Although dusk was just settling in, Night Furies were awakening, at least the wild ones were. For years, most dragons found tranquil peace amongst the Vikings living near. A few months before, the Red Death had suffered its terrible loss by a Night Fury named Toothless. Dragons and Vikings had worked together for years on end, most ending up with Vikings.
There was one Night Fury in particular that was completely different. He awoken to the difference in the sky’s pattern. When he looked, white clouds formed the sky that was all dragons’ domain, clouding most of the sun and some of the sky. Most would think it was a sight to good to be true, but the Night Fury knew better. He had other wonders to fuss about.
Snapping sounds came from his wings as he unfurled them, the black membrane feeling the wind made him want to jump off his steep fall. Below him was a large stream that rushed downstream, not caring what it picked up.
One clawed foot stepped halfway out onto the ledge, the claws curling to grab the edge. Wait for it, he told himself. His ear flicked back as a creature, most likely a Viking on a dragon, came running through.
Then they appeared, a Deadly Nadder and a large Viking. Both looked shocked as his appearance, but he was used to it. Ever since hatching, everything looked at him with awe and strangeness.
Snaking his head back, he shot out a blue flame-ball and it hit the line of sticks that had been his defense, in case he was found while he was sleeping. It instantly caught on flame, the tips licking up at the sky. Soon, an armada of dragons and Vikings would come.
So, without another thought, he jumped off the cliff. The wind caught in his sail-like wings and he rose into the air, safe from further harm, for now. Even as he heard the Nadder cry out, night settled, but it wasn’t the same for the Night Fury.
He dived toward the pine forest, knowing that the Viking would be following him. With undying skill, he twisted and turned in between trees, just he does nearly every day, avoiding Vikings and their dragons.
After a while, he heard a thump and a roar of defeat. Moving his tail tip, two small wing-like rudders on the end, he angled himself upward. His blue gaze traveled through the wood until he saw the Nadder flying in the opposite direction toward the seven other dragon shadows he could see.
Of course, his pupils dilated into dangerous slits, making him look more deadly. Blue against black didn’t really work out, but for him it did. The eight dragon shadows flew in the opposite direction of the Night Fury, knowing the chase would be completely hopeless. A rider-less dragon against even eight dragons with riders wasn’t enough for him, for he was to skilled and to willing to run at whatever the cause.
Night Furies past him in the indigo sky, giving him second glances, most envious. All were the same, black and either golden, green, or a mixture of the two for eye color. No, he was different.
His appearance looked off the charts extreme. While his main scale color was black, he had bright blue markings, or as he liked to think of them: Veins. He could hide at both night and during the day when it was clear. Only his underbelly was completely black. And just to make matters worse, his eyes matched his markings color. While every thing thought he was a Night Fury mistake, he thought he was special.
No one knew his name, he didn’t even know his own name. After hatching, his mother left, fearful of her hatchling. He’d learn everything from watching others and himself. However, the Vikings called him Strike. They called him this because it was like baseball. Everyone takes a swing, but strikes out, hence his name. He liked it and stuck with it, happy that at least someone had the trouble of naming him.
Now he was flying through the night, right over the village of Vikings. He heard silent talk, whispering. Looking down, he knew that he looked like a normal Night Fury from below, except the eyes; he couldn’t hide those.
“Still nothing.” he growled to himself. Over the wind and when he wasn’t flying, his voice gave the impression of water flowing out over ice and stones. Strike looked for the same thing every night and every day. That you will find out later.
Twisting his tail to face northeast, he flew on. He didn’t tire easily, so he continues to fly for long periods of time. At times, he doesn’t sleep, due to flying so much. His longest flight was three days and two nights. Most Night Furies rest within a day and a half. Strike was always on the run, so he knew how to stay aloft for long periods of time. Why doesn’t he just cross the ocean? Because he didn’t know the land past this island.
Wings flapping with the smallest flap made him go higher. His gliding was like a shark cutting through the ocean waves. The weather grew colder, piercing his lungs, just the way he likes it. It was his limit, but he enjoyed it.
A dark shadow came under him and he tensed, until he saw it grow bigger, than relaxed, slightly. Strike neatly folded his wings and tail rudders and plummeted to the ground. Wind swooshed by so quick that silver tailings were coming up after him. Finally, he opened his wings with a snap and landed on a rock jotting out of the side of a mountain.
The ledge he landed on was below a large gaping hole, swallowing dragons into the darkness as they flew in. The old hole was made by the Red Death when the Vikings finally figured out where the dragons’ main lair was. Of course he found sanctuary here, but it always ended up short. Not this night, he could feel it. Sitting there and staring at normal dragons made his heart sad. He folded his wings to not be that noticeable, but with the blue against black, it really made it worse.
Four dragons came in then came back out to land on ledges as well to get a good look at him. Strike felt their gaze, but didn’t turn. Even by the gaze, he could feel what kinds of dragons they were. Two Monstrous Nightmares, a Hideous Zippleback, and a Night Fury. It wasn’t until he heard one of the Nightmares glide down closer to him, did he look.
