Fiction On Fiction
“Know, O Prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars–Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingaria with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom in the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandaled feet.”
Conan has no love of sorcery. Do you understand me?
So when this ‘Master of Webs’ came upon me, I was leary. His clothes were odd and brightly colored, like some Aquilonian noble. Yet his garments belied a simplicity at the same time, making him seem unassuming and simple to this barbarian’s eyes. I knew not of these ‘Moo-Vees’ he spoke of. I trusted not the ‘Master of Webs’ for as much I have no love of sorcery I have even less for Zamorans and spider cultists. What he described to me of these ‘Moo-vees’ smacked of sorcery. Moving pictures? Upon a blank canvas for all to see? Ymir’s bones it smacks of madness!
Still, when an offer of gold and wine was added to the negotiation, Conan became interested. A price was agreed upon, half up front and half after Conan finished watching this ‘Moo-Vee’. I was unprepared for the terror that lay ahead of me. I have no interest in when ‘Harry’ met this ‘Sally’. My dislike of Harry was instant with his slight frame and Shemite looks. A Shemite is a crafty warrior but they will part you with your gold like a merchant of Koth. Then there is Sally. She was unattractive with AEsir complexion. Such white upon skin Conan has never quite seen, save for a encounter with a girl in the frozen wastes along the Vanahiem and Asgard borders. I found Sally to be spirited, but not in the way that Conan likes a wench. No Sally was full of energy and mirth but I swear upon Mitra, she would not be silent!
In fact both Harry and Sally prattle on endlessly talking about things that no Cimmerian in his right mind would sit to listen to. Yet here I was, trapped with this Zamoran sorcerer listening to these AEsir jabber on about the dynamics of a friendship between man and woman. I will say that Harry had the right of the argument. I have no need of the true friendship of women, just friendship for the moment brought by good coin and strong wine. Sally speaks her mind and Conan has no use for that. I became angered the more Sally spoke. She seemed to talk for hours and yet seemed to say nothing. I began to think my employer had been hired to torture me by some slighted enemy. Yet as much as Sally would not be silent, Harry would not stop with his complaint about anything and everything that crossed his Shemite mind. If this man had crossed my path I would kill him without but a thought, if no other reason than to put a stop to his endless complaining.
I had enough of this madness. If this is how the Zamorans entertain themselves then they are leaving me no choice but to find a mercenary crew to travel there so I might know the joys slaying them down to every last man woman and child. Harry obviously has need of Sally yet he lacks the spirit to say anything. He just sits letting her talk and talk. There must come a time when a man must be a man Harry. If Conan wanted this Sally, which I promise you he does not but if he did, then he would find good strong wine in one hand, Sally’s backside in the other and then take them up to a bedchamber so they might know why I am called the ‘The Lion of Cimmeria’!
Finally the madness came to an end and I looked at my tormentor. He sat there rubbing his temples muttering of the torture. I grabbed the Zamoran by his collar demanded to know who paid him to inflict such brutal torture upon me. “Tell me!” I demanded, “Or by Crom I’ll hang you by the tongue you charmed me here with!”. My blood was hot and I was determined to kill anyone at that point, so why not start with the chubby Zamoran?
Yet the Zamoran seemed unfazed by my rage. He smiled and produced a flagon of wine and the coin as promised. “I had to make sure I wasn’t alone in hating that Moo-Vee” he said to me, “You helped me prove a point”. My anger was still white hot, normally I would take a sword in hand and cut this Zamoran dog down, but the wine and coin seemed genuine. The wine would keep me drunk enough to forget this nightmare and the coin would help me find a woman’s firm backside. It didn’t matter which woman’s backside, so long as her curves pleased my keen blue eyes and her touch would stir my blood. But most importantly, she must not be pale and Mitra help her if she is named Sally!
I hope to never come across this Zamoran again. I will not be tortured like this again. Conan has no love for Sorcery by Crom!
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