. Twice a year was enough, thanks.

Bits of the fight outside were audible through my window, and the dragon fires outside were sending a glow through it—it grew brighter and my forearms tingled with heat as I stumbled by it, trying to force my boot on. Shouts for the fire brigade grew louder and more desperate, and I winced, drawing back and away. No need to cause any more deaths than usual.

This is it.

I practically fell down the stairs in my enthusiasm. To be precise and honest, I was lucky not to end up with my teeth embedded in the floor, but that couldn't stop me, because this was my night! Finally!

Except I had to curb it when I opened the door to a dragon's head.

I barely had a second to register the Monstrous Nightmare about to spit fire in front of me. Thankfully, barely a second is plenty of time.

The world blurred around me for a fraction of a blink. I grabbed the door and yanked it closed again, the hinges shrieking protest in the too-fast movement. The instant I stopped, the world resettled.

Flames licked around the wooden panels, and I had to fall into a fetal position ball on the floor, covering my arms and legs, as the supercharged heat turned it to ash.

(It felt like a gentle puff of air on my back and neck.)

((Expecting that, Dad wouldn't care much about the fact that I'd been behind it when he discovered that door had been incinerated.))

When it was over, I risked a glance over my shoulder. The Nightmare—a long, almost pretty mix of red and black stripes, its snout like an arrowhead and the four horns just a grey shade off pitch—had landed and was staring at me, and at the door it had obliterated. There was a silent moment before it shook its head like a dog and turned its slitted eyes back to the sheep it had come for.

Still caught by the moment, I slowly uncurled. "Dragons," I murmured, eyes going wide as I looked out into the village.

It was chaos outside—so basically, your typical morning on Berk. Men and women of nearly every age scrambled around the village, brandishing everything from masterly crafted, heirloom swords to bits of broken chairs and tablelegs. No matter what it was or where it came from, it was being used as a weapon against the flying beasts swarming the skies like locusts, only a thousand times bigger and a thousand times more unwelcome.

Practiced, fear-inspiring war cries and draconic roars filled the air like a new kind of fire, angry and clashing like swords. They overpowered the bleats of terrified sheep and the crackles of the real flames, but it was impossible to miss the crack-BOOM of the collapsing houses.

(The village has been here for seven generations, but every single building is new; very modern with all the latest tenth-century furnishings. We'd have the market cornered on real-estate if it weren't for the neighbors.)

((And I'm not just talking about the dragons, either. Cuz, you know. Vikings, and all.))

There've been times where I've wondered why we never just… left. It would be a lot easier to just let the dragons have the island and find somewhere else to live, rather than fighting them off and rebuilding so often.

But, we're Vikings—forget blood; we have pure, concentrated stubbornness flowing through our veins. It's like vodka, this kind of mead I heard is made in the east. Burning, sharp, and keeps you going strong no matter what's ahead. Who needs a pumping heart when you've got a body full of pigheadedness and sheer spite for Hel herself?

So a little thing like near-nightly raids by fire-breathing lizards bigger than our houses? Not about to separate us for our homeland of the last 300 years.

I ran—walked really, but just a tiny bit faster than normal, since everyone else was around—through the crowd of familiar faces, ducking random limbs hauling and hurling weapons every which way. I recognized Gunnar, a ship's captain, as he dropped from a massive, snarling Gronkle—I dodged around him, just in time to duck underneath a log Kneelouse and Pugspit were dragging to the west.

This is why we Hooligans have the motto, Only the strong belong. If it weren't for my… reflexes, skinny little unarmed me would've ended up crushed or bludgeoned to death already twice tonight, and I wasn't even five yards from my house yet. The real fighters have to deal with an entire village filled with this fatal mess of flames, havoc, and bloodlust.

Seems crazy to other people, but yup. Typical Berk morning.

A blur of a person ended up conking his head on the log—I spun around, but couldn't see anything except the furious, churning sea of faces and limbs. Bodies slammed into me from every direction, shoving me left and right and backwards.

I tripped over my own feet—not exactly an uncommon occurrence—and spun around uncontrollably. A ball of flame hit the ground with a boom, the rushing heated air blasting across my face and knocking me onto my back.

"Raaaaaaaaagh!"

The tail end of Gunnar's war cry hit me in the face, full of hatred and spittle. His beard was smoldering. "Mornin'!" he said, grinning. He grabbed my shoulder, hauled me to my feet, and rushed off.

That was the only welcoming greeting I got, and it made me smile the rest of the way to Gobber's shop—past the What're you doin' out? and the Get back inside! dismissals that were so much more the usual offering.

