Brunnhilde the Bloody

Two Viking tribes were locked in combat, and Torsten knew he was winning.

The battle raged on upon bloody hills, blood and steel, fear and might. And meow.

Torsten frowned. Meow? He dodged an arrow, hit another warrior, then thought again. Meow. No, surely there couldn’t be a meow.

Urk. He found that he had been stabbed.

Meow.

The blade was pulled out of his chest, and he was face to face with a cat. She was on the shoulder of a large, blonde bearded warrior. She wore a winged helmet and a mini-suit of armor complete with a cape.

He fell.

Yep, it was a cat, he thought to himself, as he hoped to pass onto Valhalla.

“Good Brunnhilde,” said the warrior Harald, but, you know, obviously in Viking.

They plonked the cat on the floor and she wandered over to her clay food bowl.

“I’m really sick of that cat,” said the Viking's wife. He ignored her and stuffed chicken meat in his mouth. “I swear, one day I will throw them out.”

“Bucth I luvde herve” Harald said through mouthfuls, and she shook her head and left the hut. “Don’t listen to her,” he said to the cat, picking her up and stroking her as she purred.

Another day, another battle.

Harald went forth into the battles roaring midst, his faithful cat curled around his shoulders.

“Aha!” he cried, as he took down another opponent, “this is fun!”

“Meow.”

“Yes, I will crush skulls and drink blood, you are right, little kitty!”

“Meow.”

Harald stopped. He then fell backward. Brunnhilde pounced off his shoulders mid-fall.

“Meow.”

Brunnhilde licked her owner's face, but he would not move. Probably due to the number of arrows that added nothing complimentary to his complexion.

“Meow.”

“Oh look, a cat,” said a warrior in front of her holding a bow. “Nice kitty -”

Brunhilde hissed. She then pounced. She made a bloody mess of her opponent.

Skies above began to darken and clouds rolled in, bringing with it thunder and lightning. Brunnhilde hissed and began her glorious battle on the advancing army, decimating them as if they were mice.

All would fear her. Brunnhilde the Bloody.

“Awww, look at Bunny sleeping,” said the cat’s owner at her pet softly sleeping in her cotton bed.

“Hmm hmmm,” said the owner's husband, not looking up from his newspaper.

“I wonder what she’s dreaming about?”

“Probably something to do with mice.”

“Probably, darling. Sweet dreams, Bunny,” she said to the softly smiling cat.