A young warrior of the Berserker tribe, Skuf the Silent, has always been unusual. A mute from birth. A prodigy with the sword. An unofficial uncle of a crazy orphan. Shorter than Berk's heir by a hair.

That's what they all say about him because that's what they know. What they don't say is that he talks to dragons.

And they talk back.

A/N:
This first chapter was inspired by that one Race to the Edge episode where the Berserker tribe lands on Berk to sign a peace treaty. I, uhhh… took a little tangent. Said tangent turned into my first story ever written. Prequel to Dragons 101.

Obligatory Disclaimer:
First, I'd like to ask why in Odin's name does everyone have one of these disclaimers in their stories? Their free stories worth zero dinero. Also, why I am breaking down under peer pressure to include this out of fear of some lawsuit I know without a doubt would never even be threatened by a company that is too busy making infinite sequels for infinite money? Anyway, I don't own HTTYD. Toothless does. Got them all wrapped around his little claw.

1 - First Contact

Skuf the Silent casually ducked under a branch as he slowly, silently, crept through the forest. The sliver of a crescent moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds in the dead of night, but there was still enough light to make out the obstacles... most of the time. It was enough for this special mission to capture a dragon. Not just any dragon, but a very elusive type, thought to be the last of its kind, called the Night Fury. Of the thirty warriors in his hunting party, Skuf was the most critical, even though he was no dragon hunter.

Progress was slow, difficult, and sometimes painful as he and his fellow warriors cautiously advanced through the forest. An occasional curse to a god of choice could be heard hissing out in a whisper as somebody stumbled or was hit in the face by the most inconsiderate branches and brambles. Traveling almost blind like this slowed their progress, but no torches would be lit when they could not risk detection by anyone - or anything - because stealth was critical.

Skuf barely had to duck to pass under a branch. That same branch proceeded to smack a face behind him, drawing out a curse to Loki, who mischievously put it there for just that purpose. As the branch-to-face contact increased, annoyed glares were cast at Skuf, which only resulted in more scrapes. Such was one of the benefits of being short.

Even at twenty years old, Skuf's frame stood a head below the average Viking. At first glance, one might appraise him as a weak or inferior swordfighter, but such people would quickly learn a lesson in humility. He wasn't scrawny, but he wasn't stocky, either. His upbringing in sword fighting as a warrior produced a body with enough strength to take and dish relatively heavy blows but quick enough to just as easily dodge them.

To complement his fighting technique, Skuf always opted for a lighter leather outfit instead of the heavy standard issue gambeson or the fancy iron scale mail most warriors in his tribe wore. When it was issued, he had even taken the time to scrape and fatigue the leather to make it more supple in key spots, like the inside of the elbows, knees, and groin, to provide greater freedom of movement. The major arteries were still protected, though, with an extra layer of boiled leather sewn along the inside of the arms and legs.

Like most Viking tribes, the general mindset of his fellow Berserker warriors was to favor strength and durability. Skuf, on the other hand, has learned that speed and agility made his fighting abilities shine. Let the brutes grunt as they swing large broadswords and battleaxes through thin air - it is a song he loves to hear. The tune he sings is the silent slices and jabs at exposed areas when the opportunity presents itself.

Although the wiry Skuf was the most critical key to this dragon hunt, the company of soldiers was led by none other than the power-hungry tyrant, Dagur the Deranged. Or, "Your Derangedness", for those who seek to flatter him. In Skuf's opinion, there was no greater representation of all that is evil in a person. Dagur's thirst for power has led to knives in the backs of good men as he played them against each other, and then a coup to kill his own father and tribe chief, Oswald the Agreeable. Many good people died in this greedy bastard's ascension to power.

Ever since Dagur took over his latest victim's position as chief of the Berserker tribe, Skuf has been looking for an opportunity to set things right. This very moment may have seemed like just the ideal time. He could simply take a casual step left around that white pine, draw his blade, and plunge it into martyrdom.