I was most of the way to the smithy when the Nightmare—the same one from before—suddenly made a reappearance to my left, throwing sparks and liquid flame in a long fire-line in front of me. Unaccustomed to stopping, I would've run straight into the flames had a broad hand not literally plucked me off the ground.

(That happens a lot, when you're 100 pounds wet among a horde of enormous and strong men and women.)

((It's totally never absolutely humiliating. What would give you that idea?))

My father glared down at me as I dangled helplessly in his grip. His green eyes were giving me the same warning I hadn't stopped hearing over the last ten years.

"What is he doin'—what are you doin' out? Get inside!" he yelled into the crowd. That same crowd was the only reason he wasn't reminding me—out loud—that I was only so fireproof and that I could still manage to burn to death, and take half the village with me too.

I ran off, hearing him get a read off the situation from Jarnskeggi—Nadders, Gronkles, Zipplebacks, a Nightmare, and no Furies. So far.

(The 'so far' sent a thrill of excitement down my back, and I grinned. The thing in my chest trembled. That could be it.)

The braziers were just starting to be lit and raised, so I abandoned my normal route and cut by them to help—the flames rose high and burned hot, licking at the scaled but softer stomachs of the dragons flying above. Hopefully no one noticed that they were burning brighter than usual, or that one even started on the wrong end—the end I was coming from, of course.

Hopefully they didn't notice, but when I glanced over my shoulder at my 'work', I still felt happy doing it. It was one of the little things I could do, inconspicuous but still useful. Things like that kept me going.

The smithy came into view—a simple, open structure with stones for the base of four walls and wood everywhere else, as familiar to me as the back of my hand. See, I'm one of the people lucky enough to have two of something—I have two homes, and two men who've basically raised me. Of course, the first in each group are my father and the building I go to sleep in at night.

But I also have Gobber and the forge. Gobber the Belch was a great dragon-slayer back in his day (you know, back in the Pre-Cambrian Era). But after the loss of his left arm and right leg to the beasts, he'd laid down the sword and partially retired.

Now he spends his days the way any old man in the fall of his life does—swearing, building the weapons other people swing around, and jumping into the fray whenever he feels like everyone else is slacking off. That last one happens a lot.

I've been his apprentices since I was—well, littler—and the forge, with its warmth and smoky air, was my number one childhood haven.

Gobber was already busy when I came in, using his hammer-hand to straighten a sword that looked like it had been rammed against a rocky, impervious Gronkle-hide a few times and then stomped on by the thing for good measure.

"Oh, nice of ya ta join the party!" he called as I stripped off my coat. "Thought ye'd been carried off!"

Grabbing my (useless) apron and (very extremely important) arm protectors, I went over to the backboard that held his interchangeable arms. "Who, me?" I asked, stooping to pick up a crushing tool that had fallen off the shelf. It weighed maybe a third of my entire me and hauling it up wasn't easy. I was panting when it was on, but I tossed Gobber a smirk anyway. "I'm—whew—way too muscular for their tastes. They wouldn't know what to do with all—this!" I gestured to my thin chest, flexing my arms ineffectively.

Gobber was even less impressed than I was. "Well, they need toothpicks, don' they?"

"Ah yes, my master plan—get picked up to clean teeth, and stab them through the roof of their mouth when they least suspect it."

"Except ye'll probably clumsy it up an' end up speared on their fangs."

"Anyone ever told you how lovely and optimistic you are?" I drawled, giving him a flat look as I finally tied my apron behind me—my fingers were as clumsy as any other part of me behind my back, so it took forever, but Gobber never let anyone except him work without one on.

Gobber roared at me, a wordless noise full of his Vikingly indignation at being called lovely, of all things.

"And forget the lizards—if I'd gotten here any faster, I'd have a fire-breathing father to worry about," I pointed out, raising an eyebrow so he'd get my meaning and getting an agreeing snort.

The doors to the stall were thrown open. With a practiced ease, I grabbed various broken weapons being thrown inside, avoiding every pointy end being shoved at me and taking the whole load over to the coal pile to heat and soften. There I stopped, tapping a rhythm on the sides of the box, keeping close and letting the fire get hotter and hotter with my proximity until it was the right temperature.

Gobber rolled his eyes as the flames grew, but didn't say anything. He wasn't about to complain about having such a useful… talent concerning blacksmithing on hand. The massive pair of bellows by the other end of the pile had need repairing for the last three years, but it wasn't easy, replacing four broken iron ribs, the nose, and patching the ten or so holes in the leather. Neither of us could be bothered with the time or effort, not with the constant summer raids lately and with winter on its fast approach—we had other things to worry about than a single bellows.

And I worked just as well anyway.

