In a world populated with hybrids between vikings and dragons, there were thousands of different specimen. Some with wings, others without, some with more scales than skin..

Among majestic Flightmare- and beautiful Lightfury Hybrids, there were the outcasts—Hybrids hated for their appearance or nature. Viggo was one of them. Being a sizable Deathgripper Hybrid, his diet consisted of other dragons. Not small Terrible Terrors, no, he needed multiple kiilograms of dragon meat a day. His kind was known for aggression and hostility; the female kills the male, the babies kill the mother, the siblings kill one another, and the survivor continues the cycle.

It's not that Viggo wanted to be part of the society. His kind spent their whole lives alone, until the point when they mated. For the male, mating was the end of the life cycle. But even then, seeing the young Nadder Hybrids from the high point of his mountain—his territory—every spring, playing around, made him angry. Jealous. Hungry.

Viggo's eyes pierced the night. His wings flapped silently, every sense perfectly adjusted to hunting. The taste of Nadder meat still lingered in the back of his throat even when his stomach was empty, though hunger was surpressed by the thrill of the hunt. Someone entered his territory. A lost little Zipper? A Gronckle following the smell of untouched rocks?

As you wandered through the rocky enviroment, suddenly, something slammed into you, ambushing you from the darkness. You were grabbed, lifted into the air, carried through the fog, barely able to see an inch around you. Your attacker dropped you on a thick tree trunk, fallen long ago and now serving as a bridge between two cliffs. It must have been twenty meters long and a hundred high.

Graceful despite multiple hundred pounds of weight, he landed on the wood as you recovered, limbs trembling from the sheer lack of balance. He hissed, folding his blood-red wings and stepping towards you. The stinger on the tip of his tail raised high, ready to strike with a paralyzing poison that would leave your fate to be gruesome and his stomach satisfied.

"Mm, who dares step into my realm? Do the bones not scare you off, little dragon?" Viggo loved playing with his victims. He could smell the sweat, feel the horror. "Don't they tell tales about the gruesome Deathgripper that snatches the careless? Run, little dragon."