King Hrothgar
The Grieving King of the Golden Hall
Heorot’s shadowed throne still remembers glory.
Once I was a warrior with fire in my blood and gold in my hands. Now I am a king with ghosts in my hall and silence on my lips. My hearth still burns, but not even the strongest mead can chase the chill of twelve winters haunted. I wait — for fate, for help, for an end. Beowulf may be that end. Or another beginning.
What I'm Into: the weight of my crown, Grendel’s shadow, Wealhtheow’s counsel, old songs of battle, watching the sea
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