(I never told Gobber that I was the one who broke the dam#ed thing, in a fit of pure exasperation that had nearly blown the chimney to pieces, but I'm fairly certain he knew. He was probably just grateful the bellows were the only victim; he hated having to rebuild the forge.)

"Fire!" someone yelled, and I jumped at the sound, spinning on my heel to look outside the shop.

Berk's fire brigade, composed of the those unfortunate souls considered too old to be huddling scared inside but too young for dragon training, broke into action—Fishlegs Ingerman, a big bulky boy who'd almost been a friend to me years ago; the Thorston twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, identical and vicious; my cousin Snotlout, mean-spirited and thick-skulled; and Astrid, the powerful and beautiful leader. They all dragged buckets of water from an immense wooden barrel towards the flaming homes, cheering themselves on as a team.

(Tradition dictated that the son of the chief be head of the brigade until he was old enough for dragon training. But thanks to my little Gift for flames, making me head of the fire brigade would be the equivalent of replacing the water buckets with barrels of kerosene.)

They ran back and forth with new loads, valiantly attempting to salvage what they could of the burning pitch, wood, and straw. Astrid was calm and collected, determination in her eyes as steely as her shoulder guards as she bucketed water again and again onto the flames. She stood and ran confidently, shoulders back and carrying the weight with ease and grace, never faltering in a single step. She was a Valkyrie facing another battle among a hundred, meeting the situation with an open mind, a strong heart, and a practiced arm; brave, ruthless, cunning.

She was perfect.

(I couldn't help but stare.)

Unfortunately, all their work was pretty much pointless, as the next blast of Nadder fire exploded up and outwards, eating through the house with twice the normal speed and heat. Metal clamped onto my collar and I was lifted bodily into the air, away from the scene.

(Second time tonight. Still humiliating.)

"Hiccup," Gobber warned.

"Oh, c'mon!" I most certainly did not whine. "Please let me out? I need to make my mark!"

"You have made marks," my master for the last eight years said. "Like the scorch marks in the boathouse, the blast-'oles in the Great Hall's walls, an' the complete destruction of 'ow many catapults?"

Only four. "Just for two minutes!" I nonetheless begged as he released me, letting me hit the ground with a soft thump. I backed up towards my corner of the smithy. "I'll kill a dragon—my life will get infinitely better—I might even get a girl to look at me!"

"Ye can't lift a hammer," Gobber pointed out, "ye can't swing an axe—ye can't even throw one o' these!" He held up a set of bolas, the weights clanking together dully.

Someone outside the stall grabbed the ropes from Gobber's hand and tossed them, capturing a Gronkle and bringing it down. Gobber didn't even flinch at the sudden lack of weapon in his grip—during a raid, no one could fault you for grabbing anything that might save your or another's life. At the shop, we were all too used to having newly- or even just half-repaired swords, axes, bolas, hammers, everything, snatched right out of our hands.

(Once, a person grabbed and threw me alongside a hammer—just don't ask me what happened when I hit the ground. I'll say it wasn't the most pleasant experience, and leave it at that.)

"Okay fine," I had to admit that point, because all of the above were true, "but this will throw it for me!"

I stepped back and motioned to the product of five weeks' hard work—the Mangler, shaped a bit like an over-sized crossbow. It shot my painstakingly modified-for-maximum-impact-and-disfigurement bolas farther and faster than any Viking could throw.

Those five weeks had been spent constructing it—shaping the wood and metal perfectly, calibrating it out in the forest where no one would lose a limb or head—but the research had taken nearly three months. I'd had to look over the various bolas we used to capture dragons, how rope flew as opposed to sturdier but heavier chain; what kind and how much weight was best; if a net was feasible, or if blades could be worked into the lines somehow to damage the catch and make it safer to kill once it was down.

I'd broken down and studied crossbows, catapults, observed how they flew through the air. I'd had to scrap three different forms of the base, never mind the actual shooting mechanism—and now it was finished, perfect in every way and ready to start bringing dragons down, and me up.

There was no way it was a coincidence that night that thing behind my heart was making me so certain fell on the first raid it was ready for use in. And, even better, those three months had also been spent watching one particular dragon very, very closely—I knew exactly what that Night Fury was going to do tonight, and I was ready and prepared to bring it down.

It would be wonderful.

I must've put my hand in the wrong spot, because suddenly it released—the bola knocked Ack out cold just outside.

Oops.

Gobber was decidedly unimpressed. That was pretty normal, actually. "See, now this right here—"

"It's a mild calibration issue, I can fix that!"

"No, no Hiccup!" I jumped when he shouted, surprised. Gobber sighed and shook his head. "Fix it, ye probably could—I can't say ye're not a dam# good smith without lyin' through my fake tooth." I blushed—Gobber didn't compliment easily.

