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Age Of Conan age of conan home  :  age of conan lore Age of Conan Lore The World Poitain Poitain is a proud part of Aquilonia and a land with a strong identity and heritage. "…the tall rich grass waved upon the plains where grazed the horses and cattle for which Poitain was famed. Palm trees and orange groves smiled in the sun, and the gorgeous purple and gold and crimson towers of castles and cities reflected the golden light. It was a land of warmth and plenty, of beautiful men and ferocious warriors." Robert E Howard - Hour of the Dragon Poitain is a lush and fertile region, rich in game and natural resources from metal ore to hardwood forests. As such it has naturally drawn prospectors, miners and trappers and small rich communities of artisans and craftsmen are commonplace. Poitain is a proud part of Aquilonia and a land with a strong identity and heritage. Bordered by Zingara, Argos and Ophir it has always fought against its jealous neighbors and has had to defend its vast wealth of natural resources. In the past it has also resisted the rule of the Aquilonian throne, but this past has been all but forgotten and its loyalty to King Conan is unshakable. Along with Bossonia and Gunderland it is a proud part of Aquilonia and stands ready to aid in the defense of the realm. It is famed for its knights and heavy cavalry and there is no more awe inspiring sight than ten thousand knights of Poitain riding under the golden leopard banner, such as when King Conan led them at the head of his army in the war against the vile sorcerer Xaltotun. In fact, the region was a key part of King Conan's success in recapturing his kingdom and the exploits of that battle and the action of those knights has passed into legend. Conarch Village Typical for Cimmeria, Conarch Village lies in a deep valley surrounded by steep mountains and cut by a cold river running through its center. Positioned between the controversial Venarium and the battle-torn Conall’s Valley, it has its share of travelers simply “passing through” to reach other parts of Cimmeria beckoning to their sense of adventure. Some may come just to see the stretch of land that gave birth to King Conan himself, and the rest of Clan Conarch. For those who choose or are chosen to stay here, they are likely to have adventure thrown upon them. The mountains surrounding the village is home to many dangers, some human, others not. The Onyx Chambers These ancient chambers have been used as tombs and treasuries, sewers, as troves of lore and arcane workshops where the vilest of experiments are performed on screaming men and women, acts so terrible they must be done in places far from the light of day and sealed in silent ominous stone walls. The pollution, blood and corruption that have seeped down from the Black Ring Citadel over the centuries have dissolved much of the bedrock foundations. The natural caverns left behind were clad in the hardest rock known to man in an effort to resist the corrosive contamination, rock laced with black veins of Onyx so that it appears the walls have capillaries of frozen darkness that throb and pulse with the evil around it. This Onyx is what has given these chambers their name. No Stygian tomb-robber would dare risk a venture into these chambers despite the riches that may be found there, but others are less aware of the dangers. Rumors of grave robbers from Shem are murmured in Kheshatta. No-one yet knows the horror they have disturbed down there but soon all will hear of Setsokhaten the death-knight. The subterranean chambers have become polluted over the centuries and this has had a strange effect on the native Stygian crocodiles. Now they are powerfully built and thick scaled, dangerous and very territorial powerhouses with nasty dispositions. At the heart of the chambers is a cabal of Black Ring necromancers performing rites only possible in such a sinkhole of evil, but what blasphemies they perform and why is yet to be discovered. The Border Ranges Neighbors are ever jealous of each other, covetous of the riches that their fellows possess. It is no different between kingdoms, and especially so between Aquilonia and Nemedia. "The year of the dragon had birth in war and pestilence and unrest. The black plague stalked the streets of Belverus, striking down the merchant in his stall, the serf in his kennel, the knight at his banquet board. Before it the arts of the leeches were helpless. Men said it had been sent from hell as punishment for the sins of pride and lust." - Robert E Howard, The Hour of the Dragon Neighbors are ever jealous of each other, covetous of the riches that their fellows possess. It is no different between kingdoms, and especially so between Aquilonia and Nemedia. Long have the Nemedians sought to gain a foothold in the rich lands of their western neighbor and even in the aftermath of their greatest defeat they search for a way. Nemedian scholars experiment frantically to try and recreate the black plague that stalked Belverus during the Hour of the Dragon, while scouts scour Acheronian ruins, seeking forgotten scrolls and tomes of power. Slowly but surely, the Nemedians prepare their gambit. Now the tread of a thousand sandaled feet echo through the narrow ravines and pathways of the Border Ranges. Nemedian troops patrol the hidden ways that run between the hills, occupying the wooden forts and towers built by Aquilonian troops tasked with watching this small pass. Of the Aquilonian soldiers stationed to watch this relatively unknown way between the lands, there is no sign. In the shadow of the border, the Nemedian army gathers, their numbers swelling as the days pass. Assurances have arrived from Tarantia, from an unknown source that assures the Nemedians that King Conan's attention will be otherwise occupied. General Zarathus, renowned for his ruthless efficiency, has tasked his commanders, Anius and Decima with securing the town of Corvo. The sorcerers beneath their command have slipped away to the Acheronian ruins in the hills, dragging the terrified inhabitants of Corvo along behind them. The scarlet dragon rides lazily in the wind above Aquilonian soil, once again. Sanctum of the Burning Souls The last vestiges of Acheronian magic still cling to the ruins, and few are foolhardy enough to risk the wrath of the spirits and demons within. When the day of reckoning came, the sword was not spared. So Acheron ceased to be, and purple towered Python became a memory of forgotten days – Robert E Howard, Hour of the Dragon Brooding on a mountaintop, overlooking the Wild Lands, the ruins of the City of Burning Souls is a tainted place. The last vestiges of Acheronian magic still cling to the ruins, and few are foolhardy enough to risk the wrath of the spirits and demons within. Yet there are those who make the journey, through the warped and twisted labyrinth of ancient stone to the very heart of the darkness itself…the Sanctum of the Burning Souls. The few who return from such expeditions are insane, frothing at the mouth as they scream of unimaginable horrors. The very stones of the Sanctum are soaked with the blood of thousands of innocents; victims who fell beneath the knives of the Acheronian Warlords and the vicious Priests of Set. Great fountains, which once flowed freely with the blood of sacrifice, now stand silent, dark stains around their base the only testimony to their grim purpose. Lusting for power, the Nemedians have sent a small force to investigate the ruins, and no man or