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will never return, as sometimes it seems daylight will never return after a nightmare. But LIGHTNING is here instead…flashing with its sporadic brilliance, occasionally illuminating the wave caps.
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    The ocean is furious. Commander of the tempest above. The weight of it swells like an angry orchestra…CRASHING with bombastic fervor…rising with every crescendo. Rhythm to the melody of rain and lightning.
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    A man is watching natures symphony play before him. His curious eye takes in the chaos and out of the randomness patterns form. Nature’s music is heard by him. His name is BEOWULF.
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    He wears leather armor studded with hand pounded iron. At his hip is a heavy, hand forged ancestry sword that at one time belonged to his father’s father. His cape, a tapestry of heavy black weaves and animal skins, blows in the wind.
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    Beowulf is standing on the deck of a Nordic craft whose ample span was never meant for voyages as rabid as this. The poor vessel slams into each wave with thunderous booms that send cascading shivers up its wooden ribs.
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    The red sail has been tattered by the wind -- it has been ripped to unusable shreds. As it snaps in the gale we can see the image of a golden dragon emblazoned on it.
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    At the oars sit FOURTEEN THANES. Their hands, bloodied and pierced with slivers, tug at the wooden oars rhythmically…pulling the craft along on its perilous journey through the waves.
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    Like a toy carved from a branch the boat is momentarily lost under the waves’ event horizon.
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    Beowulf, his left hand holding the mast for balance, remains undaunted by the howling winds and the walls of water surrounding him. He continues to hold his stare at where the horizon must be. Somewhere, beyond the dark veil of the storm, there is a fire to guide him. Somewhere, beyond the darkness, there will be light and placid waters.
    Beowulf’s Second in command, a strong Thane with wild red hair and beard looks up to Beowulf. He is WIGLAF. He ships his oar, and clambers up to where Beowulf is, shouting
    WIGLAF
    (above the wind and rain)
    Can you see the coast? Do you see the Dane’s guide-fire?
    BEOWULF
    I see nothing but the wind and the rain. And I am unimpressed!
    WIGLAF
    No fire? No stars by which to navigate? We’re lost! Given to the sea!
    Beowulf looks at him and starts laughing …a laugh of challenge.
    BEOWULF
    Ha! The sea is my mother! She will never take me into her murky womb!
    WIGLAF
    That’s fine for you. But my mother’s a fishwife in Uppland. And I was rather hoping to die in battle, as a warrior should.
    He grabs Wiglaf by the shoulders.
    BEOWULF
    (looking up to the sheets of falling rain)
    It’s no earthly storm! That much we can be sure.
    (then to Wiglaf with a grin)
    It’s Hrothgar’s sin which shrouds his land in this torrent! This demon’s tempest won’t hold us out! No! For our journey this storm is not the worry, it’s the return which you should fear, dear friend! None can leave once challenge met, lest challenge overcome! And who better than us, Wiglaf?
    WIGLAF
    (who has noticed that Beowulf makes no sense what-so-ever)
    What?!
    Wiglaf looks at Beowulf with wide, questioning eyes. Is Beowulf mad? Well, even if he was, Wiglaf would follow him into the mouth of death herself.
    BEOWULF
    Man your oar, Wiglaf! Beyond this storm, as any, there is calm! As much as beyond the calm there will always be storms, ready to blow you from your path…
    Wiglaf nods with a GRUNT. Good ol’ Wiglaf. He turns and grabs the oars with renewed vigor.
    CUT TO:
    30 EXT. THE CLIFFTOPS - DAY
    30
    Five spears stand together, their blades pointing to the vertex of the Cimmerian storm above.
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    The spears belong to the SCYLDINGS’ WATCH, a Dane whose duty it is to watch the coast for invaders. He sits at a camp he’s set up next to some cliff side ruins. He has built a fire in an ancient pit of unknown origin.