Dear Diary,
It has been forever since I have last eaten meat. To make up for all of the meat that I have missed out on, I have decided not to settle for any of the rats running around my cozy, slim infested cave but instead to go for some fresh human meat. With this thought running through my head, my mouth began to water uncontrollably. I asked myself, “Where can I find my victims?” As soon as this question ran through my mind, I realized that the answer was right in front of me, the Danes partying in Herot. I started to approach Herot with nothing but human organs on the menu for the night, and I could hear the warriors chant songs and laugh out of drunkenness as I grew closer. Every Dane I looked at did not appear to be a human anymore; everyone started to look like a piece of chicken, steak, or beef.  To me Herot resembled a grocery store, where I could easily pick up and eat my meal without struggle.  Once I approached the warriors, the scent of warm blood met the opening of my nose.  I waited in the shadows until everyone was asleep, and then I stealthily crept out from the dark and scooped up warriors in handfuls. I could hear the hearts pounding in the warriors’ chests, and I could smell fear from a mile away. As I walked back to my cave to enjoy my feast, I tasted a bite of my newly acquired meal.  It brought back memories of  when my mother used to shove pieces of flesh into my mouth saying, “Open wide, here comes the viking ship!” This memory made me even more hungry and caused blood to pour out of my mouth as I savagely chewed on the flesh.  It was everything anyone could have asked for in meal: sour, tangy, and European.  I also used the bones as toothpicks to get the left over meat out of my teeth. Finally, feeling satisfied and full, I fell asleep to the sweet sound of cries in Herot with the sight of meaty humans dancing in my head.
Twelve years have now passed and I am the reason why Herot is so deserted.  Because I can not help but devour anyone who stands in my way, Hrothgar and his people fled Herot for safety and have not come back since then. I managed to keep it this way until Beowulf came along.  To many people Beowulf was a knight in shinning armor, but to me he was a cold sore that would not give up. I could even smell Beowulf’s confidence from miles away. As I encountered the foreign warriors in Herot, I tried to think logically. However, the smell of human odor combined with the sight of new prey made all of my previous decisions slip my mind. After gulping down the thick, bitter blood of one of the warriors, I made my way to kill Beowulf, when all of a sudden he sprang to life and started to courageously fight back. I took notice of how Beowulf used his hands for combat while I used my claws. The fight became more and more intense by the minute. Beowulf was able to catch my arm, and the only sound that could be heard for miles was the tearing of my limb from its socket. I cried out in pain and could feel myself becoming weaker by the second. With all of the energy I had left, I fled the scene of the Danes who were celebrating my loss to the kiss of death himself, Beowulf.  In the final hours of my life, I took in the smell of sewage water in my cave, the stale taste of old blood in my mouth, and the sight of my own arm gushing  out it contents.
Love,
  Grendel