The maniacal chief strolled along the deck of his ship, fingering his sword with vengeance. A girl not yet nineteen sat, gagged and shackled, in the corner, glaring at him. Her hair was wild and messy and blonde, her eyes were blue and blazed with hatred. She was tiny and covered in all sorts of stolen jewelry and weapons, some of which looked illegal. Her freckled, pale cheeks reddened with more anger as each minute ticked by. She was wearing a black leather suit that would have hidden her routine thievery had it not been for that ridiculously emaciated Skrill that was enslaved to watch whatever was left of that stupid fortress.
The girl shifted her weight--her rear was beginning to ache--and the guards held their spears closer to her throat. The girl's poor chameleon dragon was stuck in a cage, a muzzle around her jaws. The dragon's huge eyelashes were wet with tears, for dragons hate being caged, and her golden eyes were filled with sadness. The creature was a rare Mood dragon that spoke Norse, and right now she was humming a melancholy song while her scales swirled with the depressing grey and blue of the ocean that raged around the ship.
A wave crashed aboard and soaked the prisoner in salty spray. She shook her rat's nest of hair and whipped water over the guards.
The chief tapped his sword restlessly; his quarry was close, he just knew it. His own Skrill sat faithfully at his side, its yellow eyes burning brightly in the fog. The chief fixed a green eye on his right hand man, a middle-aged warrior who was originally from a different tribe. "Savage, turn forty degrees starboard," the chief commanded. "I want to get to Berk as quickly as possible." Savage nodded and pulled on the tiller, changing the ship's course. The chief grinned and looked ahead, rubbing his short red goatee thoughtfully. His armada followed the direction of the lead warship and thunder boomed in the sky, lightning flashing. The prisoner's dragon yelped and cowered in the corner of her cage, her long, sinuous body curling into a knot.
The airborne electricity lit up the chief's tattoos, making him look more menacing. "Hiccup," he muttered, "this time, you're really gonna kiss my boots. You're gonna lose. I will not fall short to Smokebreaths and metal spoons this time. And guess what? You don't have backup, allies, a giant mutant Whispering Death.
"Be ready...brother."