The heat of battle as Ragnar faced down the mighty creature as it reared back on it’s hindlegs, towering over all of the wolves easily if they were do rear back, easily a thousand pounds of muscle upon it was like a secondary drug to the Viking. His blood pounded fiercely and loud in his ears though it was not from fear but the mushrooms that Berserker had consumed. Fear did not exist, in it’s place the Viking knew only rage and protectiveness. To protect these lands, these wolves, his wife and unborn children she carried inside of her. When the bear’s front paws slammed upon the ground causing the earth to vibrate with it’s sheer force, and began it’s charge: directly at Ragnar, the Viking tucked his head down to protect his throat, Pump and Gavriil both attacked it from either side as it surged like a tank towards the daunting silver cloaked Viking whose salmon pink tongue darted out to swipe the blood across his nose and smear it further on his muzzle as if he were tempting the beast. Ragnar rushed the bear then, distracted by the two wolves who attacked it’s flanks, having stopped it’s charge careening to nearly miss slamming into another wolf: covered in mud, small, with something dangling from it’s muzzle. If it was for the fact that this female wasn’t pregnant he might have mistaken the mud covered woman for Thistle, but the lack of babes growing in her womb left only one alternative.
That did bring the Berserker up short and he faltered, momentarily stunned.