I don't think that's what she wanted to hear.
Bruhilde:
(Glares at "Darksheare." Grabs wooden club and chases him across the thread, as Pterodactyls fly and squawk overhead.)
AAAAARRRGGGGHHHH! GRUNT!
Hey, she may have promised me Valhalla, but I don't like the thouight of eternally getting my head cut off and put back on!