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<blockquote data-quote="Tsillanabor" data-source="post: 3717054" data-attributes="member: 40432"><p>Wael entered the room. He was an elderly man-he had been a servant of the house since before Brock was born. After the fall of Magnus, he had waited faithfully for the many years for Brock’s return. Many had not.</p><p></p><p>He walked up to Brock, “A messenger has arrived from Hrothgar of Heorot.”</p><p></p><p>At one time Hrothgar had been an occasional ally of Magnus. They had raided together and seen each other as equals. Hrothgar was one of the few lords within his reach that Magnus had not subjugated as he rose in stature. Since that time the House of Heorot had fallen somewhat as Hrothgar aged. He should have long since abdicated and allowed his son Heorc to rule, but he had not.</p><p></p><p>“Show him in,” Brock told his servant.</p><p></p><p>Wael showed the messenger into the room. Brock adopted a regal bearing. His companions eyed the newcomer with interest-except Garusha, who snored loudly. Wiglaf elbowed her awake. The messenger’s clothes were filthy with dust from the road. His hair was wind-swept and his forehead was dotted with sweat. He had obviously ridden hard to get to Geatmon.</p><p> </p><p>“A great beast has besieged noble Heorot,” the messenger told the group, “he slays our villagers and our warriors, and none can stand against him.”</p><p></p><p>“So why come to us?” Rigor asked.</p><p></p><p>The messenger was taken aback by this. “We have heard of your exploits in the lands below,” he replied, “and we were hoping to ask for your aid in combating Grendel.”</p><p></p><p>“What’s in it for us?” Garusha taunted.</p><p></p><p>“Hrothgar knows that his days will be short and full of misery if Grendel’s rampage is not stopped. He will reward you handsomely from his treasury,” the man offered.</p><p></p><p>Brock stood, “I will go. Who is with me?” </p><p></p><p>The others agreed to travel to Heorot the next day. After the messenger left Brock told them that bold actions would help their reputations immensely in Kyrlund.</p><p></p><p>“Maybe I’ll write a song about our exploits,” Wiglaf offered with a wry grin.</p><p></p><p><em>The souls of the slain cried out for bloody vengeance</em></p><p><em>Their spirits finding no rest from ignoble deaths</em></p><p><em>Hearing their anguish, Brock was willing to answer</em></p><p><em>A true son of Kyrlund riding to face his wyrd</em></p><p></p><p>The group rode for most of the day, for Heorot was distant. They rode through the snowy wilderness and Brock pointed out the sites of his father’s battles. They arrived at the village late in the afternoon. Brock saw the vacant stares of people who have lost hope everywhere he looked. Makeshift barriers were fastened over most of the windows, but Brock doubted that the barriers would hold up to even a blow from his axe. </p><p></p><p>Most ominously, a number of homes were nearly destroyed. The straw roofs had been torn through and the walls smashed in. </p><p></p><p>“This thing is huge,” Garusha commented, “He reaches down through the roofs.”</p><p></p><p>“Aye,” Brock answers, “perhaps it is a Son of Ymir.”</p><p></p><p>They ride on to Hrothgar’s fortified hall. It was a fine hall, richly ornamented with strong stone walls. Heavy wooden shutters covered the windows and the wooden doors were massive and iron-bound. The group noticed several places that had been hastily repaired.</p><p></p><p>“Look at this,” Rigor said as they approached the doors. Four deep gouges were rent into the iron. “Claws,” Rigor continued, “this thing is incredibly strong as well as huge.” </p><p></p><p><strong>Next: Hrothgar!</strong></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Tsillanabor, post: 3717054, member: 40432"] Wael entered the room. He was an elderly man-he had been a servant of the house since before Brock was born. After the fall of Magnus, he had waited faithfully for the many years for Brock’s return. Many had not. He walked up to Brock, “A messenger has arrived from Hrothgar of Heorot.” At one time Hrothgar had been an occasional ally of Magnus. They had raided together and seen each other as equals. Hrothgar was one of the few lords within his reach that Magnus had not subjugated as he rose in stature. Since that time the House of Heorot had fallen somewhat as Hrothgar aged. He should have long since abdicated and allowed his son Heorc to rule, but he had not. “Show him in,” Brock told his servant. Wael showed the messenger into the room. Brock adopted a regal bearing. His companions eyed the newcomer with interest-except Garusha, who snored loudly. Wiglaf elbowed her awake. The messenger’s clothes were filthy with dust from the road. His hair was wind-swept and his forehead was dotted with sweat. He had obviously ridden hard to get to Geatmon. “A great beast has besieged noble Heorot,” the messenger told the group, “he slays our villagers and our warriors, and none can stand against him.” “So why come to us?” Rigor asked. The messenger was taken aback by this. “We have heard of your exploits in the lands below,” he replied, “and we were hoping to ask for your aid in combating Grendel.” “What’s in it for us?” Garusha taunted. “Hrothgar knows that his days will be short and full of misery if Grendel’s rampage is not stopped. He will reward you handsomely from his treasury,” the man offered. Brock stood, “I will go. Who is with me?” The others agreed to travel to Heorot the next day. After the messenger left Brock told them that bold actions would help their reputations immensely in Kyrlund. “Maybe I’ll write a song about our exploits,” Wiglaf offered with a wry grin. [I]The souls of the slain cried out for bloody vengeance Their spirits finding no rest from ignoble deaths Hearing their anguish, Brock was willing to answer A true son of Kyrlund riding to face his wyrd[/I] The group rode for most of the day, for Heorot was distant. They rode through the snowy wilderness and Brock pointed out the sites of his father’s battles. They arrived at the village late in the afternoon. Brock saw the vacant stares of people who have lost hope everywhere he looked. Makeshift barriers were fastened over most of the windows, but Brock doubted that the barriers would hold up to even a blow from his axe. Most ominously, a number of homes were nearly destroyed. The straw roofs had been torn through and the walls smashed in. “This thing is huge,” Garusha commented, “He reaches down through the roofs.” “Aye,” Brock answers, “perhaps it is a Son of Ymir.” They ride on to Hrothgar’s fortified hall. It was a fine hall, richly ornamented with strong stone walls. Heavy wooden shutters covered the windows and the wooden doors were massive and iron-bound. The group noticed several places that had been hastily repaired. “Look at this,” Rigor said as they approached the doors. Four deep gouges were rent into the iron. “Claws,” Rigor continued, “this thing is incredibly strong as well as huge.” [B]Next: Hrothgar![/B] [/QUOTE]
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