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Near and far was seen the dragon's violence, how that destroyer hated and humbled the Geat  people. The people of the land were enveloped in fire. At dawn he darted back into his cave. He trusted in his war and in his cavern.

But trust was to play him false. Beowulf learned the terror quickly, in truth: the surging fires burned his house, the mead hall of the Geats. That was sorrow to the good man, the greatest of sorrows: the wise king feared he'd enraged God, broken a commandment. His heart surged with gloomy thoughts, which was not his usual way. The flame-dragon had burned the fortress of the people. The war-king studied revenge.


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Sometimes I just sit there and stare at people.


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"What do you think it does?" The captain asked, fearful of the truth. The frail form of the scientist didn't so much as twitch towards the officer, watching the carnage outside the window.
"If we're lucky? Wipe out humanity."
The captain was taken aback, "And if our luck sucks?"
A slight chuckle, as the scientist turned, "I hope you don't believe in reincarnation. He won't leave anything to be reborn as."


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