woman knows what they have found there, though the Dark Beasts began attacking the Wild Lands shortly after the expedition arrived. Thoth-Amon has also sent some of his most trusted allies to discover what secrets the dark heart of Acheron may hold. Dark Beasts, Nemedians, Stygian Sorcerers and the demons of Acheron; the Sanctum is a challenge to even the greatest of heroes. But with stout allies and courageous hearts, a stalwart group might be able to uncover the horrible secrets contained therein. The Black Ring Citadel "Only occultists high in the mazes of the hideous Black Ring possessed the power of the black hand that dealt death by its touch.” - Robert E. Howard – The Hour of the Dragon The infamous home of the Black Ring is buried deep beneath an ominous mountain that looms behind Kheshatta, city of magicians. This coven of the darkest sorcerers in all Stygia is led by the all-powerful Thoth-Amon, earth’s mightiest practitioner of black magic. Within its torch lit halls foul sorcerers perform hellish conjurations, vile experiments and consort with fiends from the abyss. Its pillared halls, adorned with snake idols and the architecture of Set, are marvelous to behold though seeing them leaves one with an inevitable chill. How many screams have echoed through these passages? How much hot blood has been spilled upon its altars? What abominations wander the passageways and dungeons? Dark clouds gather over Kheshatta and the sorcerers of the Black Ring recklessly attempt even greater violations of natural law. The power of dark magic is growing and the Black Ring seeks to exploit it, disregarding the cost and danger of such wild experiments. Slowly they have withdrawn into their stronghold, abandoning the city, Stygia and the outside world. Villainous members of the Black Ring such as Sabazios the insane and Excorant the golem master dwell defended by companies of elite Stygian guards and apprentices of the dark arts. Horrors such as Yarekma the soul-eater or other unnamed entities also lurk within. Any assault would be doomed but if the fate of Hyboria is in the balance then the brave, foolhardy and desperate might attempt such an epic conquest; to fight the monstrous titans and power maddened necromancers within. Purple Lotus Swamp In southern Stygia, the great deserts finally break into patches of stinking marshland with tropical trees poking from the unfarmable earth. If one journeys further south, the marshlands turn thicker, the trees grow denser, until a traveler stands on the edge of the Black Kingdoms and the true jungles of those mysterious lands. Between Stygia’s hostile deserts and the impenetrable jungles of the Black Kingdoms, the Purple Lotus Swamp spreads like a tropical smear across the realm. It is named and known for the beautiful, valuable flower that grows here and nowhere else in Hyboria. Large marsh snakes glide underneath the silt-darkened water, ready to drag wanderers down into a drowning doom. Deep tar pits dot the landscape, filled with the bones of the unwary. The Purple Lotus flower is dear to the hearts of sorcerers and assassins alike. For the former, it is a narcotic to enhance meditation, for the latter, an aid to killing. Consuming a potion made from Purple Lotus petals leaves the imbiber paralyzed for many hours, though he remains awake and aware of his surroundings. Accordingly, the swamp is often home to bands of lotus-hunters, seeking the blooms for various purposes arcane or nefarious in nature – most often both. In recent months, the swamp is claimed as hunting lands by the Asitambuke tribe of Darfar. These hunters are led by the beautiful, powerful shaman Wub – a priestess of the serpent god Damballah – with the slitted gold eyes of a serpent. Anyone venturing through the Purple Lotus Swamp is sure to run afoul of the Black Kingdoms clan at some point. Atzel's Approach The Border Kingdoms: between the settlements within the gray realm of Cimmeria and the prosperous spires of Nemedia’s great cities, brigands and would-be rulers carve out hordes of territory within a disparate and chaotic land. The prize of the Border Kingdoms, within the grasp of the bandit-king Atzel, is the main pass into Cimmeria—used by humble traders and merchant-princes alike. Control over that pass keeps Atzel’s bandit minions well-paid, well-fed and well-armed. Gripped by a cruel winter, the mountain passes of this lawless land are choked with ice, while snow-laden winds howl through the canyons, sounding to mortal ears like the cries of a dying god. Any who set foot in these lands walks into the frozen heartland of Atzel’s power, falling under his sight as he watches all transpiring in his realm from the highest windows of a great fortress. Atzel’s Approach, the region leading to the bandit-lord’s castle, is a land teeming with thieves and brigands banding together under their master’s banner. Some tell stories of Atzel’s death at the hands of Conan the Cimmerian some years ago, but if these tales are true, how then does the bandit-king walk once more? Why do lawless killers from across Hyboria answer his call to arms? Why does an army of bandits flood the high passes of Cimmeria, killing and plundering in his accursed name? Ruins jut from the scarred land of Atzel’s Approach, the broken bones of a long-dead civilization. An ominous shadow falls upon these ruins, an unholy silhouette of inhuman size and shape. The word dragon passes many lips in a fearful hiss. Others whisper demon, and pray to their gods for protection. Whatever the truth, a great unease bleeds through the region. Were neighboring kingdoms not so concerned with the invasions ravaging their borders, Hyboria’s rulers would look to Atzel’s lands with grim resolve in their eyes and blades in their hands. Evil breeds here unopposed—that much has become clear. Deep within the canyons and upon the mountainsides, bandit armies toil alongside Stygian sorcerers among the shells of decayed settlements, pulling ancient relics from the earth and hoarding them for purposes unknown to all others. It seems Atzel has forged an unusual alliance in recent months. Time will tell what the unexpected ties between the bandit-king and the Stygians will spell for Hyboria. The Frost Swamp If one region could be said to house every nightmare of the frozen north, it is here, in the Frost Swamp. Ehmish wondered if it were the ground itself which radiated the cold, soulless feeling. He would have voted to skirt the edges. The Vanir seemed ready to run right through the swamp’s black, frozen heart. It began to play on his mind. At times, walking near the front of the line, he believed he saw shadows leaping between trees ahead of them. Silent, drifting spirits. Or there would be a quick splash of water off to one side or the other. A rat or some other kind of swamp-vermin, certainly. Though he wondered. He wondered. He reached for his blade several times, but always resisted in the end, marking it down to nerves. To childhood tales told in the dark, late at night, and which he had not yet forgotten. ––Legends of Kern: Songs of Victory, Loren Coleman Cimmeria is a land known for its grim weather, harsh terrain and its mountain ranges which form Hyboria’s icy spine. The most hostile patch of the grey realm is not, however, the snow-wracked Eiglophians or the ghost-plagued grave land called the Field of the Dead. Even Conall’s Valley, where Vanir berserkers brandish bloodstained blades and howl their challenges to the retreating tribes, is not the most feared or dangerous part of