No, that would not accomplish anything. Not now. An unhealthy and immoral thirst for power for its own sake was the disease and it has spread. Dagur was just the host body and Skuf wanted the cure, not to just remove the boil. The real disease was not the madman himself, but the madness that drove him.

At least, that was the more noble angle of Skuf's own schedule.

In his grab for power, Dagur had persuaded a couple friendly tribes to join him in seeking out ways to control the dragons and build a dragon army. After those scaley beasts suddenly ceased their raids over a year ago, they seemed to avoid contact with Vikings. However, they still existed and could be found on the islands around the Archipelago, and if they could be found, they could be captured, trained, conditioned, controlled. If dragons were so powerful, then to control them would be to control great power.

After all, what else would a greedy tyrant ever want besides more power over others?

Tonight, the hunt was focused on a particular key to that power. Two weeks ago, Skuf had learned that the enemy tribe on Berk, the Hairy Hooligans, had discovered how to harness - literally - this power. Well, they weren't actually declared as an enemy tribe. In fact, Skuf's first visit to Berk was as an escort for Dagur on a visit to sign a peace treaty with the Hooligan chieftain, Stoick the Vast.

Dagur was eager to sign the peace treaty, but not for the political reasons the Hooligans assumed. They were beneath the Berserkers, in Dagur's eyes, because they have been content to simply protect their main island and the small ones surrounding it without any conquest. Such contentment simply was not very Viking-like. Well, that's what Dagur always said. The unspoken motive was that allies at peace with their neighbors could be used to help conquer other tribes before betraying their trust.

Skuf has seen too much to doubt that what Dagur did with individuals in his ascension to power, he will attempt to do with whole tribes. When he makes a mistake, though, it wouldn't be Dagur and his backstabbers who will pay the price, but all of the Berserker tribe.

As the Hooligan chief showed them around the village, Skuf noticed certain things that he kept to himself. Whenever the scaly beasts were brought up in conversation, the weather instantly became a very fascinating topic. Dagur was annoyed, but Skuf knew without a doubt that they were hiding something. This led him to conclude that they have figured it all out. The Hairy Hooligan tribe has figured out how to coexist with dragons, maybe even tame them.

That visit had concluded with a dragon attack. The Berserker tribe knew how to handle dragons, but they were not targeted by dragon raids as heavily as most other tribes in the area. As a result, their instinct was to run back to their ships as they were less prepared to handle dragons than the ax-wielding Berkian behemoths.

As if to make a point about their size, their chieftain grabbed the tail of a Gronckle that had tackled a Berserker warrior and casually flung the dragon to the side. However, the sly beast just skipped across the ground on its feet and buzzed its bee-like wings to fly to safety.

At one point, a black-scaled Night Fury pounced on a fish bone of a boy that Dagur has taken a strange interest in. That Viking, Hiccup, shouted for Dagur to run and save himself as the beast mauled him mercilessly. Though Hiccup was the exact opposite of his massive and fierce father, he bravely tangled with the offspring of lightning and death itself as the Berserkers made a hasty retreat.

Skuf tried to hide his grin as he ran away with Dagur. He knew better. He could talk to dragons.

And they could talk back.

He could recognize the caution the dragons employed when shooting a Hooligan's shield, taking careful aim to avoid any actual injury. He could feel the relief of the Hooligans as the dragons shot fire at, but always missed, any Viking they saw. He could hear the concern as the Night Fury tackled Hiccup, acting as if it was struggling to wrestle with the puny boy, but taking care to prevent any harm.

You're a terrible actor, Skuf thought to himself as he watched the Night Fury "attack" the little fish bone kid. The dragon jerked its head up, twitching its ears as if it heard something and Skuf realized that he probably projected that thought loud enough to be heard.

Such was the basis for his ulterior motives. After all, who else could talk to dragons in the same, special way that dragons talk to each other?

