Rylan lay awake in his room that night, sweating and shaking. Every time he tried to sleep, the image of the exhausted, bloody dragon came to mind, and the roaring cheers of the Outcasts rang in his ears. He'd always known that his tribe was on the rough side, even that they enjoyed battle. But not until today had he truly experienced the frenzy for blood that these people had. 

It was sick and wrong and cruel. He'd seen the fear in that dragon's eyes as it realized that it's life was coming to an end. And Alvin must have seen it too. But that didn't stop him from killing it, coldly, inhumanly. 

Shuddering, Rylan pulled his blankets around himself. Though his room was fairly warm, he felt numb and cold. The house around him creaked and groaned in a strong, cold wind. His father was still out of the house, doubtless drinking or gambling. Rylan squeezed his eyes shut. Up until now, he'd never considered the possibility of leaving Outcast island. Brutal as it might be, this was where he'd lived his whole life, and even where he'd made a friend, though she'd been gone for months.

Her name was Heather, a beautiful dark haired girl who's family had been captured by their tribe. Though she was resentful about the Outcasts, after being forced to perform an obstacle course with Rylan, they'd become friends. He hadn't seen her ever since she'd been shipped off to Berk, though he'd heard stories that she turned traitor and helped them win a battle. 

Rolling over, he wondered if she was still on Berk. If she'd chosen to help them, they must have treated her better than they had. Maybe it was a place to make a better life. 

All Rylan knew was that he couldn't stand another killing like the one he'd witnessed that day. 

 ----------------------

The next morning the heavy wind persited, strengthening into a gale so ferocious, daily training was cancelled. 

Usually this meant a day of rest and relaxation for the young vikings, but Rylan was too steamed up and angry to care. Overnight his feelings of horror had strengthened into a deep, bitter fury, directed at his tribe. 

His father was passed out in his room, snoring thunderously. The dark weather, combined with his excessive consumption of alcohol made it highly unlikely he'd wake up for the rest of the day. 

Comforted by this thought, Rylan threw on a heavy woolen cloak, tightened his padded boots, and fled the house. 

The moment he opened the door, vicious wind ripped through the fabric, leaving him chilled and shivery. But he couldn't stand to be in the town for another moment, so he pressed into the torrential wind. The ground was cold and slippery and , the wind felt like a constant barrier, struggling every second to throw him back. 

Head bowed, he fought forward, icy rain biting through his clothes. His one thought was to get into the forest and let off some steam. 

The town square was deserted, the forges silent, and the shops empty. The only place that seemed to contain life was the crowded pub. Tantalyzingly warm air drifted from it, along with a rorcous drinking song.

Rylan shook his head at the temptation. After seeing what alcohol had done to his father, he had determined never to drink a single drop. 

A few minutes later, he reached the edge of the black forest, and looked back. Determined as he was to get out of town for awhile, his warm house beckoned. A day free from training was tempting, but then Rylan remembered why he was so angry. 

Narrowing his eyes, he turned and plunged resolutely into the black trees of Outcast island. 

The wind soon died a little, its edge taken from its constant barriers. Rylan was grateful for the drop, though his ears still ached from exposure to the cold wind. He kicked moodily at the wet soggy leaves strewn across the harsh ground.

As he alowed himself to unwind, his thoughts drifted to the Pyron. Though he knew it was a dangerous animal, it had also been beatiful and powerful. Even as it lay dying, it had seemed determined and strong. Rylan wondered if any person could die with as much honor as the dragon had. 

Rylan struggled not to cry at the memory. Crying was weakness, and the Outcasts did not accept the weak. But he thought of the haunting cries of the trapped dragon and couldn't help it. Hot tears flowed over his face, scorching his cheeks, but making him feel ashamed. 

What was wrong with him? Crying over the death of a dragon? But the beatiful, terrible screams of the Pyron kept returning to him. 

He sat down hard, back pressed against the rough bark of a large tree. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. His mind drifted, but the sounds did not vanish. 

His eyes snapped open. Somewhere, drifting through the wind, was the throbbing voice of a Pyron. He scrambled wildly to his feet. Alone in the misty forest, he wondered if it was the ghost come to haunt him. 

Breathing shallowly, he turned his head. Due to the changing winds, it was hard to tell where the sound was coming from. Sometimes it was faint, others it seemed as if the dragon was shrieking in his ear. 

Finally, he determined where it was coming from. And he started walking towards the noise, as if in a trance. No matter what the dragon might do to him, he had to see a Pyron again. 

The sounds dipped and warbled, but they eventually lead Rylan through the trees and to a small cave set deeply into the side of a cliff. 

The mouth was black and forbidding, the unearthly sounds echoing up from within. But he couldn't help himself. Ducking inside the cave allowed him to see a little, due to the thin grey light. 

For a moment it seemed to be empty. Then Rylan looked down. 

A tiny, sightless baby dragon lay curled on the ground, shrieking with lonliness and fear. It was the majestic Pyron in miniature with nubs of yellow horns, horizontal stripes, and thin black scales. A small pair of batlike wings were tucked tightly against it in an effort to keept out the cold. 

For a moment, Rylan could do nothing but stare. The baby Pyron suddenly stopped wailing and flopped upright, sniffing in his direction. Possibly it thought he was it's mother (For he now realized the the dead Pyron must be this dragon's mother) or else some other animal. 

A small puff of chill wind burst through the cave mouth, and the Pyron shivered with cold, croaking weakly.

That did it. Rylan bent down and scooped the tiny dragon into his cloak. It had firm, scaly skin, but its wings were velvety and soft. He slumped to the floor of the cave, cradling the dragon against him. Warm and cozy, the dragon hummed softly, deep in its throat. He numbly stroked it, feeling shock and excitement and fear all at once. 

He was holding a dragon hatchling. A rare dragon hatchling. And it trusted him as it's mother. He shook his head, trying to comprehend what was happening. 

His tribe could never find out about this. They'd take it away, hurt it, probably kill it in the end. It, it, it. If he was going to watch out for this dragon, and he knew he would, it needed a name. 

He opened his cloak a little to see the Pyron. It slumbered happily, smoke curling from its nostrils. He tried to turn it over to see if it was a boy or girl, but there was no way to tell. Shrugging, he decided the dragon was a boy. Stroking its stomach, he tried to think of a name.

Suddenly, the little dragon gave a small cough, and sparks of electricity flew from its mouth. They connected with Rylan's fingers, giving him a jolt of electricity. Shuddering, he whispered, "Alright then. Jolt it is."