that sunless northern region. That sinister honor goes to a place named with typical barbarian simplicity: the Frost Swamp. If one region could be said to house every nightmare of the frozen north, it is here. Dark legends walk, stalking the misty paths with ichor-wet fangs and trembling claws, seeking human prey. Mortal foes abound, from the loose-fleshed doppelgangers who slay through illusion-aided hunts, to the corpse-white mystics of Hyperborea. Truly, the gods themselves must laugh at the collection of hateful evils that gather here to torment the Cimmerians, all stirred up by the probing fingertips and black sorceries of the Hyperboreans. It is said they’ve come here to unearth ancient secrets from a time before the gods drowned Atlantis. Whatever the truth behind their presence, their insidious touch has roused malicious forces within the stagnant, greasy waters of the region. Few souls willingly enter the Frost Swamp, and those that do (who have any expectations of walking back out again) are invariably the finest, most skilled hunters and warriors Cimmeria has ever bred. Only these souls, the strongest sons and daughters of the northlands, stand any chance of navigating the winding, fog-thick pathways or overcoming the many breeds of inhuman creatures that prowl through the brackish bog waters of the swamp. Wild Lands of Zelata Nestled in a valley and sheltered from the harsh winters of the region, the Wild Lands exemplify Aquilonia’s untamed eastern frontier. It is a place for people with the desire to start afresh. ‘The going grew rougher, the scenery more rugged, steep grassy slopes pitching up to densely timbered mountainsides. Without a word she led the way, the great wolf trotting at her side, the eagle soaring above her. Through deep thickets and along tortuous ledges poised over deep ravines she led him, and finally along a narrow precipice-edged path to a curious dwelling of stone, half hut, half cavern, beneath a cliff hidden among the gorges and crags. The eagle flew to the pinnacle of this cliff, and perched there like a motionless sentinel.’ –– The Hour of the Dragon, Robert E. Howard Nestled in a valley and sheltered from the harsh winters of the region, the Wild Lands exemplify Aquilonia’s untamed eastern frontier. It is a place for people with the desire to start afresh, to begin anew—to establish a life away from the bustling metropolis of Tarantia or any of Aquilonia’s other majestic, chaotic cities. Settlements are built, spreading slowly in the wilderness, protected by hunters and occasional patrols of soldiers who fend off both the wild beasts of the northern forests and the bandit groups which plague so much of Hyboria. Another source of conflict arises from the Nemedian border to the east; the location of the Wild Lands makes them an infrequent battleground for clashes between King Conan’s men and the soldiers from Aquilonia’s rival nation. In recent months, the Wild Lands have fallen under the shadow of a new threat—one which spells the death of Aquilonian settlement in the region if the danger is not quashed. Creatures known locally as the Dark Beasts prowl the wilderness beyond the edges of each settlement, slaughtering those who walk the wilds. Some villages have already fallen prey to mass attacks from these feral, razor-clawed creatures. The small hamlet of Tesso now shields a growing refugee population, drawing survivors from the villages shattered in the wake of the Dark Beasts and their hunts. Zelata, a witch who once counseled King Conan himself, lives in the Wild Lands away from civilization. She is a mysterious figure to the people of the region, unknown to many and mistrusted by the few that are aware of her existence. Her powers set her apart from others and vilify her in the minds of those who need a scapegoat for the region’s troubles. Now, as Nemedian soldiers press south and as the Dark Beasts slaughter whole villages, the ostracized witch-woman finds herself hated by many who believer her responsible for the problems they face. Eiglophian Mountains The towering Eiglophian Mountains mark the northern border of Cimmeria. Beyond their peaks to the northwest are the lands of the Vanir invaders; to the northeast are the folk of the Aesir, who are infrequent allies or foes of the Cimmerians. Her maddening laughter floated back to him, and foam flew from the barbarian’s lips. Further and further into the wastes she led him. The land changed; the wide plains gave way to low hills, marching upwards in broken ranges. Far to the north he caught a glimpse of towering mountains, blue with the distance, or white with the eternal snows. Above these mountains shone the flaring rays of the borealis. They spread fan-wise into the sky, frosty blades of cold flaming light, changing in color, growing and brightening. —The Frost Giant’s Daughter, Robert E. Howard. The towering Eiglophian Mountains mark the northern border of Cimmeria. Beyond their peaks to the northwest are the lands of the Vanir invaders; to the northeast are the folk of the Aesir, who are infrequent allies or foes of the Cimmerians. There are few passes through the mountains, so most hostilities are limited to raids and pillaging—or so many believed, before the Vanir marched an army of warriors into Cimmeria. Passage through the mountains is difficult and dangerous, even for seasoned travelers. Apart from trappers and scouts, few men dwell in these mountains. To survive in the Eiglophians, one must be possessed of incredible willpower, physical strength, and great courage. The howling winds and biting cold gnaw at both body and soul; the leopards and ice worms weed out the weak, and treacherous paths and sheer cliffs kill the unwary. What human life does cling to existence here is divided between scattered Cimmerian clans and the savages of the flesh-eating tribes that have bedeviled hunters and trappers for decades now. These murderous cannibals raid nearby Cimmerian villages, not for conquest, but to capture people who are fated to be eaten in the deep, dark caves that the flesh-eaters claim as their territory. The range itself is a holy place to the Cimmerians. In the eastern spur of the Eiglophians, there stands Ben Morgh, known to outlanders as Mount Crom. Here, it is said, Crom dwells, sending out death and doom to those who have failed him. His anger shakes the peaks in the form of thunderstorm and avalanches—and Crom is wrathful of late, as invaders from Hyperborea, Vanaheim, and the Border Kingdom trespass ever deeper into Cimmeria. Field of the Dead The sacred burial ground of Cimmerian chieftains for centuries, the Field of the Dead lies at the eastern end of Conall’s Valley in the northern part of Cimmeria. Situated at the very foot of Ben Morgh, the towering mountain where Crom himself is said to dwell, the Field of the Dead bears a close resemblance to Cimmerian descriptions of the afterlife. It is a rocky, windswept land, full of cold mists and pitiless rain. Dark heather grows on the stony hillsides and the burial mounds of old chieftains, and the howls of wolves echo plaintively from the depths of the twisting valleys. It is a bleak, haunting place, grim and cheerless as a Cimmerian’s soul. Each clan lays claim to a specific part of the Field of the Dead, interring their leaders in mounds shaped of earth and stone. The chieftain’s final resting place is surrounded by armor and weapons, fine clothes, trophies and treasure, so that he will enter the realm of the dead with all the wealth that befits a great leader. Tales of