Heads Or Tails | HTTYD

The Northern Markets

Gentle waves lapped against the side of the small, weathered boat, bobbing it to and fro. The planks creaked with each subtle motion, reminding the woman tying it to the rickety wooden dock post that the vessel beneath her feet wasn't crafted to withstand the lengthy journey from Dragon's Edge to the Northern Markets. But it fared well, and looked no worse for the wear than when she'd set out. Sure, if the situation allowed for it she'd have gone with just about any other method of getting there, but she didn't have much of a choice. Her only other options were to take her dragon, which was notably less than subtle and a surefire way to let everyone know exactly who she was there on behalf of; or, she could have been dropped off by the dragon riders, which would have accomplished all the same things with the added fun of a mace to the back of her skull.

Brynhildr was working with what she had.

She gave the rope a firm tug, reassuring herself for the third time that the boat was docked and secure. Not that it mattered much, she mused. If this went according to plan she wouldn't have to return to it, and it could spend another few days there before resigning itself to the depths of the sea where it was likely going to end up anyway. But a contingency plan was never a bad idea, though a little optimistic, given that failure would result in, yet again, a mace to the back of the head. Or, maybe even the front. It's not like they'd be too keen on giving her a chance to turn and run.

She shoved the thoughts to the recesses of her mind – now wasn't the time to focus on everything that could go wrong. That's what the entire trip over was spent doing. Besides, any outcome no matter how grisly would have to be better than returning to her monotonous life on Berk.

With wavering footing, she stepped off the boat, and adjusted her burgundy cowl. She held her position for a moment, eyes scanning the surrounding area. The pier was bustling with merchants, some with ships flying familiar flags, others with crests displayed for clans she'd never seen.

She turned her gaze downward, back to the splintering salt worn boards beneath her feet, and began the trek into the heart of the market. She weaved her way past brawny warriors carrying crates of finely crafted weapons, and sailors smuggling chests concealed by dark rags and conspicuous sidesteps. There was a strange sort of excitement that filled the air – a thrill Brynhildr could feel coursing through her veins, kept alive by the mysteries veiled around every corner, and the ever present taboo of setting foot in that infamous cesspool.

In the corners of her eyes she occasionally caught a suspicious glance cast her way, but nobody said a word. Se was minding her own business, and they'd mind theirs. It was a tip Johann had cast her way when she had hunted him down not far off of the coast of Dragon's Edge the night she left. And it was perhaps the most obvious thing he could have said – that acting natural and keeping to yourself would keep you safe – but replaying it back in her head offered the dark haired girl some makeshift comfort as she stepped off the docks, and onto a pathway.

She never realized how nice it felt to be standing on solid ground.

Looking out over the market itself, it was almost exactly what she'd imagined. Tents, kiosks, and wooden booths lined up as far as they eye could see, each housing a merchant aggressively peddling his wares to anyone he could catch the attention of.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of parchment. On it was a poorly drawn map, with uneven squares representing each merchant's stand and an unsteady line weaving through them, stopping in the northwestern corner and punctuated with a crude "X". Johann may have known what he was talking about, but the man's artistic talents left a lot to be desired. She folded it back up along each predetermined crease, slipped it back into her pocket, and resumed walking with renewed vigor.