It's the eye of the tiger

Olaf's mighty axe cut through the army of in front of him. Sweat ran glistening trails from his furrowed brow, mingling with the blood spatters to create thick valleys of blazing red. Olaf wiped his hand across his face. The liquid on his skin was the colour of the sunsets of his home town of Jorgenvaas. He put down his axe, closed his eyes and hoped that the VCR was set for CSI.