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In the hall of Hrothgar, the Danish King and his warriors spend an evening of drinking and celebration.
Angela Wood 9/9/2016 Crystal Dunham
He was spawned in that slime, conceived by a pair of those monsters born of Cain, murderous creatures banished by God, punished forever for the crime of Abel's death.
Hrothgar's warriors fall into a heavy slumber after a night of festivity, unaware of the danger that lurks outside. The monster Grendel approaches the mead hall of sleeping men.
He slipped through the door and there in the silence snatched up thirty men, smashed them unknowing in their beds and ran out with their bodies, the blood dripping behind him, back to his lair, delighted with his night's slaughter.
In that gray morning, they saw how well he had worked and broke their long feast with tears and laments for the dead. Hrothgar, their lord, sat joyless in Herot, a mighty prince of mourning the fate of his lost friends and companions. He wept, fearing the beginning might not be the end.
How the monster relished his savage war on the Danes, keeping the bloody feud alive, seeking no peace, offering no truce, accepting no settlement, no price in gold or land, and paying the living for one crime only with another. No one waited for reparation from his plundering claws. That shadow of death hunted in the darkness, stalked Hrothgar's warriors, old and young, lying in waiting, hidden in mist.
In his far-off home Beowulf, Higlac's follower and the strongest of the Geats and anywhere in this world, heard how Grendal filled nights with horror and quickly commanded a boat fitted out, proclaiming that he'd go to that famous king, would sail across the sea to Hrothgar, now when help was needed. As he was loved by the Geats: the omens were good, and they urged the adventure on.
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