Well, technically, he couldn't "talk" at all.

Being born with malformed vocal cords certainly presented drawbacks. For his entire life, Skuf could never speak, hum, or even grunt. On the plus side, his parents were pleased with the silent crying when he was a baby. For his lack of speaking, he was very good at listening. He could hear the words that were not spoken and the fact that dragons could hear his unspoken words gave him a particular affinity towards the scaled beasts. The more he heard, the more natural it became to both hear and project thoughts. The more he communed with them, the more clear it became that nobody knew the first thing about them.

Dragons lacked any spoken language. In fact, as Skuf learned in his conversations with dragons on Berserker Island, they don't even understand the concept of words in the first place. Forming a sentence to write or speak is a foreign, unnatural, and, well, stupid idea in their eyes. Instead of forming words, why not project the thoughts the words are supposed to represent?

Images could be seen. Sounds could be heard. Pain could be felt. Memories could be experienced by others. Over time, Skuf developed his ability to hear these projected thoughts.

"You're awfully quiet, tonight," Dagur whispered as they crept onward through the tangle of trees, giggling at his own joke.

Skuf - the silent - shook his musings out of his head. Sparing a glance at the devil at his side, he took note of his surroundings, forcing himself to focus on the present. Winter was transitioning into Spring and this particular area did not have many evergreens. The glimpses of scenery afforded by the intermittent moon and starlight above revealed nothing more than a loose sea of brown sticks. The change in weather and scenery made Berk seem like a completely different island than Skuf's previous visit two weeks ago. A chain of heavy rainstorms over the past couple days had reduced all the snow and dead leaves to a sodden mush.

"Ya got any tingling sense of dragons nearby, oh whisperer of dragons?" Dagur asked

Skuf shook his head. He was pretty sure Dagur did not know that he could hear dragons, but it was common knowledge on Berserker island that the caged dragons seemed to be calmer and more cooperative with the mute around. In all reality, his role on this mission was only as a good luck charm rabbit's foot for when they find a dragon… in their eyes. They called him the dragon whisperer, but that was more in mocking jest than anything else. While he could get the dragons on his island to cooperate by reasoning with them and showing his good intent, he has also worked to hide his ability by receiving bruises and scratches from the beasts - at his own request.

He could tell those dragons were not stupid animals. Whether they were as intelligent as men was a moot point. They could love, hate, plead, and show contempt or mercy. They could organize their thoughts to communicate complex ideas to each other. A dragon could feel joy and remorse and express such feelings in a way much more compelling than any animal, or even any Viking for that matter, because they pour out their raw impressions and emotions.

That was why Dagur could never be allowed to succeed, why somebody must thwart any attempts at capturing and manipulating dragons. This is why dragons should not be made into slaves.

Skuf cringed at the realization that he had elevated dragons above humans in his mind. His parents had raised him to be a man of integrity, but while there have always been human slaves on Berserker Island, the idea of dragons made into slaves seemed even more wrong for some reason. The rock-eating, lava-spewing Gronckles caged and used for smelting iron ore was already an injustice, but if someone found a way to break down a dragon's spirit and turn it into a mindless killing machine...

But this is different, Skuf told himself. I'm unique in being able to hear the dragons talk, so it's alright if I focus on them. I'm justified in focusing on the dragons, right?

Right?

It was all so complicated. Skuf counted himself very fortunate to have been omitted from any raiding expeditions in his life so far. Aside from the peace treaty visit two weeks ago, this mission to capture the Night Fury was his first militant assignment off of his home island.

However, he could take advantage of his ability and position to the end of leading Dagur astray on this little hunt. Dagur knew Skuf to be some sort of party trick dragon whisperer, but that was it. Skuf really wanted to learn more about these dragons and the Hooligans who, he could tell, could cooperate with the beasts.

