Mead, pirates, heroes, women, joy.
The hero rides the wind and waves on a huge warship. It can be said to be invincible and powerful, like a sea ghost collecting debts, never dying, more like a very tempting promise and the beginning of a not very smooth lie, the hero is in Wait while he is in pain.
Whispering, a kind of twitching lash, ugly flesh and blood, jagged teeth, no full-skinned face, not even a fully wrapped body, he was using all kinds of extremely cruel means to end, those that made him want to die but couldn't. After the human beings who could not bear the pain, the old king raised his sword and swore an oath: "Come and fight with me." He secreted all kinds of foul-smelling mucus. The sword's edge under the king's unsturdy figure was glowing with silver light, his scarlet eyes, his twitching teeth, and his mouth opened and closed, finally roaring and running away in pain.
I couldn't understand, made a broken voice, covered my ears, couldn't understand or even couldn't bear the trauma in my heart, and responded to my mother like a child helplessly and weakly. Injuring him, perhaps he thought silently in his heart, that was his father, the blood was flowing, the most intimate responsibility that should have watched him galloping across northern Europe by his side, but now it is a shame, just like the queen rejecting the king Reason: I know you are sleeping with her, how can I share the bed with you again? I don't understand, I don't understand, but under the comfort of my mother's tentacles, the whimper gradually subsided, approaching peace...
We need a hero, fanatical admiration, human superfluous wisdom, capable of using tools, capable of millions of strategies, like a serpent who can catch its prey, like a sigh of loss. Ghosts and monsters, a kind of torture, a kind of mental torture, his heart is like a scab on his body, it will never heal, it has been rotting all the time, and the bones are everywhere. Those who call themselves heroes will be passed down by poetry or many people. Or at least, inflict sword wounds on him, open the gaps in the ribs, and inflict glory on him. He also has pain, and he can't even express it. The whimper sounds sad in the dark night, unspeakable. Those warriors from all over the world, challenge, gold, women, all greed, or to kill monsters, they have the capital to boast, no matter what kind of skill, always make his headache unbearable, it seems that he is one of them. In the battlefield of human beings, one can only choose to fight. With a heart that is constantly disturbed, under the heavy blow of an iron fist, Grund, who is called the devil, calls Beowulf the devil of hell. It was a wound that caused the hammer to smash the heart.
The hook to tear the liver, the sickle to tear the lung, the knife to break the heart, and the point to gouge out the heart.
Dark teeth gnawed away the devil's arm. The deep tremor in his soul made him have nowhere to dodge, he curled up, his body trembled uncontrollably, his heart was beating violently, the pain in his chest made him feel suffocated, he whimpered in pain, But he buried his voice in the dark night as much as possible. He didn't have nightmares, it was more like an immersive hallucination. The kind of despairing pain and unwillingness, they did not disappear. Instead, they were like wounds full of holes. The deeper they cut, the more intense they became. He was not as strong as the brute force of a monster. He couldn't bear the loss and dislocation. heavy.
Stumbled, rubbed and rolled forward on the rough rock, hugged the torn arm, cried all the way, and finally, unable to stand, came to the water source, as if to be relieved and redeemed, everything was crippled poor boy I hurt my mother he hurt my mother he tore my arm he is the strongest, the strongest, with a trembling voice finally took all the courage to say his full name :
Beowulf.
Age of heroes, mighty samurai, demons slain, eternal wrath and revenge, continuation of plans for revenge, massive battles throughout the centuries, immortal saga, that long narrative poem, also wrapped in its pain -
Born from the filth in the depths of hell, the sins of the fathers, the nightmares. Killing monsters, give me no peace, epic sings. Killed unscrupulously, then nibbled, devoured, never feared for revenge, cowering lamb. His body curled up like a baby. Dry souls, wrinkled skins, born as babies die as babies. It is held in the palm of the mother's hand as a treasure in a protected attitude, returns to the palm of the mother, and rests in the low ballad that was sung, perhaps it was an epic that was passed down in a prosperous age, grievances, broken sounds, also Sing along, everything is fake, just return like this, sleeping forever in my mother's nursery rhyme...
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