Baldrick The Berserker

Baldrick had been a courageous and daring warrior. First into the fray he would always charge with blood-curdling battle cry, wielding his deadly hammer. But now, the brave Berserker would skirmish no more.

How tenaciously he had defended his territory against the Phantasm of the Fjord...that despicable, white-pelted, shaggy beast of mammoth proportions with slavering chops, barbed teeth and razor-sharp claws. Into the muzzle of death itself Baldrick had stared with unflinching nerve. Only a cowardly, sneak attack from the rear had finally vanquished the stout-hearted fighter. He lay prostrate upon the ground, head almost severed from the neck.

Little remained but to give Baldrick a traditionally grand send-off. To Valhalla he would be borne, where the one-eyed Odin himself would surely be waiting to welcome the finest veteran who ever set foot upon Nordic soil.

From the entrance to its bone-strewn lair, the Phantasm watched the rites of requiem and waited for the accolade, sure to be awarded with all due honors to the victorious in battle. Ears pricked and tail swishing to-and-fro, did it wait...but the anticipated praises did not materialize. Hesitantly, it ventured out in search of the expected commendation.

Baldrick's Chieftain regarded the brute with malevolence as it skulked closer, belly dragging the ground. Hopefully, the creature attempted to lick the hand which, despite repeated warnings about not playing with matches, had just set to burning the ship which would carry the fallen Viking's mangled body to glory.

The salutation bestowed upon the wet-nosed instrument of destruction was far from approving and all too depressingly familiar.

"Bad dog!"

Great Pyrenees

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