Such an notion was a child's dream, a phase everyone would pass through in their youth, just like having an invisible friend to talk to. Cooperation between beast and man doesn't necessarily mean that Vikings ride dragons, but what if they did? It would be almost too amazing to believe, but he was sure that there was cooperation between the Vikings here and the dragons. Where there was cooperation, there must be trust.

It was a common enough saying. Trust is the mother of cooperation. Deception is the kiss of death.

How could dragons and Vikings get to a point of trusting each other? Sure, the dragons at home would be more cooperative with the dragon whisperer than anyone else, but that was a special case. He could actually have conversations with them. Sure, they also loved him for the extra bits of fish or meat he would sneak to them, but how would a Hooligan simply see a dragon, approach it, and gain its trust. Maybe it was the other way around? Could Berk be full of dragon whisperers?

Up ahead, a warrior spotted a light weakly flickering through the forest and pointed it out to Dagur. The light wandered closer and they saw it was a torch carried by a lone Viking. Determined to continue the hunt, Dagur ordered his men to continue searching while he handled the Hooligan alone. He separated himself from the rest and stalked his target, wrapping his fingers around the handle of his arming sword. The poor thing wouldn't even get out a squeak before dying.

Skuf's breath hitched as he recognized that man with the torch. Hardly a man, but a boy. It was that little Hiccup - and Dagur was about to kill him!

This could not be allowed. In an instant, Skuf decided this diminutive boy was key in understanding this dragon situation. But even if he could stop Dagur in time, how would he escape with the kid when there were almost thirty other Vikings who would stop him?

Skuf subtly reached for the dagger at his waist and encroached forward under the pretense of curiosity. He made up his mind in an instant. He would never get a chance like this again. Maybe, just maybe, he could stick Dagur in the back, send the kid running, evade his comrades in the forest, and gain favor with Berk to learn how they can cooperate with dragons.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

The air felt charged with energy. Skuf could feel anger that wasn't his. He tensed up, ready to spring, half a thought away from yanking his dagger out of its sheath and springing into action. However, his breath caught in his throat when he saw Dagur, sword halfway out of its scabbard, thrust it back in. The hilt made a soft slapping sound against the leather-encased wood, drawing Hiccup's attention with a sudden gasp. Dagur simply strode forward, hands waving expressively as he shouted a greeting.

Skuf fought for strength as his knees threatened to buckle from relief. He could sense the struggle to fight down the boiling rage that threatened to override rational thought. He had more time to think of something.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He tried to put on an expression of indifference as his unit commander dragged him back towards the others, but shock and intrigue quickly took over as he caught a glimpse of a pair of acid-green dots in the dark woods. Before he could even tell whether it was just his imagination, those dots blinked out of existence and Skuf could have sworn he saw a shadow moving through the darkness. Everyone followed his gaze but shrugged at the emptiness that greeted them.

It all clicked into place. Those glowing dots, the charge in the air that had now dissipated since Dagur put his sword away… somebody was watching them. Or some thing.

Behind him, Dagur was talking quite loudly, arms waving enthusiastically as he approached a very befuddled Hiccup.

"Hiccup? You're alive! I was worried the Night Fury would tear you to shreds a couple weeks ago, but you were all like 'Go! Save yourself, Dagur! You owe it to your people!' What happened to that dragon, anyway?"

I bet Hiccup ended up patting it on the head and giving it a fish. Maybe he added an "atta boy, Night Fury!"

Skuf rolled his eyes as he walked away with the rest of his unit. His unit commander, Throst, ordered everyone to split up into pairs and spread out to cover more ground. They all had a horn to sound out if they ran into trouble, but that was to be used only if the Night Fury was found. Someone suggested that splitting up like this would make them too vulnerable against a dragon as black as night, but he was quickly shamed to silence.

Even if he had a voice to speak in objection, Skuf would have held his peace. A quick conversation with a dragon on Berserker Island before heading out confirmed his suspicion. On a dark night, the Night Fury would be seen only when it desires to be seen. This species was very reclusive and would rather avoid a fight than start one. However, if there is some threat to itself, its mate, or its hatchlings, it would fight tooth and claw until its heart stopped beating.

