Grendel

It is long moments before you realize the shadow covering the feast-hall's floor is not a cloud covering the moon, for no cloud could shape such twisted outlines of head and shoulders, such muscle-gnarled limbs. No sooner does this shock strike than the indolence of scum and rotting wood fills the air: Grendel's stench precedes him. Then the scraping, dragging voice of huge feet so heavy their legs can barely lift them, and the monster heaves into view.

A swamp-crusted tree; warped, bloated by years of isolation, selfishness;  animated by sheer hunger: that's Grendel. That's your enemy. One ponderous step takes him directly in front of your hiding place, trailing shuddering damp that leaks chill into the surrounding air. Another, and he's past. The men sleep on.

You slip out, breathing shallowly through your mouth to avoid the dizzying odor but instead finding your tongue coated with the taint of stagnant water — and nearly literally slip on  his trail of sullen, rancid weed-scraps. Ahead, Grendel crouches.  Drops of bog-muck spatter the ground at his feet, loud in the silence. How many times has Grendel coated that floor with spatters of blood instead?

Talons glint in clear winter moonlight. So sharp you fancy the air should scream at their touch — can practically hear them shine — a singular disturbing pureness attached to such a profanity of life. He reaches toward an obliviously snoring warrior. You tense. This is where your honor and the fate of many good men will be decided.