such treasure sometimes lure raiders and treasure-seekers onto the burial fields, despite the terrible risks. Even if these would-be looters manage to avoid the watchful eye of Cimmerian patrols, they must still face the wrath of the spirits themselves. Many who venture into the depths of the burial mounds never see the light of day again. This terrible drama is now being played out on a grand scale as a large force of Vanir warriors have invaded the sacred burial grounds. They are pillaging the grave mounds of ancient chieftains and plundering them of arcane relics, caring nothing for the warriors interred within. Bodies have been dumped onto the dank earth, or defiled by Vanir knives. Now the specters of angry chieftains haunt the Field of the Dead, seeking to avenge themselves against those who wronged them—or upon any living soul unfortunate enough to cross their path. Worse still, Cimmerians struggling to turn back the Vanir raiders have heard terrible howls in the darkness, and some claim to have seen werewolves stalking the mist-shrouded valleys. It is feared that the Vanir have unleashed an ancient curse locked up in one of the older burial mounds, and for the moment the Cimmerians are powerless to stop it. Khopshef Province The Hyborian deserts contain secrets older than mankind itself. Nowhere is this more evident than in night-haunted Stygia, home to sorcerer-priests who worship the great serpent god Set. Its cities rise like dusky jewels from the fertile lands on southern banks of the dark river Styx, where slaves are sacrificed every day to slake the hunger of the Great Serpent. Scholars pore through crumbling texts for hints of lost knowledge that lie hidden among the trackless sands. For in Stygia, dark knowledge is the path to true power. East of the coastal city of Khemi, Khopshef Province boasts no great cities—only fabled ruins recounted in ancient legends and caravan tales. Newcomers arriving in the province at the small village of Bubshur hear stories of a great and ancient pyramid that lies along a tributary of the Styx some distance to the south. Of late, an enigmatic oracle of the Shemite goddess Derketo has braved the haunted lands around the pyramidal tomb and laid claim to a temple structure adjoining the ancient pyramid, where his worshipful followers serve his every whim. What the arrival of this oracle portends and why he chose to settle so close to the mysterious crypt, no one knows. And local fishermen who risk the crocodile-infested waters of the river Styx speak of the bleak island west of Pashtun and the strange ruins located there, said to be a temple dedicated to gods that were old when Atlantis still rode above the waves. Meanwhile, the people of Khopshef Province pray to their gods and try to go about their lives, mining salt from the flats around the village of Hep-Kab or welcoming the caravans traveling from Medjool Oasis to the south. They keep out of the punishing sunlight at midday and ward their houses against the evils of the night. But all is not well among the people of the region. The island town of Pashtun, an independent village claimed by neither Stygia nor Shem, has become the hunting ground for a fearsome monster that stalks its citizens each night. Each morning the bloodless corpses of its victims can be found lying along the village’s dusty streets, or empty boats are found drifting in the river’s sluggish current. The village leaders have turned to the oracle, seeking an explanation for the deadly rampage, but he answers them only in riddles. Now, each evening, as the red sun stains the western sky, the people of Khopshef Province glance furtively downriver and await a hero who will stand between them and the horrors that lurk in the darkness. Conall's Valley In Cimmeria’s icy west, the ravine of Conall’s Valley cuts a shallow slice in the stone and soil flesh of Hyboria. Here, in the shadow of Ben Morgh -- Crom’s mountain throne -- his people make a valiant and desperate last stand against invaders from the north. In times past the region was known for its wild beauty and was home to several Cimmerian clans; each tribe founding their settlements among the many ancient Atlantean ruins that the lush northern forests have never completely concealed. Then came the Vanir. Now the woodland pass is littered with the ashen remnants of villages burned to the ground, and where Cimmerian forts once rose among the trees, Vanir spears are plunged into the earth, bearing the severed heads and rotting bodies of the valley’s slain defenders. When the Vanir swept down from the north, they came not to raid, but to conquer. The Cimmerian warriors who fought for their homeland were slain; their families enslaved or slaughtered while villages burned. The few survivors were mainly outcasts, hunters and warriors who managed to flee south and escape the blades of the Vanir. The once-beautiful Conall’s Valley has become a battleground; its beauty spoiled by savagery and bloodshed as the Vanir and Cimmerians fight over the ruins of destroyed villages. If the woodland pass falls completely, the way into Cimmeria will be laid open to the berserkers of Vanaheim. The survivors of the northerners’ assaults gather around their night-fires in makeshift settlements and sharpen their swords, vowing to sell their lives dearly in the name of their homeland. All the while, these last Cimmerians cast looks at the distant tower of Ben Morgh. Their distant and cruel god watches from that mountain peak, and the warriors know that dying while Crom himself looks on would be a shameful death indeed. Tortage Off the coast of Hyboria, on one of the largest of the volcanic Barachan Isles in the Western Sea, lies a haven of smugglers, thieves, and pirates called Tortage. Off the coast of Hyboria, on one of the largest of the volcanic Baracha Isles in the Western Sea, lies a haven of smugglers, thieves, and pirates called Tortage. Carved out of the black and rocky cliffs of the island of the same name, the city of Tortage is the single most infamous port off the mainland of Hyboria. Although founded originally by Argossean sailors, its constant flow of miscreants, slaves and vagabonds has seen it teeming with all cultures for generations. Kushites, Aquilonians and even Cimmerians live side by side with Zingarans, Shemites and even Stygians on its dark and sinister streets—even a number of wayward Picts have rowed south to call Tortage home. If it is illegal somewhere else, it is probably obtainable within Tortage’s inns, taverns and manors. Most of the city itself has been in turmoil for quite a while, a rebellious uprising forming against the ruthless oppressor currently in power. This rebellion has become so worrisome to the ruler and his sinister allies that only those proven loyal to the overlord of Tortage are allowed free passage off the island. His law is that of the sword, and he is capable of anything that will bring him closer to crushing those who oppose him. Such a boon can be a powerful bargaining tool when dealing with slavers and smugglers, whose loyalty can often be bought quickly when the need arises. Much of Tortage Island is dense and humid jungle, with dangers lurking along shadowy paths cut back daily by adventurous travelers, and brave explorers. The island is dominated by a large volcano and it is sometimes the cause of nervousness to those who are new to the area, but most of the natives and long time residents believe it is nothing to fear. A host of sharp-clawed beasts await the unwary explorer. The