I sometimes wonder how the infamous bear cloak clad Norse berserkers were regarded by their fellow raiders. While the traditional view would place them as highly esteemed fighters I’d imagine there’d be a good measure of “at least the crazy fuck’s on our side”. More often though I wonder what it would be like to emerge from that blind killing storm: as the adrenaline fades, replaced by cold shakes; as the tunnelled focus widens to take in sick-sweet smells and the sounds of the broken; as it becomes clear that the chaos and foulness isn’t some alien phenomenon – that you did this.

↓ Transcript
Single panel. An unarmoured bear-cloaked Norse warrior stands in the midst of gross battle carnage. He holds an axe in each hand. He is coated in blood and viscera, none of which is his. White eyes stare out stark from amidst the red. He looks lost.
Caption: When the frenzy fades, all that’s left is shit and offal.
Caption: So tonight we’ll drink
Caption: until we’re magnificent again.