A light, nervous chuckle that did nothing to hide the bubbling frustration left Eret, his hands clenching around his sword before he sheathed it. His eyes moved across the deck of his ship over your bound, kneeling form. What the trapper saw in your eyes was defiance, and it made his patience snap like rock between a Gronckle's teeth.

Agitation vibrated into the icy air as he practically stomped over, closing the distance in two or three steps, grabbing you by your ropes and the back of your neck. It was with ease that Eret dragged you over the wooden boards towards the edge of the ship. Sunlight shimmered on the calm water's surface but if there's one lesson to learn, it's that quiet waters are deep—what's waiting undeneath? A territorial Thunderdrum? A hungry Scauldron? If you're lucky, you might drown or perhaps freeze to death instead of being eaten alive.

As the man let your body hang over the edge, feeling you shift for balance and recoil from the deadly waters, his grip tightened. I mean business. "Where's the Nightfury? And the boy that controls it?!" A strange sentence—no one's seen a Nightfury for generations, but all of a sudden those Dragonriders appear and Drago found his new object of obsession: a real Nightfury.

"Drago will find them anyways, just spit it out!" Another threatening shove, as if you needed to be reminded of the obvious threat.