Back on Berk, Stoick the Vast sat in front of the table in his Chiefly Hut with his head in his hands.
"A Chief feels no pain ..."he was saying to himself over and over again. "A Chief feels no fear ... A Chief is above mere weak personal feelings ..."
But oddly enough this didn't seem to make him feel any better.
"There will be other sons ..." he said to himself. And the wind howling across the ocean and through the wet bracken and blowing open the doors in a flurry of rain seemed to call back to him...
"... but not like Hiccup."
What kind of a Chief am I? he thought to himself wretchedly. Grimbeard the Ghastly would never have hesitated like this! Grimbeard the Ghastly would know it was the Bog-Burglars' fault yet again. He'd have been over there bashing those Bog-Burglars all the way to Valhalla by now...
But then he caught sight of the Roman helmet, and doubts started to creep in.
149 150 Could it possibly be that Hiccup was right and the Romans had found their way into the Inner Isles and were trying to make trouble?
Sighing, he picked up the piece of paper sitting on the table in front of him.
On it he had written:
Plan A: Sale to the land of the Bog-Burglars and starte bashing everybody.
He picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink and wrote:
Plan B: Send a War Partty to look for A Romman Forte.
But which was the right thing to do? Being a Chief was a lonely business.
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