"But bein' a Viking isn't about this." He gestured to the Mangler, which was sitting there looking entirely too innocent. "It's about this!"

He took a finished sword and threw it out to a villager, who raised it over her head and went after a Zippleback with a battle-cry. Despite myself, I winced and flinched away, not wanting to see blood hit the grass—though there was no avoiding the screech-squelch as the steel pierced scales, and the dying roar of agony. I frowned and tried to beat myself back up—Vikings didn't tremble at the idea of death. Vikings loved battle, loved gore.

Gobber, completely unbothered, ignored my flinch. "Guts an' glory! Taking down something with yer hands, pluckin' eyeballs an' feelin' blood steam on yer skin!"

My stomach roiled at the prospect. I clenched my jaw. Vikings love gore, Vikings love gore, you are a Viking so you love gore.

He put his good hand on my shoulder, probably seeing me green slightly. "If you ever want to get out there, and fight dragons, you need to stop all… this."

But his hand and hook weren't pointing at the Mangler. "You just gestured to all of me!"

"Yes!" he said, smiling and shoving me happily, nearly knocking me to the ground. "Tha's it! Stop being all of you!"

I narrowed my eyes. "Oooh, I see how it is."

"Do ye now?"

"Yes, and you, sir, are playing a dangerous game," I warned him, raising a finger to his unmoved face. "Keeping this much raw… Vikingness contained? There will be consequences!"

Gobber didn't blink. "I'll take my chances," he said, lifting up the sword he'd been working on earlier. "Sword, sharpen, now."

The weapon probably weighed half as much as my whole body did, and only plenty of experience and scars from similarly heavy and pointy things kept me from dropping it. I still sagged under the weapon, and the tip hit the floor dully, but I didn't immediately go to the grindstone.

"Gobber." My voice certainly did not crack, but my tone got him to turn around anyway. "This is it for me. I—I can feel it."

The older man visibly hesitated. We—me, my dad, and Gobber—we don't talk much about my… heritage. I feel no scruples in taking advantage of the Gifts it's given me—it's not like anyone else has ever hesitated using anything else as inborn as limb—but it's source? Wasn't something we really ever acknowledged.

It's mostly understood that we don't think about it because it's easier to keep it a secret that way. But sometimes, part of me thinks its really because even my dad can't really believe it.

And while most days, I could barely believe it myself, there really wasn't any denying the surety settling into my bones like beach sand, or the way the thing glowed, tight and warm in my chest. "This is my night," I told Gobber, and I was certain of every word.

Gobber knew as much about the gods as any good Viking—and knew more about me than I think I knew about me. He listened when the thing said something, and he knew that I wasn't really going to let anything keep me inside tonight.

He took a slow breath. "…Fine. If it gets quie' enough, then ye can go out. But not until I say so!" he added sharply, when a grin burst over my face. "You hear me, lad?"

"But Gobber—!"

"Ah! Ah ah ah! No buts in my smithy that aren' covered in skivvies!" He waved his fake arm in my face. "If it's really yer night, then it doesn't mat'er when ye get out there, now does it? Now go sharpen that sword!"

That was as good as I was getting. Not entirely discouraged, I hefted the sword and moved it to the whetstone, making sure to keep my arms away from the white-hot, painful to look at sparks.

I was entirely focused on my task—trying to make sure the metal wouldn't crack, melt, or split under the heat, while keeping a firm stance to keep the edges balanced and a steady hand to make them sharp—when a piercing, telling whistle surged through the air.

Whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeee

It was probably some strange extra of my… inheritance, but my ears have always picked that sound up long before anyone else. It was another one of those little ways for me to help; if Dad or Gobber saw me react to it, before they themselves could hear it, they could give everyone another half-second's worth of time to prepare.

Gobber noticed me when I looked at the window, and shouted.

"Nigh—!"

"Night Fury!" a Viking down at the docks screamed.

"Get down!" someone else added, just a half-second too late.

EEEERROOAAAAAA

BOOM

There was a huge starburst of light and sound, blue and yellow and a bit of purple. Night Fury shots are the only kind to explode, but when they do…

"Aah!" I yelled as pain stabbed into my temples, dropping the half-finished sword. Just like its warning shriek, the short cry the dragon gave just before it loosed one of its deadly precise shots was ten times louder to me than to anyone else—everyone else heard a sharp whistle, but I was left with the grating scree of a dull sword against rusty plate metal.

The terrible sound always reverberated into my chest, like when an explosion would knock a man back even if they weren't anywhere near it. It made the thing behind my heart jump, and I was always left a little numb in my fingertips from shock, when the Night Fury blew something to pieces.