heated cries of apes and even the blood-curdling shrieks of Picts can be heard echoing into the night along with the screams of their victims. Wandering the streets of Tortage alone is far from the safest practice either. A home for predators of a different variety, in the form of swift-bladed pirates and lurking bandits, the weak or unprepared do not last long in the pirate port. While the swarthy inhabitants have cut open more than a few throats, many more thrive on the slaving industry that flows in and out of Tortage like the tide. Just as many lives are bought and sold here as are ended, sometimes for a pittance. With pirate factions like the Red Brotherhood, Zingaran Freebooters, and Black Corsairs agreeing to leave their battles in the sea while in port, there is no lack of tension on the streets and docks of Tortage. It is not far from the mainland by ship, but the way is not an easy one. The factions are always lurking to prey upon loot-filled vessels they can get to before their rivals. Between pirate threats, swirling maelstroms that can crush a ship like pottery, and the forbiddance of passage off the island, a future here seems bleak. Once Tortage has claimed you, your freedom depends on cunning, strength of will, and what allies you choose. Or, it can be your grave. Old Tarantia Called the "most princely city of the world's West" by chroniclers far and wide, Tarantia is a sprawling city of wonders and the capitol of Aquilonia. Its skyline is dotted with towers of blue and gold, and many of its buildings are clean and dazzling to behold. Created in layers, like rumpled cloth against the cliffs of the Khorotas River, Tarantia has several distinctive areas separated by walls and tiers both physical and societal. Possibly the most famous of these sections, unsurprisingly, is Old Tarantia. Old Tarantia sits at the end of a huge bridge that leads to the rest of the bustling city, divided elsewhere by high walls and guarded gates. It uses its own docks and has a massive gate sitting on the Road of Kings. All are patrolled regularly, and watched for dangerous visitors. It is the root of the city itself, where the rest of the capitol grew outward from, and is the base of the royal palace of King Conan himself. The shining towers of the palace rise high into the sky, overlooking the rest of the city and, some might say, the rest of Aquilonia. Old Tarantia is not an example of your typical Hyborian city by any means. The streets are clean and devoid of miscreants, the businesses do their best not to charge too high of prices for their wares, and common crime is veritably non-existent. The elite bodyguard unit of the King, the Black Dragons, patrols the palace grounds constantly and can even be found outside its walls from time to time. Few are foolhardy enough to deal with these strapping soldiers, making most criminals look elsewhere to ply their illegal trades. It is a safe city for those who abide by King Conan's laws, and where many come to shop and see the beautiful city with their own eyes. There is far more going on beneath the shining surface of Old Tarantia than simply the rise of admiration and awe. Just because it isn't crawling with muggers and pickpockets on the streets doesn't mean that the city is without a darker element. Nobles that are not pleased with a Cimmerian on the throne are constantly scheming and pushing pieces around their political chessboard, some willing to sacrifice many pawns to get closer to their way. King Conan made many enemies in his winding road to power. Some died at his hands, but many escaped the edge of his sword. With King Conan on the throne, the brilliant beacon of civilization that Old Tarantia is might just attract these enemies like vultures to a corpse. Broken Leg Glen Typical for Cimmeria, Broken Leg Glen is a deep valley surrounded by steep mountains and cut by a cold river running through its center. Positioned between the controversial Venarium and the battle-torn Conall's Valley, it has its share of travelers simply "passing through" to reach other parts of Cimmeria beckoning to their sense of adventure. Some may come just to see the stretch of land that gave birth to King Conan himself, and the rest of Clan Conarch. . For those who choose or are chosen to stay in the Glen, they are likely to have adventure thrown upon them. The rocky soil and frequent rains and snows, depending on the season, make agriculture a difficult endeavor that many families simply do not have the resources to maintain. Even so, there is a life to be carved from the Broken Leg Glen, and many do. There is a rather large village, at least by Cimmerian standards, that is home to many. It is arguably the most civilized settlement in the nation, and is home to a number of families. A large waterwheel-driven grain mill grinds out flour and mash for the Glen's families to use, powered by the cold water that rushes down the river from the mountaintops. Game animals are plentiful and hunting is a household practice. Some families have taken to raising livestock, keeping them in small numbers to avoid attracting the numerous predators that stalk the forests. Bears and wolves are a constant threat to lone travelers. These mighty hunters have been responsible for the deaths or disappearances of livestock, children, and even full grown villagers. The beasts of Broken Leg Glen are hardly the only threats, however. With the red-haired Vanir moving in on nearby territories from the frozen north every week, there have already been "Vanir sightings" in the Glen. Some dismiss these as rumor; others are already sharpening their axes and tightening their armor straps down for an impending battle. Some wonder that they may be coming for simple conquest; others believe they are after the renowned blue iron ore that is used to make the fabled Cimmerian Blue Steel. The mysterious and powerful metal would be a boon to an invading force to be sure, if they could also steal the secrets to forge it. The invasion is not the only thing that keeps Broken Leg Glen at arms. There are darker rumors too; whispers of a deeper evil from the area's past that has crept out of their nightmares. Likely it is nothing more than old fears, but those who remember are not taking any chances. Khemi Sitting on the south shore of the River Styx joining with the Western Sea, Khemi is a stark vision of black walls and looming citadels. It is the priestly capitol of Stygia, making it essentially the most powerful city in the entire nation. It is a major seaport for the serpent kingdom, but keeps only a sparse navy in its docks. Few would ever try to war with Stygia from the sea, as their connection with the dark god Set is paramount and fear-inspiring. Even those who question faith think twice about crossing the priesthood. Khemi is scattered with castle-like estates of the Stygian nobility, some standing proudly while others have been allowed to wither away into ruin. Above all the citadels, the walls, and the towering castles is a gigantic black pyramid—the resting place of the very coils of Set himself, or so they say. There is a great deal to back up such superstitious claims, as serpents of many breeds and sizes slither through the city streets freely. In fact, these beasts are protected by Stygian law, and even those attacked by the creatures are expected not to fight back. At night, the scaled swarms grow aggressive, and the very shadows of Khemi writhe with reptilian life and the echoing cries of death. The city itself is barred from ocean travelers