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I just submitted my Avitar in the Arena. I wrote this kick a** story but the Bastards only let you post 1000 letters so I had to chop my story down. Here is the real story.

Resting in his Long house, the weary Viking drinks from his goblet of mead while his most recently kidnaped village woman massages his battle tied shoulders. When, from outside, a great clamor arose. The village warning bell was frantically being sounded. Warriors rushed out from their homes hastily to answer the call.

From atop the watch tower the cry of, "The Romans are coming! The Romans are coming," steeled the hearts of many combat veteran Nords. With little time to prepare for the fourth coming battle. I rose up, donned my helm, grasped my mighty war hammer and rushed to join my comrades. I felt not the chill of the winter day for my blood boiled with hate toward those who would attack us here. "By Odin let them come that we may earn our place among our fathers," I swore an Oath.

From the crest of the Southern Hillside we caught our first glimpse of the Advancing Roman Legion. Trails of fire and smoke streaked the sky as their archers and catapults let fly burning arrows and Greek fire pots. Straw thatched roofs soon were lighted, turning our village into a bonfire. " Hold," I shouted to my fellows, "First comes the fire, then the footmen and soon the horses. Stand your ground, soon enough Hel will drink Roman blood." They knew I spoke wisdom and we readied ourselves for the assault.

With the usual Roman predictability, the foot soldiers were soon marching down the hill in their tight formations. "Ready yourselves for their Javelins," I yelled. Carts were overturned, shields raised and barrels stacked to provide us protection from the deadly missiles. When at once the soldiers were within throwing range, they began hurling their javelins, all the while stepping forward as one.

A few of the foolish fell. "Just a bit closer, " I said peeking out from behind a horse cart. Three more steps and "Now! By the Beard of Thor," We yelled our battle cries as we charged the Roman line. Hammer, Axe and Sword rang upon tower shields with the sound of a hundred blacksmiths. Many of our strokes found Roman flesh and the ground was soon slick with the life water of Roman and Nord alike.

I was hard pressed by several attackers who pushed me into a burning armory. I stumbled upon the smithy's anvil and fell into a cauldron of smelted Iron. The pain was immeasurable and yet somehow I was not destroyed. With my skin burning as the melted Iron clung to it, I climbed from the cauldron and rejoined the battle.

The coldness of the snowy air was rapidly cooling the Iron upon my skin, hardening it like hammered platemail armor. As I fought, the new metal skin I was encased in formed seams where my body moved preventing me from hardening solid.

Now in my impervious armor [so I thought] I rushed headlong into the fearful Romans. They believed that I must be a God to appear so and suffer no harm from their weapons. One among them, however, feared neither man nor God. The Legionare Octavious Gretcous saw the fearsome damage I was doing to his army. Kicking his heels into his Spanish Stallion, he Galloped down into the battle with his spear held ready. I turned to face his charge, pulling my War hammer back, waiting to send the Brash young Officer to Hel. However, the Gods are fickle and though I was armored most everywhere, my eyes bore no such protection. When I began to swing my hammer upwards to crush his chest, the tip of his spear found my eye. I know not what happened with the battle next, for I awoke as from a dream to find myself standing within the halls of Valhalla.

Sitting at the great feast table before me were the God's themselves. Slowly they turned their heads to see this newly dead Viking and from Odin’s mouth erupted Tremendous laughter , "HAHAHAHA he was killed without his pants on."