Short Story

“WELL I DARE YOU TO ATTACK THE TOWN OF HEOROT.” He bellowed out. The whole room went silent. Then the only sound was claws

The room was filled with a deep, deafening unbroken silence for many minutes after, nobody moved, or even dared to utter a single noise. We heard the crashing noise of many supports and other structures falling from their support and as I moved towards the entrance, trying to open the door, it wouldn’t move an inch, clearly having been blocked by a pillar of wood and stone.

The monster's hatred rose higher, but his power had gone. He twisted in pain, and the bleeding sinews deep in his shoulder snapped, muscle and bone split and broke. The battle was over Beowulf has been granted new glory." (lines 366-393 The second of the anglo saxon's values; strength, fortitude, and dauntlessness.

This wasn’t what I wanted but I had to be brave, I had to protect my clan. Asger gave me a hopeful look and hit my shoulder with power as I ran past, nodding and sending me forward. I put on a brave face and bared my teeth and then bit down on my shield- sword raised up and swinging around my head wildly. I roared as I came within a famne of the first row of our enemies.

He ducked as I slid my sword across the air. The magnificent beast I was welding was begging to slice into someone and drink their iron rich blood. The Willowan man is twice the size of me and much stronger, but I am much more fast and nimble. He attacks me, aiming for me left side. I step aside and slash my sword through his last rib. His face turns blank and he falls to his knees. As I walk away I hear his blood gurgle in his mouth. He was wrong to think that he could possibly beat me.

My armor, which has shielded me before, I began to take off. My protection has been ripped from me as for Grendel is no match for me, my bare hands are all I will use. Fighting is my strength and I foresee me as dangerous Grendel. Proving my strength and courage I will fight unarmed, therefore death will come to me or Grendel at this Battle. Although, Grendel is vigorously strong, whereas I know sword play, I was unarmed, but confident with myself. Waiting in the darkness for the enemy to arrive. Preying on the innocent, feeding on flesh, would come to an end tonight, eager and enthusiastically waiting for the demon to make a move. The waiting is over blows from the ruthless began, he started manipulating a Geat on a bench. The claws approach

Forward the axe flew like lightning through the air, it’s spinning vortex leering at me as it seeks to cull my life. I raise my shield, a thundering THOOM! echoing across the battle as the axe sinks it’s teeth into the bulwark of my defense. I step forward my arm of sixty seven years wielding my broadsword like one would hold a lover’s hand and then the hymn of Asgard fills my soul. The gods accept my victory as they have many times before. My foe falls to my feet, life-less in this realm, but more alive than he ever has been in another. I am Vunrdum, warrior elite to Jarl Tyrnarion and legend for shield and blade. All my life I have fought, I have stood upon the ruins of the Paris wall. I have taken a life from all of the kingdoms

Men and women screaming in pain and screaming of war.The two of the strongest factions of all time the Knights and the Vikings battling it out to the end and never seeing the peace between each other.Raider one of the warriors from the Vikings was on the battlefield covered in blood from his victim, on the other side of the battlefield the warden from the knights was being attacked by two Viking warriors.One of the vikings was a Berserker a man from nature itself, he wielded two handed axes and swung like a maniac who had a thirst for blood, the other viking was a Warlord a man who held a shield that represented his strength and a Gladius a sword that represented his viciousness in war.The Warden barely keeping his

Clashing swords against hardened scaly skin, dragons, monsters, blood and gore, feast of drunken celebrations and tales of legendary personal feats- these are the ideas that engross our minds when imagining the Scandinavian-Anglo-Saxon literature. Yet these classics, as beautifully and memorable the words flow, have been touched by the minds of many hands, of many cultures, causing differing and opposing ideology inflicted on main characters. Such as, in Beowulf, where he is depicted as both heroic yet iniquitous, depending on which battle one reads. Beowulf character’s contrasting facets come in part of the two cultural and religious doctrines, Christians Anglo-Saxons and Norse Scandinavians, which took apart in rewriting the epic poem.

Even though dawn had now broke and the sun began to make its way through the land of the Danes, the sinister laugh from the unsightly creature remained to haunt the minds of the survivors. Thirty men the monster murdered. The creature’s attack was cold-blooded in that it took place after every man was sound asleep and undefended. A few fortunate ones fell in their slumber while the less fortunate perished from the brutish beatings of the beast. His escape painted over the grounds of the misty forests and hills and lay a direct, crimson path to the creatures retreat. Of those lucky to have not slept in Herot, the lands finest mead hall, the most thankful was one of Hrothgar’s leaders, Aeschere. His choice of sleeping in his home was greatly affected by his son’s recent coming of age. Aeschere’s time had become his sons for he needed his father 's mastery to become a mighty warrior like his father.

Karine stood close to Julien, inching away from Ser Isocrates, and saw Otus lunge at Emery. Emery swiftly shifted to his right and parried. He swung his sword over his head and thrust out towards Otus's chest. Her brother parried in front of his heart, his sword slanted upwards, and pushed out. Emery's sword flew back and struck him square in the forehead. The crowd of boys and men roared with laughter once again, and Karine couldn't help but giggle a bit

The next few days the warrior stayed in the town. One day I went to go talk to the man. I asked him what he does for a living. He said he was an adventurer who traveled through Skyrim diving into dungeons, and treasure hunting often. This is not an ordinary profession. The next day the sword was finished, and I presented it to him. He seemed very pleased. He admired the great design. He brought a giant’s skull, one of the toughest items in Skyrim. He took the sword, and swung it at the skull. It made a clean cut. It not only had magnificent beauty, but also deadly power. This is a sword to reckon with. The next thing he said was shocking. He asked me to sharpen it. I debated that my mere grindstone would only dull the blade, but he insisted. I sharped it to the best of my abilities and he

If the Danish reach Oslo our kingdom will fall, and our people will die, so stand with me and fight the hoard that beckons beyond those doors,” the king spoke as the gates screeched on their rusty hinges and archers took their positions along the fortress wall. As the gates parted, the Danish knights lead by King Hamlet made landfall, whilst troops on warships lit the fuse on heavy, rusted iron canons. As the fire burnt towards the black powder chamber, the Norwegian knights lead by Fortinbras advanced on Hamlet’s army at which arrows where fired which fell like heavy rain towards them. The Danish knights rose there shiny, silver shields above them deflecting the arrows which left the slightest mark. As the black powder exploded cannonballs where projected with ferocious speed to towards the Norwegian archers. The cannon balls collided with the wall, on which the archers stood, causing the stone to crack and the wall to crumble. The fortress wall fell with the intensity of thunder creating an avalanche of stone burying the archers and any knights who stood below in pile of thick, immovable

The Dwarf Rune-King's cry of victory was cut short, literally; threw back his head and began to shout a cry of Victory! But his cry of pride turned into a scream of horror; a spear had pierced through his throat, blood gushed forth from the wound. On the king's shoulder was… It was a great goblin, he let loose that awful high-pitched screech! With a start; the observing artillery-dwarf realized that this was the same goblin that the champion of the dwarfs dueled for the mountain, he had that same wild, and savage look in his eyes, the blisters fresh from being burned, but he died during the duel…

He was lying face up, mouth agape amongst a thick black beard, milky eyes staring up into the rising tendrils of smoke. He was one of the raiders, wrapped in furs of dense brown and linen heavily stained with blood and sweat. In his hand he still clutched a primitive oaken cudgel, and a spear had been thrust into his gut and left