by the rocky island port of Akhet, or Tortoise Island. It is used as a barrier to the rest of the city proper, buffering infidel foreigners from the “holy city” proper. Always buzzing with visiting travelers, traders and merchants from all over, Akhet is the closest that many foreigners ever get to Khemi itself. Even inside the city there are areas that are not commonly traveled. Stygia is a land of social castes, setting a pecking order that can be as deadly as the natural selections of the desert hyenas. Areas like the Horn are dominated and populated by the priesthood, who are the sole keepers of the monuments, temples and gardens found there. The holiest of Set’s children worship here, and disallow those not of the faith to walk amidst the sacred buildings. There is also the Odji district, where slaves are bought and sold and the light of day seems unwilling to fight the darkness of alleyways and awning-covered streets. Odji is deadly and dangerous, even for those who did not arrive there in chains or a cage. It is close to the harbor, and only a select few merchant traders are ever allowed to come here. There is a fortune to be made or lost, depending on what end of the life-trade someone finds themselves. Khemi is a massive reminder that the dark god Set truly rules Stygia through the ironclad coils of his powerful clergy. Those who come here, especially those who manage to get beyond Akhet, will find all the pleasures, terrors, and adventures of Stygia lurking in the shadows of Set’s city. Aquilonia Aquilonia is nestled east of the savage Pictish Wilderness, west of militant Nemedia, north of cutthroat Zingara, and south of the Cimmerian tundra. It has pleasant weather and rich, arable farmable lands interwoven and fed by some of the largest rivers in the world. Game hunting is common and plentiful, and wilderness paths and civilized roads are patrolled by Aquilonian forces. At first glance, it is a peaceful kingdom of plenty built on a very pleasant stretch of Hyborian land Alas, it cannot be so. Although the barbarian King Conan of Cimmeria has taken great lengths to keep his kingdom safe from outside threats and domestic squabbles, Aquilonia sees its share of unrest. Aquilonia has become a kaleidoscope of intrigue and hand-on-hilt politics. There are many peoples who call this land home, carving several invisible borders within the kingdom itself. Bossonians, Poitanians, Gundermen, and others lay claim to lands that now all exist under King Conan's rule. The barbarian king rules from his throne in the capitol city of Tarantia, delegating his laws and edicts down through the cascade of titled and landed nobles. The city is a massive, walled urban sprawl, its blue and golden towers reaching high into the sky. A kingdom's worth of people from all corners of the world call Tarantia home, protected in part by its high walls and its elite Black Legion army, the capitol's military force. Many travel long distances to come to this place, the "Heart of Aquilonia", trying to claim part of its dazzling wealth and power for themselves. Aquilonia's countryside is divided into countless noble estates and segmented villages that are ruled by individual noble patriarchs, all of whom are supposed to owe allegiance to the king. Many do, but just as many-some might argue more-are disgusted by a Cimmerian king and pay homage to the crown and banner in deed only, wishing great ill upon him. It is there, in their hollow hearts, that much of the kingdom's unrest is schemed. Perhaps if it were not for the eternal squabbling and backstabbing amongst the nobles, Aquilonia would have strength enough to be an unyielding bastion against its many outside threats. Although deadly when swept into them, Aquilonia's politics are not the only risk on its rolling landscape. There are many dangers, even with the increased patrols and hired huntsmen, which threaten travelers here. Constant harassment comes from Nemedian mercenaries, Pictish tribes, and mysterious servants of ancient, darker forces. These grueling and merciless minions seem bent on shattering what peace can be found in the kingdom. It is dangerous to travel too far from guarded lands, and many nobles keep hired guards-not much more than mercenaries themselves-to protect their personal estates. To make matters more difficult, as if the relentless two-legged threats are not bad enough, the hunters can only do so much to keep the wolves, great cats and larger predators from moving against small families and lone travelers. Even with such dangers, Aquilonia is one of the jewels of Hyboria. It is a temperate land of noble and proud people, with a lightly-obscured storm brewing beneath the surface of its grassy hills and ox-plowed wheat fields. Some day, sooner than King Conan can know, the silken curtains of Aquilonia will be ripped down and it will find itself at the mercy of its own devices. Cimmeria The Nation of Cimmeria A hard region of tundra, mountains and wooded fields seated beneath a cold, gray sky are the lands of Cimmeria. It is surrounded by those who would aim to either kill or conquer the native barbarian clans that have thrived here since the time of the Atlanteans. The hard terrain is often softened with blood-churned mud of Pictish invaders, Vanir raiders, Hyperborean Gurnakhi, or foolish would-be conquerors from the Border Kingdoms. But no one man could possibly claim these unconquerable people-or the lands in which they struggle daily to survive. Cimmeria is a harsh place of clan wars and tightly-knit families, where strength and cunning are key to survival. It is a land filled with dangerous people and predators, where much of the life that can be found in its frozen hills only lives to take life from another. Wolves, mountain cats and fierce bears hunt the frozen ranges and thick woods, more than capable of killing entire hunting parties unprepared for their savagery. Stories of monstrous beasts and dark legends waiting in the icy wastes for foolish travelers are told around crackling campfires, many of which have been proven true time and time again. In Cimmeria, if the weather and the terrain do not claim you, something else likely will. Only the strong will carve out a living here, often quite literally. The terrain is difficult, but many come to see for themselves. The Eiglophian Mountains tempt adventurers into their frozen heights to test their mettle against bloodthirsty cannibals and fabled creatures of legend. The "Field of Chiefs" and its Standing Stone, where the clans can come to speak of peaceful alliances, fearless of treachery, is a living piece of history. There is little question as to why foreigners who believe themselves strong of arm and swift of blade come to Cimmeria. It is the land that spawned the great and famous Conan, whose travels and adventures have been the road map of legendry for all of Hyboria. Many of his exploits echo across his homeland, beckoning others of the clans to mimic his life of danger and excitement. In a way, it was this land's harshness that tempered Conan as much as the drive of the man himself. Cimmeria, the land of Crom, may not be peaceful, pleasant, or easily survived, but it makes a tough people even tougher and sends the foolish to an early grave. It is a difficult place that lays low the weak and heralds the strong. There is a saying amongst the clans of the southern border-"Make peace with your gods before you come to Cimmeria, as it will not be found here." The Carachters Keaira She is a close ally of Conan. When he saved