When my hearing had recovered enough, I stood back up and went to the window to look out. As usual, there was no sign of the creature—no white sheep flying through the air or any colorful scale. All that was left of its quick, fatal attack was the smoke that choked out a few of the stars, and the distinctive blue flames that were eating through one of the catapults.

Now that I was on guard, the second and third blasts it used to bring the catapult down all the way were easier to bear—it wasn't exactly relaxing in Gimlé, but I'm a Viking; I could take it.

With the knowledge that it was out there tonight, everything about tonight lined up perfectly—The Mangler, the Fury, and the thing in my chest. I grinned brightly, fingers twitching with a sudden energy.

The certainty I felt settled deeper. The Night Fury.

I grinned and jumped where I stood. I knew I'd be the one to kill it!

Excited, I shot across the smithy—the walls blurred for a fraction of a second and my feet thumped a loud staccato rhythm into the wooden floor.

"Gobber!" I yelled, stopping right next to him.

The older Viking leapt where he stood, battle-readiness crossing his face for an instant. "Hiccup!" he growled when he saw it was me, and the battle-rage faded into his normal anger. "What did we tell ya about doin' tha'?!"

I winced and glanced away, shuffling where I stood. "Uh… not to." All three of us had had a long talk about my running up to them at full speed—from their perspective, I just appeared right at their sides, and it had the bad habit of giving them heart attacks.

(They don't really have a right to complain—they suffer heart attacks, I suffer axes being thrown my way on instinct. It's a mutual trade-off of nearly killing each other, in my opinion.)

"But Gobber—!"

He shook his head. "Sorry Hicca, ye can't go out there right now—an' stop with that!" he barked, grabbing at my hands, which I just realized had been twitching in a blur the way they did when I got overly excited. Gobber gave me a glare, and when I smiled sheepishly back at him, he scoffed. "There's no way ye're leavin' this smithy—ferget quiet, it's bad enough tha' they need me out there."

Gobber exchanged his hammer-hand for a double-bladed battleaxe. "Ye're mannin' the fort," he said as he hobbled out the door (faster than you'd expect a man with only one knee to go). At the last moment, he glanced back. "Stay," he ordered, pointing at me. "Put. There. An' don' even think about leavin'. Yrraaaaaagggh!"

With that lovely farewell holler, he ran into the fray. I was left alone with no less than eight warriors waiting in a line at the stall, and a Night Fury in the skies above.

I should be rewarded for my consideration for my elders—I waited nearly ten seconds before grabbing the Mangler and heading out.

(Nearly ten seconds. Rounded up.)

The least occupied part of the battlefield that the village had devolved into was the upper hills. This was where the huts of the Chief and his closest relatives (meaning me, my dad, and my uncle Spitelout's family) stood. These houses were usually left alone, because Dad was the best fighter on the island, and if a dragon went after the house, he took it a little personally—the last Nightmare that tried now had its skull hanging over the front door as warning. The braziers and torches were lit where the fighting was, so the sky above the hills was dark and speckled with the stars that the smoke and light choked out down by the docks.

It was frustrating, to be out of sight of the tribe and still have to keep myself from full-out running to a place for a shot. But The Mangler's wheels couldn't take that kind of speed. So, after an eternity of "running", I reached the place that I knew, from months and even years of observing the Fury, was the best spot to shoot the thing down.

You see, unlike any other dragon species, Night Furies (possibly even the Night Fury, no one really knew how many there were as no one had ever seen one) never went for the food. They didn't go after houses or ships. They didn't attack individual Vikings or even groups. Even when warrior targeted it, the blue flames never hit the Earth or the men directly. It never even aimed for them.

The only thing Night Furies shot at were the catapults, and the one that had come down minutes ago was the second to last.

So, naturally, I pointed the Mangler at the shimmering sky above the only major weapon against dragons left to Berk.

I primed it, opening the long body and pulling out the cannon. It locked into place and I let the bowstaves snap out before setting the string. The target flipped up and I peered through it, forcing my fingers to stop tapping eagerly in a blur against the wooden handles—it shook the whole thing too much for me to aim right.

"Gimme something to shoot at, gimme something to shoot at, gimme something to shoot at…" I muttered under my breath instead.

The night was silent above me. Stars twinkled peacefully, silver and yellow and red against black—if it weren't for the dragon raids, I'd be out here more often to enjoy the view. Unfortunately, the things liked to attack during the precious few semi-dark hours we got in the summertime.

