On Victims and Vikings

The Viking growls
From under his cowl
His restless impatience to shatter
Knits his eyebrows in scowl
Inside and under his trained civility
Wafts the odor of something foul.

He walks with cudgel raised
Looking for any inch of loss to defend
Holding hostages in hostility
Bring him his mead, he grins
But the blood may flow
The moment boredom sets in.

No one invades, no one contends,
No one will ever take a stand
Against the drunken Viking
Weilding his weapon in hand.

Is there a noble warrior
Left alive in the land?

Or were they all consumed by cudgel or mead?