In a marsh, at the foot of the Misty Hills, not far from Herot, came the Beast of the Bog: Grendel. He was hoping for the taste of blood, planning to kill anyone he could trap. Little did he know that weary eyes were watching.
Grendel had never met a man as strong and on par with himself. Beowulf and his band of men seized Grendel with their swords and their courage.
Beowulf and his men chopped, stapped and hacked at Grendel. Try as they must, but Grendel was strong and their blades did not affect him. All Beowulf and his men could do was tire the beast.
Grendel grew angrier and angrier, but he was now very weak. He struggled against Beowulf, but his claws were tied up and pain came upon his arm...RRRIIIIPPPPP!
Beowulf was the victor of the bloody battle. Grendel had escaped the Danes, but not death. He fled back to his hole near Herot, only to rot. His arm had been torn off and as Grendel wept, Beowulf and the Danes laughed drinking mead through the night.
Voices of laughter filled the Hall of the King. Mead was tossed and celebration rang out across the land like the roar of the dragon that once terrorized these parts. Hung in the rafters where all could see was the arm of the Beast of the Bog.