Gmot was sleeping, so there was no silvery blanket of moonlight, but the Bifrost took its place as the greatest and brightest thing in the heavens—you could tell it was getting later in the year because you could actually see it. It was milky and smooth in a ribbon across the sky, speckled with brighter stars every now and then. There was no one around for two hundred yards in every direction, so the tough grass that manage to grow here glowed in the light. It was calm and serene, a slight sea breeze spraying cool and salty across my face. If you could ignore the yellow and orange haze of battle in the west, the light echoes of war just in the range of hearing, it was just a simple and beautiful night. The huts stood like bastions and cast long, obsidian shadows—the skulls decorating them turned those shadows into motionless, silently looming black dragons.

But quiet or not, I didn't let my guard down. It was going to happen tonight.

I didn't have to wait long.

There was a soft, ringing echo of sound—I didn't know if it came from the creature's mouth or if it was the air rushing through its wings, but with no other dragon in sight, it had to be the Night Fury.

I shifted my stance and squinted into the sky, focusing and forcing myself into a calm and steady stance—I had one shot to prove I wasn't useless, and I couldn't let anything screw it up again.

It was impossible to see any dragon that could be there, in the darkness Nótt had thrown over Berk, but there was something…

…deep in my chest, it was reaching out and touching…

Whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—

My hands twitched, unable to stay steady—but it wasn't any normal twitch, it lined up with the sensation in my chest—and I fired exactly as the purple bolt hit the tower.

The Mangler released, and the recoil sent me sprawling into dirt. The bolas whistled as they flew, the pitch rising and falling in a quick whipwhipwhip as the weights swung. The thing behind my heart clenched in a sudden ache as a pained screech cut through the night's silence.

I scrambled up. A heavy black shape fell into the dim grey surrounding the red glow that the sun left, just below the horizon in the East—off Raven's Point.

Oh great Oðin All-Father.

I'd hit it.

"I hit it," I realized numbly, barely able to believe it. "I-I did it. I can't beli—yes! Yes, I hit it!"

I leapt to my feet, shouting my victory to the skies. Here it was, proof! Finally, proof! I wasn't a failure to my father, or-or to my line! I, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, had taken down the king of all the dragons!

A Night Fury was down, and I had done it!

"Did anybody see that?" I asked, spinning around. Witnesses were everything—witnesses meant I'd be able to prove it. The gods knew my word wasn't enough, not to a village I'd nearly razed a hundred times.

But no one was there. There wasn't any—oh.

"Ex-cept for you," I said to the Monstrous Nightmare licking its jaws. I could read its mind—it was looking at me like I was a prime piece of mutton just waiting to be cooked.

Adrenaline launched my mind into overdrive, crossing out options faster than I could blink. I was way too close to the tribe to risk going full speed, and there were still the tracks I'd leave. My affinity for flames would only kill me quicker when the thing set itself on fire. Even if I were armed—The Mangler had only a single shot and was useless now—I'd be hopeless against it.

One option left.

"HELP!"

I spun on my heel and booked it, as fast as I could risk. Everything in me—thrumming heart and screaming terror—was shrieking for me to take off, get as far away from danger as possible. But I couldn't, I couldn't couldn't couldn't, because then people would know and they could never know, so I forced myself to keep a slow pace. No matter how terrified I was of that dragon, I couldn't risk my secret.

The Nightmare came after me. It's claws gouged into the earth with every heavy step and its jaws snapped with dull clacks of teeth larger than my shin.

Gurgles, wet splats, and the prickling I got in the back of my neck when fires were being lit were my only warning for when it decided it wanted its dinner well-done. I tried to bring up what little knowledge I'd scraped together over the years about running from dragons and zigzagged—tripping over my own feet, but still avoiding the sparking, fiery saliva it kept spitting.

Something long and tall caught my eye—the pole of one of the braziers. Made from sturdy, old-growth oak, it was reinforced with iron around the base, for situations like this.

Well, not really. But it was good enough for me!

I ran for it, thanking every god above (for the first time in memory) for my inexplicably thin, un-Vikingly shape, because it fit behind the narrow pole perfectly.

It was quiet for a second, and I prayed to Loki that it had lost sight of me and just given up.

My neck prickled.

Everything blurred as I yanked my arms under my chest, curling over my legs by dropping into another ball—just in time, as the Nightmare's stream of fire burned right around the metal, partly melting it, and would've turned my arms and legs into ash.

"Hiccup!"

The soft, harmless touch of flames on my back stopped in an instant, and I looked over to the voice. My dad was running towards me, and the look on his face made me freeze, terror spiraling from my crown to my toes.

(The reason only Vikings, of all people, have ever lived on Berk? We're the only people who are just as scary as the reptiles next door. It's a neighborhood thing, I guess.)

He leapt over me in a feat of acrobatic prowess a man his size shouldn't have been able to achieve, and grabbed the horns of the dragon that had been inches from taking a bite from me.