her from a camp of raiding Vanir invaders in years past, she formed an unbreakable bond of loyalty to the powerful barbarian. Or so it seems. Through the years, this bond has grown to become a professional relationship, and she now leads an underground network of spies, thieves, and murderers. Don’t be fooled by her voluptuous appearance, though, she is as deadly as she is wild in the bedroom. Suffice to say, she will go to any length to secure the information she craves and needs, involving both pleasure and unspeakable pain for the poor victims. Thoth-Amon and His Minions Earth’s most powerful sorcerer, Lord of the Black Ring and the speaker of Set, this imposing dusky-skinned man leads the snake god’s cult in Stygia. Though a master sorcerer, it is the horrifying powers of Set that help raise him above his Stygian brethren to his unassailable position of power. His dominating will and lust for power are bolstered by his fervent faith and fed by his insidious god. His face is unknown to most, and is here illustrated by one of his minions. Keaira Boat Captain Amyr The master of the Pride of Luxor is a broad-chested, imposing figure, with a loud, commanding voice and the swagger of one accustomed to giving orders and having them instantly obeyed. In the desert kingdom of Stygia, the languid waters of the river Styx teem with boats large and small, carrying cargo and ferrying passengers from city to city. In Khopshef Province there is no river captain more well-known that the burly form of Amyr, master of the river barge Pride of Luxor. Amyr runs a ferry route from Khopshef Province to the city of Khemi. Unlike many of the river boats operating from Khopshef Province, the Pride of Luxor is old but well cared for, her hull painted in bright colors and her fittings scrupulously maintained. Amyr makes his living transporting cargo and passengers who can afford a berth to and from the small village of Bubshur, and the captain rarely ever lacks for business. The master of the Pride of Luxor is a broad-chested, imposing figure, with a loud, commanding voice and the swagger of one accustomed to giving orders and having them instantly obeyed. He is a stern captain who runs a tight ship and his manner with passengers and crew is blunt and forthright. Amyr is a shrewd businessman and a ferocious haggler, whose success is evident in the large silk turban and gold earring he affects, like a veritable prince of the dark river. Though not overly sociable, Amyr has been known to frequent the island town of Pashtun, drawn to the town’s independent spirit and freedom from the politics of Stygia or Shem. He shows especial interest in Semira, a priestess of Derketo who lives upon the island. Rumors abound that he has been an attentive worshiper for many years, but none among the townsfolk would have the temerity to suggest such a thing to his face! Excorant the Golem Master Deep within the Black Ring Citadel in a facility buried far from the light of day works Excorant, a sorcerer capable of molding stone to create mockeries of human life. The infamous gargoyles of Kheshatta, city of magicians have long been feared yet one mad philosopher of the dark arts seeks to study them and unlock the secret of their creation. He has been partially successful and continues to work feverishly to discover their profane nature. Deep within the Black Ring Citadel in a facility buried far from the light of day works Excorant, a sorcerer capable of molding stone to create mockeries of human life; blasphemous gargoyles replete with fangs and talons capable of tearing armor to pieces, puncturing shields and ripping flesh to shreds. Excorant’s experiments require a continuous supply of victims. Criminals, the destitute and the insane are supplemented by slaves, foreign prisoners and unlucky citizens of Kheshatta snatched from the back streets and slums. What happens to them is unspeakable as they are foully sacrificed in the creation process. All that is ever found are the open-chested corpses left outside the laboratory’s arched gate for other Black Ring magicians to utilize. The alchemical concoctions and foul mixtures Excorant uses to animate his stone sentries are unknown; he protects his formulae closely against jealous competitors and is always guarded by his ever-watchful stone sentinels. But despite his alchemical powers and inhuman escorts, it is another sorcerous power which keeps the treacherous Black Mages at bay. An eternal fate far worse than death… The Darfari Practically all Darfari are followers of Yog and take part in vile ceremonies involving human sacrifice and cannibalism in his name. Darfari are cannibal warriors with sharp, filed down teeth. They are fierce, aggressive hunters and have started moving upwards through the Black Kingdoms towards the heart of Stygia. They have conquered a half-forgotten fortress in Purple Lotus Swamp and made it their own. Probably the most distinctive feature of Darfari culture is their religion, which is focused around Yog, the god of empty abodes. Practically all Darfari are followers of Yog and take part in vile ceremonies involving human sacrifice and cannibalism in his name. Kern Wolfeye Among the beleaguered and exhausted Cimmerian warriors of Conall’s Valley, the name of the war-leader Kern Wolfeye is spoken with a clashing mix of hatred and respect. Kern licked a dry tongue over his cracked lips. His cold-ravaged face, his amber, lupine gaze. He looked like a creature out of the blizzard. Like a wolf. Savage and strong. “To answer your question,” he said. “Yea. I hunt the Vanirs. And the Ymirish. And they might well be my father’s people.” Brig saw how the admission hurt. A quick flash of pain behind those yellow, unblinking eyes. “But my mother was Cimmerian, by Crom, and so am I.” — Legends of Kern: Blood of Wolves, Loren Coleman Among the beleaguered and exhausted Cimmerian warriors of Conall’s Valley, the name of the war-leader Kern Wolfeye is spoken with a clashing mix of hatred and respect. While other clan leaders counsel patience and the gradual buildup of their forces, Kern knows that his people are as good as dead if they do not fight to take back their homeland now. As the days turn into months, it is the Vanir who grow stronger and bolder, not the Cimmerians. Kern sees the bodies of his people impaled on spears; he sees their villages burned to charred cinders and scattered by the wind across the rocky ground; he sees the patrols of well-armed Vanir defiling the Field of the Dead—and he wants to kill every warrior of Vanaheim in the valley before it is too late. His name comes from his eyes, which are eerily yellow, much like the Ymirish people of the far north. Much of the mistrust that he shoulders from other Cimmerian chieftains comes from their prejudice about his eerie eyes, his pale flesh that never darkens with a tan, and his yellow hair, all revealing the truths of his Ymirish blood. Relations are further strained because Kern is an exile from his own clan, banished by Cul Chieftain, over a matter that differs with each storyteller and rumormonger relating the tale. Wolfeye is a reluctant war-leader, despite having the skills and integrity of a man born to command. His ambitions arise not from vanity or a hunger for power, but from the knowledge that if nothing is done to fight back the Vanir now, their final chance will be lost and Cimmeria will fall next. The Ymirish The newest threat in the hordes of malicious Vanir raiders is the presence of white-haired, yellow eyed warriors known to