Hello, C-C! I've been keeping pretty busy with school work, but here's a short story assignment I completed after being tasked to write a story in the same style as Beowulf, mainly focusing on a monster. We had to keep it 2-3 long and include a family lineage describing its destiny. So that's why things might not be as lengthy as I would like in certain parts. I tried to make it sound like the same language style of Beowulf too. Also, we were tasked to bring a visual aid, and I of course made mine out of Lego (Bionicle, to be specific), so look for pictures of the beastie soon. Anywho, enough rambling, here it is:
Hark! In the forgotten realm where sand ran in the rivers of red, where chieftains sought their fame in the heat of sword-swinging and the fire-sphere, the hammer of a demon came smashing upon the Great Valley. Come and hear the mighty tale of how that one young knave of laughable stature vanquished the shrieking wicked-beast of the infernal wilderness. Listen closely, if you dare.
Long ago, in the realm of the first men, lived the Othron. Othranos, chief of the Othron, brought peace for the first time to the once warmongering Great Valley. Decadent with lush vegetation and rich resources, the Valley was a promising land whilst surrounded by a harsh and expansive sand-dune sea. The Othron, workers of the field and masters in craft, stretched their fields east and west throughout the Valley while their picks descended. Tranquility brought great prosperity and their time flourished in the Great Valley. Othranos, curious about land beyond the field of dust, sent an expedition to seek out the world beyond. His best cartographers, survivalists, and blades-men ventured forth into the uncharted on the quest whilst unknown to the danger ahead.
Othro, son of Othranos, heir to the chieftain, was lowly. An insignificant and average adolescent was relegated to watching over the Othron people. While passable in battle, Othro was no more use than the gong farmers with a scimitar.
Many moons passed before receiving any word from Othranos’ expedition party. On the edges of the Great Valley, a serf spotted a shadowy figure out in the misty distance on a cool summer’s night. Approaching slowly, the figure collapsed in dirt in exhaustion as the mangled, bloody corpse laid to rest. His face torn apart and legs shriveled, Othranos’ trusted advisor Ruitath let out his dying words, “…Run…” The report spread wildly through the Valley until it reached Othranos who was struck with grief. Saving his sadness, Othranos equipped his rage, fastened his armor, and gathered his remaining strong men to hunt down the savage that had slaughtered his people.
When reaching the outskirts of the Great Valley, Othranos’ company awaited cautiously for the enemy they knew of not. In paralyzing silence, a low shaking was felt beneath the ground, as what appeared to be a sinkhole began forming in the middle of the troop with increasing intensity. Soldiers began to back away when a red, black, and ferocious beast of immensity leapt from the sands and burst forth clutching Othranos and swallowing him whole. Horrified, the once brave men turned and fled like fearful-maidens. This creature, known throughout the ages as the Decorpisect, was a malicious and murderous beast cursed to the world beneath the sands. The massive creature, body scorching with hellfire, reared back its head crying with the sound of a thousand tortured souls. Spikes sharper than a khopesh, mandibles scraping, and eyes that pierced the heart of men, the intimidating brute stood nearly one hundred blades high. Thought to be a myth, the unnamed secret son of Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, once was a man, known for pursuits in the satanic arts. Giving into his passions, the man disappeared, and legends began to form. The creature was said to be banished to wander the earth for an eternity as punishment for unforgivable acts. Protective of its desert home, the foul demon was not apt to liking company.
Hearing the howl from afar, Othro gathered his weapons, armor, and remaining men to the site of the dreadful sound. The Decorpisect began to pillage the outskirts by tearing up fields and devouring livestock. Othro met Othranos’ men fleeing in panic and learned of his father’s ruin. Rallying all his men with vengeance in his heart, Othro’s band of men charged with zeal, javelins in grip, towards that Decorpisect of ancient. Battle cries rang out on both sides as foot steps shook the Valley. Bending down towards Othro’s men, it seized a dozen men in one pincer and threw two into his gaping mouth. Satisfied by its morsel, the fiend turned to down more of the Othron, before Othro, son of Othranos and guardian of the realm, took up his spear and heaved with the strength of the gods at its abdomen of armor-skin. Letting out a putrid, revolting screech as the pike tore threw flesh, the beast responded with dropping the remaining soldiers, shattering their spines, ripping their innards, and stomping the remains into the sandy terrain. As the beast cowered back from the injury, Othro took one of his men’s pike’s and threw again this time at its heart. Penetrating its heart, the few in company were given the opportunity to pounce. The men tore at its legs while the demon aimed to tear out the javelin. Wielding the courage of a lion, Othro once more threw a spear this time at its neck as the Decorpisect collapsed into the hot sand with humiliation and a gory carcass. A broad sword in hand, Othro plunged a blade into its skull as black blood oozed from the scaly source.
And so from that day forth, Othro was known throughout the Valley as Othro, Demon Slayer of the Sands. Peace returned to the Great Valley and the Othron enjoyed peace for generations.