Fuhrer King Bradley, a.k.a. Wrath, was sitting in his armchair at home reading some official-looking document and drinking tea. Despite all the trouble he'd been going through, some joints still aching from the physical strain, this was a relatively peaceful moment.
That is, until his wife came in and shrieked, pointing at the mantel over the fireplace. "What- what is THAT?!"
Bradley turned to see what was the problem. Why, it was only the arm of that foreigner he'd decided to hang there. "My new trophy. Doesn't it look lovely, dear?"
"It looks hideous!!" said his wife, looking as if she were about to faint. "Oh, if Selim were to see..."
"Would he not be proud?" asked Bradley, with a little frown.
She didn't seem to hear, still gasping to herself, "It...it isn't real, is it...no, it can't be real..."
Disappointed, Bradley set his tea and official-looking document aside to take down the arm with a sigh. Honestly, humans had no sense of style...