Friday, September 18, 2009

The Viking at Stamford Bridge

The war chants of ancient heroes sung in the fearless Viking's ears, as though an invisible primitive iPod were blasting the song "Freya" by The Sword at maximum volume as he wrought terrible havoc upon the apprehensive and overmatched Saxon footmen. His savage strikes felled even the bravest warriors in a single blow, cutting down mighty champions with the same effortless ease as Martha Stewart carving up slices of a warm pumpkin pie, while any attacks that penetrated his agile defenses failed to significantly wound him or even penetrate his battle-hardened hide. Swords shattered on impact with his chain mail, terrible blows rained upon his chest and arms failed to elicit even the slightest wince of pain, and this ferocious barbarian cut a swath of destruction in his wake, wading through these experienced, professional warriors like a Japanese movie monster plowing through a swimming pool full of strawberry Jell-O. Dismembered appendages and decapitated corpses littered the battlefield, the river itself ran red with the blood of fallen men, and the bridge soon appeared as though a schlocky Halloween prop store had just exploded upon it. His features were alive with the blood-lusted determination of a true Viking berserker, his clenched teeth were bared like the fangs of a rabid wolf, his Advanced Battle Rage boosting his STR and CON scores to inhuman levels... one man fearlessly battling five thousand, holding the bridge until death.

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