His name was Dolf, but he was more commonly called by another name, whispered by mothers to their children as a warning – “The Red”, owing to the spatters of Roman blood that covered his wolfskin armour after battles.It was a week before Christmas night that Dolf strode into a small inn, owned by an old ex-centurion and his family. He demanded an ale, and when the barkeeper querulously asked for payment of three copper pieces, Dolf glowered at him and said: “Do you see my wolfskin armour, old man? Do you see the blood spatters on the fur? Do you not know who I am,” and glancing at the old Roman armour and sword handing above the fireplace, spat out, “you filthy old centurion?”The barkeeper’s wife, who’d been listening with one ear, looked over at Dolf and said, “You, braggart, are rude, filthy and German. And your ‘blood spatters’ are just dark patches where the rain has soaked in.””IT’S NOT RAIN, IT’S BLOOD, YOU ROMAN WITCH!” screamed Dolf, pulling out his sword. He then proceeded to slaughter everyone in the inn, the surrounding villages, and nearby farms. He climbed trees to stab the birds, set cruel traps to catch the animals, and spent three days sifting through the dirt around the inn to find all the insects burrowed there, and squash them with his mighty knuckle.Finally, when his spate of death was complete, it was Christmas night. He walked over to the now flayed innkeepers wife, who was trussed above the fire. Sticking his bloody face into hers, he said, “Rude Dolf the Red knows rain, dear.”

instagram türk beğeni satın al