You can still hear the drums, off in the distance, as the clash of iron fades to a dull roar. The world is growing darker, now, and the chain links of your armor seem to be biting into your side with a pumping, swollen rhythm. If you could look down, the rocks would be stained red and slick. And before you, the scarred and cracked shield, near the length of a man, broken at your feet. Surely the price for Valhalla has been paid, and perhaps there you'll rest at last.

You can smile, at that. For all the cuts and the gash running from shoulder to hip, you've held your ground. The enemy has not made it to the longships, at least, and when your men return, they'll cut a rune of remembrance into the great oak of the -

"Yo."

- table, and there will be feasts and songs in your memory. Up beyond the clouds, you might even taste the worldly pleasures subsumed to your great undertaking, and the Valkyries will sing your name. The greatest shield-maiden who ever -

"Heyyyyyyyy."

There you go.

Jesus, I thought you were gonna die on me. Okay, you actually did just die on me, but take a look at yourself now- see the unbroken armor and intact skin and the general not-dead-ness of you? Congrats, sugar, you've made it to Valhalla.

Don't look at me like that, okay? In the future, there's this thing called an equal opportunity initiative. I'm a Valkyrie; play the damn song. Grab your shield and spear and whatever else you want; for some reason we've got to wear our shit up there. Don't ask me why; I think Odin likes to just ogle everyone's gear. See? We're flying now, off to Valhalla. Just sorta climb an invisible staircase and follow me; that's more or less how it works.

And yeah, I'm dressed like a tree. Welcome to the future.

So they tell me, uh, that y'all aren't allowed the touch of a man. Got to preserve one's saintly innocence when bashing skulls in, I guess. Don't worry, we've got these folks called Baptists in the future; your lot would fit right in.

So, uh... yeah. Being a Valkyrie is surprisingly sorta stressful, and when most people you run across are dudes, uh... Yeah, I'm kinda hitting on you; is that in-

JESUS!

Put the spear down; it's an expression. I'm, uh... courting you. Sorta. If you want. After the other Valkyries ran through me like Arby's through a fat man's colon, I've been a little... uh.... amorously deprived. So if you want, maybe come find me after you do your check-in with Big O himself? Touch of a man and all that?

Yeah. That. Glad to see the finger-poking-through-an-OK-sign is universal throughout time and space.

Tell you what, I'll find us some magical Norse hay and we can have a roll. There's three things us fighting types like, y'know. Feasting, fighting, and-

Yup.

Fucking.

Welcome to Valhalla.

A humorous follow-up to this old favorite. This time our intrepid and moderately unfortunate hero has taken his role as an chooser of the slain as an opportunity to bring some desperately needed lewdness to Valhalla of the non-homoerotic variety.

As usual, any replies are welcome whenever, and all past prompts are, most likely, cheerily open.

Kinks? I'unno, what the hell does a Viking lass like? Romance, mead dripping down one's tits with a splashy bum-pumping from behind, and some hand-holding in the afterglow, most likely. Which is great, because I love that shit too. Maybe toss in some cunnilingus, and we'll be good to go.

Limits? Just no child soldiers in Valhalla, please. Gore isn't terribly sexy, either.

^{This was totally written listening to this and this. Don't judge.}