Glinting familiarly in the moonlight was a spear. It took him a second to realize that all four of the dragons that landed by him wore Vikings on their back. The one thing he couldn’t sense was humans’ gaze on him. He needed practice still, but every glance made him better.
Nightmare, he liked to call the dragons by there usual name, glided closer, but still he did not move. Its rider had a spear, and if he moved even an inch, he was going to feel that in the morning.
“Smart.” Strike muttered to himself. “Excellent combination of dragons and a different technique.”
Each unsnapping of wings made him more still. He closed his eyes. Please let this work, he prayed in his head. Please. Nightmare’s wings flapped in one place in utter confusion.
“Where’d he go?” he heard a female Viking ask. “He was just right there, right?”
“I swore I saw ‘im!” the nearest Viking, male, swore.
That was one of Strike’s other unique qualities: If he stayed still long enough, his blue would meld him with a dark background until he was invisible.
“He’s there, guys.” a younger Viking interrupted their conversation. “We can feel it.”
Strike grew worried and he snapped open his wings, sliding off the cliff and down toward the ground.
“There ‘e goes! Let’s git ‘em!”
Whooping and yelling made his tail rudders open up and he took straight up into the sky. He heard a swoosh as the spear aimed at him missed a few feet in front of him. It fell and hit him hard on his right front leg. Growling, he continued flying higher and higher before leveling himself out.
He was high in the atmosphere, the cold air biting his lungs. A little higher than his limit, he noticed, but he didn’t fly down, fearful of the Vikings. One shadow flew below him, the familiar Night Fury shape, but something was off. It too wasn’t all black. The right wing-like rudder on the tail was red with a white skull.
Strike took a painfully cold deep breath and released it before slowly lowering himself.
“Got cha’!” a loud voice yelled as a rope missed him by inches.
Roaring, he flapped backwards, awkwardly, and shot out a blue fire ball. The Viking raised his shield and flung it away harmlessly. It took that time for Strike to fold his wings and dive.
“Being told what to do is useless. We are dragons. Wild and untamed. No dragon should be held captive.” he growled as the wind rushed past his ears. It was his saying, his vow to himself, and his life.
“No! No, no, no, no!” the younger one called, strangely next to him. “It’s okay! Stop! Lift up! Up, Strike!”
The Night Fury the Viking was riding looked at him with gold-green eyes. It didn’t help the cause, for in the eyes showed demanding. Strike grew angry and glared at both rider and dragon. The ground was coming close, so he turned opposite of them and flew back toward the mountain where it all started.
“Hiccup! Come on! I thought you had him!” the female yelled out.
Silence as Strike flew into the old Red Death’s tomb. He heard no wings or shouts as he flew up into the combs of long ago. Most were taken by dragons that lived there, but he choose one that looked as if he could hide and sleep without being noticed.
Wings finally hit his ears. “Great. Now how are we supposed to find him in this?”
“Well, if ‘e’s ‘ere, ‘es ‘idin’ perty well. What say you, Hiccup?” the heavily accented one said softly, the sound echoing throughout the cave.
Already, Strike was getting nervous of being found, so as a reaction, he stayed still. It was as natural as breathing to him. He felt himself meld away into the shadows as the four dragons and their riders flew past him.
“Guys.” a new Viking spoke up. “Look. A vacant spot and all our dragons are looking in that direction.”
Four pairs of wings flew right next to Strike, he felt their gaze and he opened his eyes. Four Vikings stood in front of their dragons. One was the one riding the Night Fury. He was skinny and small, but Strike could feel a type of power from him as he came forward. A type of mechanical foot glinting off the red below the fog. The second one was tall and a little plump, silver hair with a dragon to show her might. The Zippleback glared at him as he came back into view. Third one looked like the woman and his dragon yawned boredly. For the first time, Strike saw a new Viking; black hair, one half draped over an eye, dark clothing and bright eyes that showed nothing. As if a ghost was looking at him.
Both the dark one and the skinny one looked at him as if were he were a normal Night Fury, something that was new to him. But the other two were shocked. All the dragons glared at him with jealously.
“What to do, Hiccup?” the dark one spoke, his voice like the night wind Strike was so used to.
Hiccup looked at Strike as his wings were slowly opening up again. The big Viking took his spear and aimed it at his wings. If he hit him, the wing may never heal correctly again. As a result, he folded his wings quickly.
All of the Vikings stood staring at him, wondering what was going on in Hiccup’s mind. The man looked thoughtful and turned to his dragon, whispering something that Strike couldn’t catch,
“Let him go, for now.” Hiccup broke the silence, turning around and facing both Strike and everyone else. He turned to the black and blue Night Fury. “But we’ll be back.” He jumped up on a saddle on the Night Fury’s back. “Let’s go, Toothless.”
The downed dragon looked up, shocked. The Night Fury smiled, his teeth gone as Night Fury’s enjoy doing, and opened his wings. The others followed and soon, Strike lay there, unable to move a tshe Vikings and their dragons disappear from sight.
Did he hear right? Toothless? He looked at the other dragons in the cave. They had frightened looks on their faces, but none so shocked or frightened as Strike himself. He had just met his father.