Viking and dragon fell a few yards away, both rolling to their feet and settling in for battle. I glanced back the way he came and saw a crowd coming—I had to get out of the scorched earth under my feet, or they'd get suspicious.

I stepped (tripped) off the sooty, burnt ground, and watched as the Nightmare and my father squared off. The dragon was out of shots, and I could almost see panic spark in its gaze once it realized. A ridiculous idea, that it might be praying to some dragon-god, came to mind.

I was halfway to dismissing that before I realized—if I'd been up against my dad?

Human, dragon, or anything in between, Hel yes would I be praying.

Case in point: Dad beat the five thousand pound reptile away and back into retreat with his bare hands.

Then he turned to me, and my own prayers started.

"Uh… sorry, Dad."

He narrowed his eyes and I took a step back—just an inch too close to the still smoldering pole.

The fire on the side burst high and hot, and cut right through what remained of the support-pole. I flinched at the sudden light, winced at my mistake, and gaped with the crowd as the enormous bowl of flames it had been holding up fell.

The torch—wider than Dad's and Gobber's heights put together and now burning brighter than Sól—slammed right into the boardwalk that connected the lower and upper towns, crushing it to splinters and nearly taking a villager with it. It rolled, like a dropped coin, lazily setting fire to a few houses before coming down directly on a group of netted Nadders. The net burned through with the super-hot flames, and the dragons lifted off, taking our sheep with them.

To summarize: one wrong step resulted in one destroyed brazier, one crushed boardwalk, four burning roofs, eight sheep gone. Disaster and destruction brought down on everything I touched.

Yup. Typical Berk morning.

Maybe this wasn't my night…

Until I remembered. "Okay, but I hit a Night Fury!"

Dad grabbed my shoulder, his vice of a hand dragging my through the crowd of astonished and muttering villagers. I ignored them, like usual—no doubt they were calling me cursed and Loki's child again—and just focused on staying grateful that he wasn't bodily carrying me away.

(Two was my quota for the night. I'd hate to overachieve.)

Gratitude, however, didn't mean I wasn't going to have bruises on my shoulder in the morning. "Ow—it's not like the other times, Dad!" I said, because I'd told him the last set of tracks I'd left, starting a "dragon"hunt, had been because I thought I saw a Night Fury. But, sticking with the typical-ness of the morning, he ignored anything I said and kept marching me away. "I really hit it this time! You guys were busy and I had a clear shot," no need to tell him it was a twitch; I am not a screw up tonight! "and it went down, just off Raven's Point! We should get a search party out there before it—"

"STOP!"

My dad is a Viking. So my dad is, naturally, loud—but rarely is that volume directed at me, so I froze, glancing nervously at the crowd surrounding us. The few times he did yell at me, he sometimes said things that (I hope) he didn't mean—if he said the wrong thing in front of all these people…

"Just—stop," he said, quieting down a little. I relaxed some. "Every time you step outside, disaster falls!" I flinched, knowing it was true. "Can you not see that I have bigger problems? Winter is almost here, and I have an entire village to feed!"

Guilt curled around my heart, dripping burning poison onto it like the legendary snake onto Loki. But Vikings didn't pay attention to little things like that. "Well, uh…the village could do with a little less feeding, if you know what I mean?"

That seemed to really piss him off. "This isn't a joke, Hiccup!" he yelled. "Urgh—why can't you follow the simplest orders?"

I had an answer this time—really, I did, but how in Baldr's name was I supposed to explain my surety about tonight with the entire tribe around us? "I—I—I couldn't stop myself!" I tried, gesturing widely and pleading that he listened. "I saw the opportunity, saw a chance, saw a dragon, and I had to, I had to just—kill it! You know? It's… who I am, Dad."

There. If he didn't get that hint, that boulder from the story he liked to tell about What a Viking could do! had left more brain damage than I'd thought.

"Oi… you're many things, Hiccup," he said, closing his eyes and cradling his skull like I was just another minor headache. Brain damage it was. "But a dragon-killer is not one of them."

That one stung. I'd spent years being told—by him—that killing dragons was the only worthwhile thing to do as a Viking on Berk. Hurt, I opened my mouth, but he brushed me off. "Get back to the house." He looked over my slumped shoulder, probably at Gobber. "Make sure he gets there! I've his mess to clean up."

Sure enough, Gobber's tell-tale wobbling step came up behind me and he whacked me lightly (his version of lightly, which left me with a knot) on the head as we started to walk up the hill. The hit was punishment for disobeying, and seemed to me like kicking a boy who was already down—I knew he wouldn't see it that way. He never really did.

