Flight of the Rocket Ripper: Chapter 1

 I live on a magical little hunk of rock called Berk, and I say that VERY sarcastically. It's a dangerous, uncomfortable place to live that's winter most of the year and stormy the rest. The Viking village that is stubborn and stupid enough to stay here is really old, but it's okay to live in. At least, I haven't known anything else my whole life. The people are smelly but pleasant, and nowhere else on Berk offers the protection of a village of battle-hungry Vikings.


And boy, do we need protection. I mean, the village, I guess, HAS gotten...well, people SAY it's gotten safer since the whole "Vikings vs Dragons" war ended, but I don't call huge, deadly, spiked, pointy FIRE-BREATHING wild animals living among accident-prone warriors--in a village made mainly of highly flammable wood--safe.

Then again, the dragons aren't PURPOSEFULLY trying to roast us and only the younger ones eat the occasional sheep by accident, so it's kind of up in the air.

 I guess I'd better explain. Some of you may not have any idea what I'm talking about, so I'll quit ranting and try to make more sense. Let's back up.

  For three-hundred-something years, the Vikings of Berk have been at war with the entire dragon species, because they basically made Berk their hunting ground and us their food of choice. And our sheep. And most of the fish. ....Plus they set our village on fire almost every other night. You get the idea.


  But about, like, a year ago, a boy named Hiccup Horrendous Haddock, son of Stoic the Vast, who's the chief of our village, went and changed our world.


  I don't really know him that well, but he used to be really hard to miss. Not because he was attractive, because he's definitely not. Not because he was really gifted, either. No, he was hard to miss because he messed everything up constantly.

Let me see here...if I remember correctly, he's burnt three huts to the ground, ruined an entire night's feast for the village, gotten himself lost six times, and nearly drowned twice. And that's just the stuff he did I can remember off the top of my head!

Hiccup miraculously shot down a Night Fury dragon (which is the deadliest dragon we know of) by accident with one of his contraptions one night. See, despite being the son of the mighty chief, he's a scrawny pencil-bones with zero skill as a warrior. He worked at the Forge with Gobber while the other teens were putting out fires and helping to catch dragons. But Hiccup is incredibly smart. He knows how to build things off the top of his head.

So he shot down a Night Fury, found it in the woods, and instead of killing it, befriended it and  learned how to ride it, which was unheard of. There's a lot of details I'm leaving out, but long story short, he managed to convince our village that dragons didn't have to be our enemies. They just had to be...well, trained.

Basically, the Vikings of Berk have been living with mostly peaceful pet dragons crawling all over the place for a year now. It's been...eventful. There. You're up to date.


    Now we can talk about me. Where do I start...? Well, I'm a sixteen-year-old girl with brownish-blonde hair. My Aunt says I have my Dad's gray blue eyes.


 Oh! And my name's Arabella.

 I know, right? I used to ask my parents if they WANTED me to get carried off by a Troll. I mean, how many terrifying Viking maidens do you know who survive to their thirties with a name like "Arabella"?! None! It's a princess name, that's what it is. No one shouts "Behold, the mighty and terrible ARABELLA!!" if I ever go charging in to battle. Even my NAME mocks me.


Honestly. What kind of name is anything with the word 'bell' for a Viking? Gosh.


But I'll cut the rant, for now. Anyway, not only do I have a wimpy name, my job's not much better. Some kids put out fires, some kids fish, or hunt, work at the forge, or even train dragons....and I'm Arabella the Viking baker.

Yep. I work at the Gathering Hall to prepare meals for the village every night. You can imagine what it's like. Hot, loud, and mind-numbingly boring. At least the smell of the cooking food overpowers the smell of the old cooks. They're all retired Vikings who only stop complaining about my work long enough to prattle on and on about their glory days in battle.

I'm the only one my age there, and it's pretty lonely. When the older cooks notice me, they lecture me on how to roast the lamb (even though I've done it ten thousand times) and how to smoke the fish.

The only bright side is the leftovers I get to take home. It keeps my Aunt busy so I don't have to hear her remarks about...well, anything. She's old, and senile, and annoying. I thing she had one too many hits on the helmet back in her fighting days. She talks waaaay too much, and never runs out things to say.

