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[Tay Thormear]

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Beowulf backed against the fence, his vision slightly blurred, his hands tired. Samon pressed it, swinging and stabbing. It was a quiet day in Moonglow, the Mayor and Vice Mayor decided for some practice of their own. Beowulf had never felt this pressed by the Mayor in battle before, he knew he was slowing down.

"Wait, wait." Beo repeated. He walked over to the steps of the Armory and sat down. His hand let go of the warfork, with a dull thud it his the ground.

"What's the problem boss?" Samon asked. He leaned against the outer perimeter of the large pen. His eyes looked to Beowulf, slightly confused.

"It's my hands, their killing me. I'm having problems holding onto this damn weapon. I have enough strength, my fingers just ache." (Century's later, it would be known as arthritis.) "It's hard to grip, hard to maneuver, it just isn't the same Samon." Beowulf sighed slightly, his eyes locked upon his trustworthy weapon. "My eyes ache, my vision blurs every now and again. It's hard for me to see anything close up, even my distant sight is terrible."

"Your a wreck old man." Samon nodded firmly.

Beowulf shrugged and smirked. He understood that age was catching up to him. In the world of Sosaria, one he never thought would age him, had finally struck vengeance. Reflexes, sight, joints, all were starting to lose their once prime. He was still the best warrior in all of Moonglow, but for how much longer? He knew the recruits were learning and advancing quickly. Training day in and day out. They would soon take his spot, his reputation.

"I think it's about time I retire my weapon Samon." Beowulf spoke quietly, his eyes gazing at the grass.

"Ah, a true warrior like yourself never retires Beo." Samon replied.

"Of course not, the fight is still in the lion until it's last breath. I cannot however, continue to weild these weapons and rely on these eyes in battle. I'm old now, theres no two ways about it. With all this playing around with "immortality", dying, resurrecting, it's all caught up with me. I wouldn't have aged so quickly if I had just lived a normal life."

"A normal life isn't the life for you though, my friend."

Beowulf nodded slightly. "Of course not, but maybe some extra rest is in order. I don't plan to train as often as our soldiers, I don't plan on stirring up brawls. I'll serve Moonglow with my flesh and blood in battle, but no more of this young buck stuff. It's time that I take a break."

"So you plan on letting the Captain lead the Militia? The rest of the Council to do their job?" Samon replied.

"Indeed I do. At the Sosarian Invitational, a new Champion will arise. Only from Moonglow, someone else will take the title as the best warrior in the land. It matters not of my reputation, but that of a younger generation. Moonglow will reign superior at this tournament, bringing home the highest in medals."



* * * Days Later * * *


Beowulf emerged from the healers shop, wearing a brand new pair of specs. The glasses sat low on his nose, just high enough to make use of them. He sighed slightly, but decided that they didn't make him look too bad at all. Besides, half of the warriors these days seemed to be wearing glasses of some sort into battle.

His warfork and other weapons laid on the tables of his Museum. Of past guilds, warriors, mages, famous strengths among the years. Beowulfs weapons laid amongst theirs. He could only hope that the art of wrestling would fair better with him. It relied less on tight gripping and more on mauling. Beo, confident that his new glasses and new form of combat, strolled the streets of moonglow.