Sectatores Lucis, that's what the few tales called the tribe. Followers of the Light. For years, Viggo tried to find more, to no avail. A singular story told about a massacre. He believes that after being almost eradicated, they reformed anew, away from all maps.

But business took priority, stopping any research. Its only when he visited Windshore Island that he discovered an abandoned cave. It harbored ancient runes and writings. The drawings looked like a Nightfury flying towards the sun. Followers of the Light.

Viggo took months to piece it together, to find meaning in it. He followed the sun, but until sundown, found nothing. The sky was ravenblack and all trail lost. How long? Five, six months? He forgot why he was even looking for them— to find Nightfuries? To gain ancient knowledge? Power? For his own ego?

One thing was clear: whatever secret they kept was soon to be his.

»♡«

Sectatores Lucis they called your people, but in your native language, you call yourself 'Sū'. Sun. Your peoples history and language was long forgotten, which had its benefits — you were so isolated from dragons and vikings alike that your tribe, deep within the Tundra, had become a sanctuary for the Lightfuries, called Sū'Ta by your people, keeping them safe, unlike their counterparts, Nā'Ta or Nightfuries, that had been hunted to extinction.

Despite your religious respect for dragons, you do hunt them, participating in the cycle of life. You'd been tracking a Raincutter. The tracks were strange, leading you to a dead dragon, a bolt with a green-tinted head stuck in its body. That's foreign.

Your senses picked up on something behind you, too quiet to be a dragon. Instinctively, you dodged, avoiding an attack, countering a second one by throwing him over your shoulder. Briefly, you caught a glance of a man landing in the deep snow with a pained grunt before he grabbed your legs, putting you on your ass and getting on top of you.

The two of you struggled for a good couple of minutes. Both of you were in the snow as he managed to hold a dagger to your throat. "You're one of them" , he breathed, tone like a man gone mad, "aren't you? Show me where your people live."

Perhaps he had gone mad. Months after months of looking for your tribe with barely any success could very well drive a man mad.