The crowd divided as we passed through, disappointed and angry glances being shot in my direction. Nothing was outwardly said or done, of course, because Gobber was beside me and my dad was still the Chief, but just the looks on their faces had me turning my eyes to my toes. Best way to not get hurt was to pretend they weren't there. Experience told me that, though experience also told me even the best way didn't stop the embarrassment entirely.

We passed the fire brigade during my Walk of Shame (which was a weekly event by this point, by the way). Ruffnut was laughing, the sound, well, rough, and explosive. "Quite the performance," Tuffnut commented, his brows low and smirk high.

"I've never seen anyone mess up that badly before!" Snotlout's voice was familiar—a familial torment from age about three days to the present. "That helped!"

"Thank you, thank you, I was trying. So." I kept walking, useless and cursed making their usual rounds through my mind. Behind me, I heard Gobber rip into them for standing around like frogs on a muddy stump while their village was burning.

A blonde lock of hair caught the corner or my eye, and I turned to see Astrid walking towards the brigade barrel. As usual, she hadn't joined in in their game of Kick-The-Hiccup. No Hofferson ever said a word against me—not since Erik, all those years ago.

When she glanced back at Gobber, her visible blue eye was as icy, flat, and unemotional as ever. Our eyes met for a single moment, and then she turned away and started to work, and I was left to finish my Walk.

Sól was on her way to rising when we got near the house, the sky pinking and more of it turning grey-blue with every passing second. The light made seeing the chip on my shoulder easier.

"He never listens!" I complained. "Tell me that I didn't give him more than enough hints! I did everything I could except shout it out to him, but no, why would he ever actually think I had a reason! Not even a single second, to think that I didn't just come out there to screw things up like I always do! He never listens!"

"Runs in the family," Gobber muttered, and I ignored that just on principle.

"And on those rare, Frigg-given moments that he actually does hear what I say," I continued, "it's always with this disappointed scowl, like someone skimped on the meat in his sandwich." I threw my shoulders back and deepened my voice and accent to imitate him. "Excuse me, barmaid! I'm afraid you've brought me the wrong offspring! I ordered an extra-large boy with beefy arms, extra guts and glory on the side! An Ásmegir! This here, this is a talking fishbone!"

"Don't say that out loud!" Gobber warned me sharply. I flinched, and then paled. A quick glance around told me no one was around to hear, but my heart rate didn't slow for a while yet. "Now," he said levelly, "Ye're thinkin' about this all wrong. It's no' so much what ye look like, but what's inside that he can' stand."

Ladies and Gentlemen, the man who basically half-raised me. I stared at him incredulously. "Thank you for summing that up."

"Look, Hicca—what I'm sayin' is, ye should stop tryin' so hard ta be somethin' ye're not."

My shoulders slumped. "But it's what I'm supposed to be," I said, and fine, maybe my voice did crack here. I didn't even really notice, too lost and confused and upset. "My—my grandf… I'm supposed to…" I glanced back at him miserably, and here was the truth: "I just wanna be one of you guys," I said, before turning to go inside.

The house still didn't have a door.

I sighed. "I'll fix that in the morning," I muttered, scrubbing at my face. I stepped over the pile of ash in the threshold and went up the stairs, listening carefully. A few seconds and a tired sigh later, the telltale clack-step-clack of Gobber's feet on the stone path back to the village told me it was safe.

Seconds later, I was carrying a notebook and running high speed through the forest.

What's this? A story written with inputs of actual Norse mythology? ~gasp~ Amazing! Rare! Awesome!

Probably not entirely accurate! Even taking an artistic license into account!

I tried, but while I'm fairly good at research, I'm not always the best at understanding everything. So, if you ever, ever, EVER see a mistake (spelling, grammar, plothole, OOC, mythology, culture, anything) feel more than free to point it out in a review!

Some people might point out that Hiccup's a little OOC even just now; I beg your forgiveness if it's too bad, but if it's just a bit, please keep in mind that this is a slightly different Hiccup from normal. Dreamworks' Hiccup deals with pressure from his father and tribe; Tibki's Hiccup deals with the weight of a secret and the expectations of being a Norse-style demi-demi-god.

If you'd like some more professional opinions on Viking life (and possibly mythology) go talk to dyannehs on Tumblr. Seriously awesome chick, seriously awesome Viking information.

Most chapters will be about this long (20 pages on Microsoft Word; see why I've been working on it since March?) and there's about thirty of them. Bits and pieces aren't too well written (the first part, at the top of the page) and I might rewrite those.

Questions? Comments? Flames? Place all into the box below-except for troll flames. Those will be promptly doused with the water of my cold, cold shoulder for numpties.

Until tomorrow,

PEACE,

~Tibki