Midgardian Massacre
I’m back in Viking times. Hooray! *Insert sarcasm font here* I like the Vikings, but I wish I wasn’t here. Especially not now.
I’m hiding with some crazy monks that don’t speak my language. They’re clutching their holy books and exclaiming in both confusion – at me being here – and horror because of the Vikings.
The sweet scent of burning hits my nostrils. I clutch at the rough fabric of the sacred table cloth in my hands. Oh god. I hear a loud crash and shouts of triumph and uproar. The pillagers are here. Oh. Oh god, oh god, oh god. They’re here! There’s nowhere to escape now. No way. I can see and hear the monks muttering frantic prayers, sweat glistening on their brows. The doors rattles and the pace of their mutterings increase. The door crashes open – barely still hanging on its hinges. My legs scream, “Run!” But where too? As the Vikings jeered in their peculiar Nordic language, I prayed. Prayed that I would survive this. It was now a matter of life and death. One of the mighty berserkers sneered some insult at me. I was shaking with nerves as a lithe lunatic sauntered towards me, swinging his weapon in hand. Kill or be killed. It was obvious which one would happen to me.
