With much excitement, and a bit of nervousness, I am pleased to announce that Mrs. Beorn is pregnant with cubs! We’re obviously pleased as bees in honey here at the Hall, and I am sure to be a proud poppa bear. It only sweetens things, being able to share this momentous news with everyone. Now that we know for sure, we can barely wait for the big day.
Although the average it two cubs, we’re hoping for triplets. The first born will obviously be named Grimbeorn the Young, but we can’t decide on names for any cubs who come after him. So I wanted to reach out to the fine community of ours for help on this momentous decision. What should we name our little Beornlings?
If we have a girl, I’m quite partial to the name Ursa Minor. As much as it tickles my fancy, that name does also crease my furry brow with lines of apprehension. What will we do if she ends up taking after my great aunt, Björnhild? There is naught more nonsensical than calling a 600 pound child “minor”. No, I think that our search for suitable names needs must continue.
On the other paw, we are both silently hoping that our cubs take more after Mrs. Beorn and her kin. Bjarnfríður, undoubtedly the most famousest of den mothers in my wife’s illustrious clan would serve as a perfect role model for our offspring. Now old tales are tall tales, or so say the wise. All the same, if even one whisker of the stories about old móðir Bjarny are true then that is a legacy we all should aspire to continuate.
As the story goes, or at least the version that we prefer – and I still tell around the fire after two or three mugs of mead; to frighten the nieces and nephews, I’m sure… – where was I?… apologies… an old bear gets fuzz in his brains ever and anon. Yes, the old apocrypha claims that móðir Bjarnfríður, newly sowed with two cubs of her own, came upon three trolls in The Wilds of Rhovanion. They say it happened one fine spring evening, much like tonight.
Like any good mother, she was terrible in her wroth to defend her young. So fearsome was her countenance, that one of three immediately turned to stone of the fright, even though the sun was long in slumber and the moon shone bright and high above. In a moment, the other two trolls would wish that they had shared their brother’s ignominious fate. With a cry that was heard clear as Elf-song on the other side of the Misty Mountains, Bjarny the Berserker tore off the arms of one troll and, using them as cudgels, beat the last woeful troll to death with them.
What I’m saying is, in a world filled with orcs, corrupted wizards, and monsters in ever guise, I want to teach our cubs not to take sass from anyone.