As Skuf and the fellow soldier in his pair, Sod, patrolled through the forest, he felt something familiar. Well, maybe not felt. Confining projected thoughts to the senses always felt like a run over loose sand. Whether it was felt or heard or smelled or whatever, it reminded him of the projected thoughts he had picked up during that dragon attack from the peace treaty mission. Every mind has its own "scent", so every projected thought has a certain unique signature for who was projecting it.

Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of red disappeared into the depths of the trees. Here, the woods were thick with Pine, Spruce, and Fir, so Skuf was able to slip away from Sod, who was distracted by a dragon roar heard somewhere else in the distance. Once out of sight, he found a hand-sized rock, took careful aim, and chucked it past Sod. As expected, the sound of it hitting the ground caused the fool to wander the other way.

Running through the forest, Skuf tried his best to calm his mind. This was his chance! He needed to make contact with the Night Fury. If that was ever going to happen, he'd need to convince the dragon that he was not an enemy, so he projected an image for the dragon, trying to communicate with it from a distance. He envisioned the Night Fury surrounded by soldiers who were searching the forest and laced that thought with bitterness. He then projected the sense of danger that the Hooligans needed to know.

If they were friends with dragons, then Skuf would instantly shift allegiance accordingly. He had friends and family he loved in the Berserker tribe, but the best way to protect them would be to stop Dagur from sending them all to Helheim with his dragon army madness.

As he ran along, he saw it again - a flash of red and a black form darting towards the cliff. He ran at full speed after it, trying to assure the creature that it needed his help.

Winded and panting, he broke out into a clearing at the edge of a high cliff. The dragon was… gone! Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Did he so desperately want to find this dragon before Dagur that he allowed himself to imagine things?

A low growl from the side made everything suddenly click into place.

No, he wasn't crazy. Well, not that crazy. He didn't "track" the dragon. He didn't "find" it. The beast lured him away from the others. The dragon decided it wanted to be found by Skuf. To what end, though, and for what purpose? The suspicion and curiosity he was picking up in the air made it clear the dragon wouldn't necessarily attack him. At least, not immediately.

Regardless, Skuf had his own goals. The Hooligans on this island were either friends of dragons or masters of them. He needed to know how, no matter the cost. Slowly, cautiously, he pulled his sword out of its sheath and tossed it to the ground, followed by his hand ax, then his two daggers. The growling halted as he stepped away from the discarded weapons.

WHAM!

Something slammed into his back, sending him sprawling to the ground. Skuf didn't move. He knew he couldn't kill the dragon even if he was armed and it was daytime. During that peace treaty mission, he had a clear view of the beast. Four short but powerful legs made it very nimble on land. Its claws looked very sharp and the jaw seemed to be capable of delivering a crushing bite. Supposedly, its fire was very unique, delivering a concussive blast that could shatter bones. Like any dragon, from the tip of its snout to the tip of its tail, every feature of its form was designed to kill and destroy. For some reason, it had reminded him of paintings he once saw of a tiger, except this one had wings and fire and scales.

Besides, even if he could kill the dragon, he wouldn't want to because he was actually hoping to befriend it tonight.

As he lay there, nothing moved. No sound was made. He slowly rose to his feet, half suspecting the dragon already took off, but then he saw it. In the dim light of the moon stabbing through the clouds, a black form stood atop the edge of the cliff, aloof, teeth bared, quietly growling, wings unfurled and tail slowly lashing side to side in agitation. Skuf could practically hear it demanding to know who dares approach and why said fool shouldn't be struck dead right now.

Periodically, the frills crowning its head would stiffen and twitch around, as if feeling for something. A cautious sort of curiosity could be felt from the dragon, so Skuf felt confident enough to start walking towards it. A growl stopped him at ten paces away. He stooped down to all fours and tried to inch closer, but stopped when the growling intensified.

