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[Tay Thormear]

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His body sunk into the gentle grass; a place to stare at the stars from. A large tree stood sturdy by the edge of the small cliff, Legion Island had become a place that he seemed to spend most of his free time at. Beowulf rested his head back against the rough bark of the tree and sighed deeply, his child, Grigori, wrapped in his arms ever so tightly. Grigori let out a soft whimper as it shifted in his arms. Beowulf reached down and gently wiped the drool dribbling down the baby’s mouth, he too shifted slightly in the grass to create a “groove” to sit comfortably in.

“What could be wrong with you my child? Your crying, giggles, everything about you describes you as innocent. Your eyes, how beautiful they are, tell me something different about you.” Beowulf spoke calmly to the child. Stroking Grigori’s hair gently, he raised his head and stared out into the lake that seemed to go on forever.

“The orcs had done something to your mother, something horrible, or was it? I’m not sure what they did; it was suppose to affect you though. It couldn’t have been that bad, whatever it was, it protected your mother from Darrien, that fool.” The water crashed into the rocks below them, sending a gentle mist into the air. Beowulf cradled the baby back and forth, continuing his conversation.

“God…god how I wish I was there when you were born. To hear you wale for the first time, to see those beautiful blue eyes peer up at your mother. To hold Tatiana’s hand as you caused her so much pain, just like your old man though: if your going to do something, giver hell.” Beowulf chuckled at his last comment. He extended his index finger, allowing Grigori to grasp onto it. “Quite the grip you have boy, I wonder what you’ll do with it. A question I suppose all parents ask themselves when their children are born: what will you turn out to be? Will you be a worker like your mother, crafting things, helping others? Or will you be a fighter like your father? Perhaps…perhaps you’ll be neither?”

Beowulf would have quieted himself, had he heard the quiet footsteps behind him. He carried on however, talking to his child like he was an old friend. The night carried on, and by the time Beowulf had turned around to glance about, no body had been there.

The water slapped the rocks harder now; the wind began to pick up. In the distance he watched a boat sail by, he could hear the faint sound of yelling from a sailor.

“Looks like a storm be brewin’ lads!”

Beowulf wrapped a small blanket around Grigori, covering him from the cold and held him closer now. Reluctantly the conversation between the father and son –not so much the son- would have to end this night. He stood up, straightening his legs, and making his way towards the tavern, from there he’d take his child and him home to Dark Cove. The place that seemed to be under so much command and law, and yet they had not yet disturbed him.