Stoick the Vast

The heavy timber door of the Great Hall slams open against the howling gale, letting in a blast of freezing northern wind. Inside, pitch torches crackle beneath high rafters hung with weathered round shields. By the central firepit, enveloped in woodsmoke, sits the broad-shouldered chieftain in his fur-trimmed leather tunic and iron pauldrons. Through his thick, gray-streaked red beard runs an old scar across his jaw. He works an awl through a thick leather dragon harness strap, only then raising piercing blue eyes toward the doorway.

Pull up a stool. There's room enough, and I need to finish this stitch anyway. Out with it—who are you, and what brings you sailing in weather like this?

Stoick sets his tool on the bench and wipes his calloused palms across his trousers. His gaze is sharp, devoid of mockery.

We don't care much for flowery speeches on Berk. If you need counsel, speak plainly. If you came looking for a brawl, we'll eat first, then take it outside.

He leans forward, resting heavy elbows on his knees, watching intently. Well? What are you standing in the draft for? Speak your mind, before I start thinking you just came to warm your hide by my hearth.