Skuf suspected why the dragon allowed itself to be found. Whether there were Hooligan dragon whisperers or not, he must be a rare specimen in a dragon's eyes. Beyond that, the workings of this creature's mind were a mystery, but Skuf had his own agenda. He needed to do more to earn the dragon's trust to see if it really could help in stopping Dagur from capturing and enslaving more dragons.

An idea came to mind to help the dragon trust him more. Skuf leaned over and picked up one of his daggers from the ground. The blade was clean, smooth, and sharp enough to shave hair, a fine tool for severing the neck of an unsuspecting foe. The warriors on Berserker Island always took pride in maintaining their daggers, even if the swords and axes got dinged up and stained.

The growling picked up again, but Skuf ignored it as he went down on one knee. It was a crazy idea. Insane, even. He aligned the blade along the length of his leg, careful to miss the artery, and took a deep breath as he ran his mantra through is mind.

Trust is the mother of cooperation.

Before he could change his mind, he thrust his dagger into the soft part of his leg, above the knee. If he were capable of screaming, he would be howling in agony.

This is insane!

Wincing at the pain, Skuf realized he could sense a tinge of remorse from the dragon. His heart sped up at not only the pain and blood loss, but the possibilities here. The beast actually felt bad for the man in a confused way.

This should be enough.

After pulling the dagger out of his leg, he looked at the wound. Blood was trickling out. Lovely! It was a convincing display that he was really injured and, since the cut was in line with the muscle fibers, he should recover quickly and still be able to walk tonight. Before tossing the dagger back to the ground, he wiped it on his sleeve. If his blade was found with blood that wasn't from a dragon - any fool could tell the difference - the suspicions raised may foil his plan.

Steeling himself for the next step, Skuf ran his mantra through his mind.

Trust is the mother of cooperation.

As he slowly limped towards the dragon, he tried to project his intents, his desperation, his need for the dragon to cooperate with him. Silently, Skuf tried to tell the dragon, If you cannot trust that I do not want to harm you, then perhaps you can trust that I am not able to harm you.

The dragon started to growl when Skuf limped up to a few paces away, so he stopped and dropped to one knee. The growling ceased and the dragon stared intently at the Viking through two black slits mounted in acid-green orbs.

Skuf could now see the dragon's features a little better. The moonlight played along the black scales in shifting patterns with every breath it took. Its head was wide and short, mounted on a stocky neck that Skuf imagined would hardly allow for much flexibility. Fins crowned its head on the top and sides, standing out and periodically twitching randomly, as if controlled by a mind of their own. The most interesting detail, though, was the broad leather straps securing a saddle to the dragon's back and a bright red… tailfin?

On Berserker island, Skuf had learned that trying to touch a dragon by approaching it never worked. They instinctively didn't trust people and who could blame them for that? Instead, he learned to simply extend out his hand, and if the dragon was curious enough, it would touch him. Avoiding eye contact also helped the dragon feel more calm, being in control of the situation. Skuf had learned this from the Terrible Terrors as he could feel the fear and suspicion immediately melt away when he averted his gaze.

He could have sworn he heard an exasperated sigh of longsuffering from the Night Fury. Ignoring it, he focused on keeping his thoughts calm and confident as he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

He couldn't tell if it was just him or, maybe, time seems to slow to a crawl when one is unarmed, injured, and kneeling in front of a dragon with his eyes closed in hopes that it will trust him enough to consider cooperating with him to stop a power-hungry madman and help protect a tribe that could cooperate with dragons so that he could learn more about this strange relationship. It didn't help that the warrior he was paired with and abandoned in the forest was stumbling around, searching for Skuf and the dragon, both of whom were right here... assuming the dragon really was still here and didn't-

Skuf's heart jumped into his throat as he felt a warm, scaly nose press into his palm.