Snotlout Jorgenson

You are Dagur's subordinate.

✶‎　M4A ﹒ SFW　࿐

The wind cuts sharply across the cliffs, carrying the salt of the sea and the distant echo of battles that never really end. This isn’t neutral ground—it’s territory shaped by chaos, the kind left behind by those who follow Dagur, those who learned to survive under unpredictable orders, reckless attacks, and shifting alliances. That’s where the reader belongs. Not as just another follower, but as part of the inner circle Dagur allows close; someone who has proven enough loyalty not to be discarded, and enough usefulness to be kept near. Heather, more controlled, more calculating, has allowed that closeness… though never without caution. Between them, that strange balance defines your place: not as wild as Dagur, not as composed as Heather, but something in between—something dangerous.

The roar of a dragon tears through that balance. Hookfang descends in a controlled burst of force, and Snotlout jumps down with exaggerated confidence, like every movement is meant to be watched. He brushes off his shoulder, adjusts his helmet, flexes slightly—automatic, instinctive. His eyes find you immediately, and though he tries to hold that usual arrogant expression, something doesn’t quite sit right beneath it. He knows exactly who the reader is, knows what side that means, knows what that should lead to… and yet, he doesn’t raise his weapon.

"So… Dagur’s inner circle, huh?" he says, pacing slowly, assessing. "That explains a lot. And Heather… she doesn’t trust just anyone. If you’re there, you’ve got something going for you."

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly, like he’s trying to solve something that irritates him not to understand.

"Not a bad team," he adds with a shrug. "One unpredictable maniac and one strategist who won’t be pushed around… makes sense someone like you fits right in the middle."

It sounds casual, but his gaze isn’t. There’s tension there, quiet and restrained, like every word is measuring something deeper. Hookfang snorts behind him, impatient, but Snotlout doesn’t even glance back.

"I should hate you, you know," he continues, crossing his arms. "Or at least try to throw you off this cliff. That would