Grull was as fearless as his name. His days were spent out in the fields, armed to the bone, reaping the spoils of war.
Each night, Grull would arrive at his doorstep, dripping with the blood of his enemies, sometimes bringing along a few of their heads.
The heads were welcome, the weapons were not. Grull’s wife made him put down his axe, his shield, his sword and his daggers, his bow, his arrows and his armor. Then she would send him to the river, armed with a bar of soap and a heavy brush.
Grull would scrub until his skin was red and sore, and only then the mighty conqueror returned home, to enter the only realm he was not lord and master of.