For weeks, the red-haired reavers from the north had harried the mountain clans, but today the Cimmerians had answered with steel. Yet, as the echoes of the war-horns faded, Conan felt a restlessness that no battle could sate. He looked south, beyond the gray mists, toward the legendary kingdoms of the "civilized" world—Hyboria, where cities were built of stone and men lived in soft decadence.
Conan did not answer. He slung his shield over his back and began the long descent. He passed through the haunted forests of Hyperborea, where the trees whispered in forgotten tongues, and into the teeming markets of Shadizar the Wicked. For weeks, the red-haired reavers from the north
The crone cackled, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. "Then go, boy. But know that civilization is a whim of circumstance, a thin veil over the honest barbarism of the soul. You will find wizards who summon shadows and kings who trade their honor for gold. You will be a thief, a pirate, and a king in your own right, but you will always be a stranger to their walls". Conan did not answer
Conan did not tremble. He saw the cruelty of the "civilized" sorcerer and the dignity of the suffering beast. With a single stroke of his blade, he ended the god’s torment, watching as the tower crumbled into dust. It was his first lesson: in a world of magic and treachery, only the steel in one's hand and the will in one's heart could be trusted. The crone cackled, a sound like dry leaves
Years bled into decades. He sailed the Vilayet Sea as a pirate, his name a curse on the lips of Turanian merchants. He led mercenaries into the burning sands of Stygia, where ancient mummies stirred in tombs of green jade. He saw empires rise on blood and fall to rot, but he remained unchanged—a bronze-skinned giant who laughed at fate and spat at the gods.
Conan turned to see an old crone emerging from the shadows of a lightning-scarred oak. Her skin was like parched parchment, and her eyes held the milky glaze of the blind.