*The rolling plains and arid rocks are my home, my kingdom. From snow-tops east, to water-ways west. The ground-split of the north and the stone-woods south. As far as the eye can see, I call these lands my own. I travel from hall to hall, from mead-bench to mead-bench, and celebrate the greatness of my domain with my sibling-people, who know my name, the ones who call me their king.* --- A lone rider pulls his hat down onto his brow to shield his eyes from the sky-blaze up high. Dust stirs up around his polyleather boots as his feet hit the ground. With a practiced slap, he activates his steed's hibernate pattern and the whirring of its motors is replaced by the soft moans of the dying man. The rider spits on the ground and saunters over to the man that hangs impaled on the giant needles of a desert-tree, the colour of the blooming flowers on top matching the crimson that adorns the man's clothes wounds-down. "Where'd it go?" The near-dead man's eyes widen at the sight of the rider's face. He lifts his arm, almost, gesturing towards the mountains in the east. "My king...I'm sorry..." The rider follows his vassal's gesture, grimaces and draws his lightgun. "Rest now, friend." One blast, a tiny puncture through the heart. A mercy kill, really. --- *Men do not know whither the demons go in their wanderings. But I am no mere man. I am the King of the Geats, as my father before me. My rule is just, my friends are loyal, and their dedication to me is returned ten-fold in times of need. This beast misjudged its actions. This demon picked a fight with the wrong foe. For I do not fear the man-fiend and I will not rest while it does not lies slain before me.* --- The light is failing, scorching heat from the rock-plains evaporating with it as the sky is filled with the homes of a billion different worlds. Rock-cold inhabits the bones of the rider, his eyes set on a beacon of light in the darkness. Heorot. The hall-dwelling at snow-top's feet, the east-most outpost, ever on watch, ever vigilant. The rider does not announce his arrival at the gates, he simply dismounts, staying in the dark, observing. Hours pass and the roar of banquet-feast, song and mead makes place for the hush of night. And still the rider waits. A lack of light approaches, unhurried and purposeful, massive as it is opaque. It circles Heorot twice before it reaches out and hoists itself up to the dwelling's walls. There it stands and stretches to its full height. Breath mists in the air as a rumbling howl fills the air. Dread incarnated. Grendel kills people. Beowulf fights Grendel. Beowulf rips off Grendel's arm. Arm is displayed, but after two days, Grendel's mum approaches.