As for my uncle, he's always out at the dragon arena, watching the dragon trainers. I never see him unless I serve his table at the Dining Hall, because he comes home so late and says so little.


  My aunt, my uncle, and I all three share a hut that's way too big for us near the catapults and closest to the woods. My aunt stays home all day doing who knows what, I bake, and my uncle does Viking stuff.


  Sounds really boring, right? Well, it is.  I would love an adventure, but I'm stuck in the kitchens.


  And this's where my story begins.


******



  My eyes popped open at the sound of a reptilian shriek. Dragons. I don't know how I ever get to sleep.

  I climbed out of bed, yawning and stretching. At least the noise gets me up on time each morning for work.

Today marked the day before my birthday. Excited?...actually, I couldn't care less.

  I swept my hand under my bangs and flipped them up. I have a habit of doing that: it makes them look fluffier, I think. The rest of my brown-blonde hair fell tangled around my arms and shoulders. My aunt would love it if I braided it like a normal Viking maid, but braiding takes too long, and I was almost always late to work.

  So instead I stumbled across my bare attic bedroom to the only other piece of furniture besides my bed, a warped wooden dresser, and snatched up a strip of white, ragged cloth to tie my hair in a loose ponytail.

  A few of my longer grown out bangs fell into my grayish eyes as I tore open the door and trotted downstairs.


 Aunt Girtha was holding up a piece of frayed string and squinting at it with way too much interest. Why? I don't know! I told you, she's weird. She doesn't get out much, so she's plump, but that's to be expected of any adult Viking and one or two teens. She wears a headband to keep her short and graying brown hair out of her eyes and a long fur vest with a faded kilt.


  She can't see well, but she has ears like a hawk. Come to think of it, she has a nose like one too...

  She heard me come down the stairs and whipped around with this happy grin on her face. I don't know what there was to be happy about; it was pouring down rain outside and our hut leaks.

  "G'mornin, love!" she quipped. She has a really high voice and if I hadn't answered "Morning." she would have kept on talking.


  I sat at the fireplace and stoked the flames, hoping to get enough warmth to last me for the run through the cold rain from the hut to the Gathering Hall.


  Aunt Girtha laid her piece of string across her wrist and stroked the last inch. "Excited about your birthday t'morrow?"

  I didn't turn around. "Uh, well, not much to be excited about."

  Aunt Girtha waddled over to the fireplace. "Whatever can you mean, lass? What isn't to be excited about! You've got gifts, a party, string..." she stroked her string.

  I stared at her for a second. Sometimes I wonder if she even hears herself talk. And what in the world does string have to do with a birthday?! Never mind, you know what, let's just get on with it.

  "Well, let's think about it, Aunt." I sarcastically counted on my fingers. "I've got no family, besides you, and I don't even see Uncle Grumble, so no gifts, and no friends, so forget the 'party' thing."



  "Now, love!" scolded Girtha, waving her string in my face. "You may live with your uncle and I now, and there's nothing ye can do about that. But as for the friends bit, why, that's your own fault! Ye just need to get out there and make some friends, by Oden!"


  Oh, great. The 'make some friends' lecture.

  "Please, Aunt Girtha!" I huffed, exasperated. "I'm an orphan baker girl. Who in their right mind would want to be my friend?!"

  Aunt Girtha suddenly quit caring about the string, because she tossed it into the flames and stamped her stubby foot. "Ooh, nonsense, m'dear!"

  She leaned down and lifted my chin with a finger. "You're smart, pretty, and smart."

  I tried not to ruin the compliments by pointing out she'd said "smart" twice.

  "There's no reason the other young lasses and lads shouldn't want to be your friend."


I pulled away and headed for the door. "Yeah, except for my--"


  Just then a bright orange Terrible Terror dropped from the rafters and landed on my shoulders with a shriek.


I yelped and tossed my arms into the air, trying desperately to get the little dragon off of me.


As my Aunt's pet Scramble flapped from my shoulder to land on hers, I finished, "....my fear."


That's right, ladies and gentlemen.


I'm deathly terrified of dragons.

***