Brave and heroic was Grignr, but of needless suicide he did not espouse. Scheeming to himself, he knew that even his total strength would not be plentily sufficient to raise the castle to the ground. Pondering wildly, inspiration struck his hairy skull. He would deign to join the guardians of the fortification.
As he got more intimate with the castle's walls, the big Grigner saw two
sentinels guarding the main gate. He approached the bipeds cockily and
proclaimed his name:
"I am Grignr and want to become a guardian of this fornication. Strong am I."
One of the guards replied back speaking words with his mouth:
"Only the bravest work for the guards of the Citadel of Despare. You must speak with --"
But Grignr had made a deep incision throughout the interloquiter's oesophagus, ripping his head all the way from his throat, and the other guardian as well.
"Boring conversation anyway."
The mitey warrior perambulated up to the gate, where the gaping
tenebrous maw of a tunnel confronted him. In the thunderous silence Grignr
strode manfully into the threshold, and a sepulchral voice rang out:
"Halt! Who goes there?"
Grignr frowned, and the beads of sweat knotted on his brow. Precious seconds were birthed and died in the boundless fundament of the temporo- spatial continuum as Grignr searched for an answer to his interrogator's expostulation.
At last: "I am Brother Grignr, of the Cult of the Seventh-Day Goat-Fondlers. Would you like some pamphlets?"
There was a grinding popping whistling noise, and the floor dropped
away plunging Grignr into a pit of starving ferrets.