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Pissing off a Viking chieftain can generally only lead to one thing - hurt feelings and a copious amount of bloodshed. Within weeks of Harold Godwinson anointing himself King, a swarming horde of badass Viking warriors sailed into England on a river of blood and immediately began #ing up everything they came across like a rampaging plague of biblical locusts eating the first-born of Egypt during the Great Flood. The armies of Mercia and Northumbria marched forth in a feeble attempt to stem the tide, but both forces were quickly crushed in a frenzy of ball-crunching warhammers and whirling blood-stained longaxes. The town of Scarborough was sacked, pillaged, knocked over, burned to the ground and eaten by wolves, and it seemed as though there was little that the new King could do to slow down this marauding army of insane Viking madmen.
But all of a sudden the entire Saxon army had hopped on their sweet four-wheel-drive ATVs and covered 180 miles in four days, catching the Viking army camping at Stamford Bridge with their #ing loin cloths down. The Norse leaders had not expected the Saxons to mobilize nearly as quickly as they did, and when the horizon suddenly became alive with the fluttering banners and gleaming steel of five thousand enemy soldiers, the Northmen knew they were beyond totally #ed. Most of their armor and weapons, along with one-third of their army, was still waiting back at the ships - nearly a day's march away and about as much use to these disorganized troops as a last season's J. Crew catalog.
Standing astride the bridge was one man. A giant Norse berserker silently surveyed the Saxon army, firmly clutching a massive double-bladed Greataxe in his weathered, calloused hands. A lone Viking hero granted permission by his King to die honorably in combat, tasked with defending the narrow bridge and buying time for his brethren to reorganize. His face was concealed by an imposing horned helm - metal plates reinforcing a mask constructed from the bleached bone remains of a fearsome animal skull, his wild eyes peering through the darkness like searing orbs of white-hot flame. A living demon, sent forth from the darkest recesses of Hell itself to exact brutal vengeance on any mortal brave or foolish enough to cross him, defying anyone with more balls than sense to test his wrath.
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.
After watching this man unleash mayhem so brutal that it would make even the most hardcore MMA enthusiasts nauseous, one clever Saxon warrior wised up and decided not to try and test this barbarian's might. He floated a barrel in the river, hopped in, drifted underneath the bridge, and jammed his spear up through the planks, striking the Viking in his only weak point - the ball sack. The Swift-Footed Achilles had his infamous heel, Smaug the Magnificent had a weak point covering his heart, and the Giant Enemy Crab could be exposed for massive damage - but for this invincible Viking warrior, a spear wound in the junk was the one thing that could slow him down. As he fell to his knees, lamenting his unfortunate situation, the Saxons poured over the bridge and into the now-organized Norse camp. The berserker was dealt one final death blow and began his spiritual journey across the Rainbow Bridge to Valhalla, where he would spend the afterlife chilling out drinking forties of malt liquor with Odin and waiting around for his opportunity to carve his enemies to pieces once again at Ragnarok. With their champion finally slain, the Viking lines eventually collapsed as the vengeful Saxons fell on them like a face-melting Hydrochloric acid rain made out of pointy spears and broadswords. During the battle, King Harald Hardrada of Norway was shot in the damn throat with an arrow, and the influence of the Vikings over the British crown was forever broken.
Full text here.. www.historynet.com...
As Vikings on the east bank of the Derwent raced to prepare for battle, the scouts west of the river faced the task of delaying the English advance across the bridge. Fighting uphill, their backs against the river, the Norsemen were quickly overrun by the oncoming English. What happened next has taken on a mythical quality but is largely accepted: As Harold's troops reached the bridge, they were met by a lone Viking defender, who used his massive battle-ax to cut down numerous challengers (some sources claim 40 Saxons), much to the glee of onlookers on the east bank. The lone warrior's feat provided his compatriots with crucial time to assemble their defense.