their Nordheimer brothers as the Ymirish. These warriors serve as commanders in the ravening host, blessed with the blood of Ymir in their veins, making them taller, stronger and more savage than mere mortal Vanir. Few Cimmerian warriors can stand against a Ymirish fighter in battle. Their strength is unrivalled because of their god’s blood, and though they are humans just as the Vanir and the Aesir of Nordheim, the Ymirish are also so much more than their northern kin. No one understands the exact nature of the Ymirish, or how truly divine their lineage is, but the blood of Ymir’s true sons, the frost-giants, beats in their bodies. It is thinner than in their warlord Grimnir Stormbringer, but it is enough to gift them with remarkable endurance and physical might. Ymirish warriors are often found at the head of Vanir patrols or as leaders of Nordheimer camps set up in Conall’s Valley in northern Cimmeria. They are distinctive not only for their height and snow-white or yellowish hair, but for their night-glinting eyes, reflecting moonlight like the eyes of wolves. When Cimmerians and Vanir meet in battle, it is the Ymirish who end the lives of the most foes, and the Ymirish that take first fill of the women once victory is claimed. Such is their prowess on the field of war, and the respect they hold over their own men. Vanir of Ymirish heritage have also been known to possess a flair for the dark arts. Many of the Ymir hold within them the sinister potential to hear and answer Ymir’s Call. The mystical black power of their evil god wells up in them, eating away at their physical forms, using the strength of their own bodies to fuel dark magic. In Vanir encampments within the conquered lands of northern Cimmeria, the gold-haired sorcerers who have answered Ymir’s Call work their foul spells, lending their god’s sorcery to the feral savagery of their warrior kin. Grimnir Stormbringer Grimnir Stormbringer, Champion of the Northern Gods A mammoth, covered in ropes of shaggy, coarse hair and strong as ten oxen. It plowed forward with a large form astride its neck, raising weapons overhead in challenge. A giant form. A true beast that walked upright, like a demon with blazing eyes of golden fire. The tales had not been so tall, after all. At last, Grimnir stood revealed. Giant-kin! Frost giant. One of the legendary true sons of Ymir. Easily half-again as large as a regular man, with a thick hide the color of old, rotten snow and heavily-muscled arms that could tear a warrior in two. His eyes did spark like yellow fire out of a face more bestial than human. But this was no mindless creature of the deep, deep north. There was intelligence there, and purpose in the way he held his weapons. He raised a warhammer overhead with his right hand. In his other, he wielded a battle axe one-handed and pointed it at the Cimmerian line. “Crom’s blood,” Brig Tall-Wood said aloud. — Legends of Kern: Blood of Wolves, Loren Coleman For several seasons, the name of Vanaheim’s most feared warlord has been on the lips of many Cimmerian warriors. It is this man who was blamed for the unnaturally long winters of years past, as if his power somehow birthed a curse of frost and snow to plague Cimmeria. It is this man who has claimed the lives of countless warriors, in his blood-soaked sweep into the land south of Vanaheim. It is he who commands a horde of Vanir and Ymirish berserkers, roaring orders as they despoil the beauty of Conan’s homeland and laughing as his warriors slaughter the defenders, rape their women, and burn the settlements to ash. In a land where superstition is seen as weakness, Cimmerians now make signs warding off evil at the mere mention of this warlord’s name. Grimnir Stormbringer. Grimnir the Invincible. Grimnir the Immortal. Stormbringer is a name that echoes with eerie truth, for the blizzard-plagues his sorcerers send against Cimmeria and for the ‘Grimnir’s Breath’ winds, ice-cold day and night, that bedevil Cimmerian villages. He is called ‘the Invincible’ for even in his army’s one defeat by the forces of Kern Wolfeye, Grimnir’s Nordheimers return again and again to take the lives of their southern foes. The Oracle of Derketo Moths to a flame: that is how the common folk of Khopshef Province describe the mysterious allure of this holy figure, who presides from an ancient temple that sits in the shadow of the great pyramid south of the village of Bubshur. Visitors who travel to the temple in hopes of receiving one of the oracle’s divinations are enthralled by the young man’s golden skin and his exotic, androgynous beauty. His wisdom and charisma belie his youthful appearance, and many young men and women who are fortunate enough to bask in his presence renounce their former lives and dedicate themselves to serving him. The oracle’s cult has grown steadily since his recent arrival, and numerous tents have since sprung up around the temple to house his worshipful disciples. The cultists continue to clean out and reclaim the semi-ruined temple building for the glory of their leader, decorating the worn stone walls with colorful banners and scraps of cloth to restore some of its former glory. The oracle isn’t universally loved, however. Prosperous merchant families who have lost sons and daughters to the oracle’s cult have been prevented from seeing their children at all, their inquiries deflected by one excuse or another. The citizens of Khopshef Province are troubled by the constant stream of converts who are leaving the village and devoting themselves to the mysterious figure, although they can’t point their finger at any signs of malice or evil in the oracle’s agenda. In recent days, however, a group of Black Ring emissaries have arrived from the southeast and made camp on a cliff overlooking the brooding pyramid. From there the emissaries watch the goings-on at the temple with the foreboding interest of carrion birds. What this portends for the oracle and his fanatical disciples remains to be seen, and only deepens the mystery surrounding him and his all-consuming cult. The Vanir Born of hardy northern stock in the land known as Vanaheim, the Vanir share similarities with the Cimmerians: both peoples are considered barbaric by most other nations and live tribal existences where the males train almost exclusively to make war and hunt for food. The Vanir differ from their Cimmerian neighbors to the south in that they are vicious raiders who attack others for slaves, plunder and sometimes just for amusement. The Vanir are currently surging south through the mountain borders, beating back the Cimmerian defenders and taking the heads of the warriors who oppose them. Unlike typical Vanir warfare, this seems to be an assault of conquest, not a lengthy raid. In this bitter war, the northerners are led by Ymirish commanders, and these white-haired folk of frost giant bloodlines hold mysterious authority over the Vanir raiders. Vanaheim itself is a snow-blanketed land of tundra and freezing winds. In the closing decades of the doomed Hyborian Age, it is destined to be one of the first nations to die under the encroaching glaciers, before sinking into the sea. That fate is a distant one, however. The warriors of the Vanir now raid south with vicious abandon. The berserkers of Nordheim fall on the natives, killing the scattered and disorganized Cimmerian warriors, raping their wives and taking their children as slaves. Kalanthes Always a powerful enemy to the worshippers of Set, Kalanthes has a long history that spans Hyboria. An old man now, he commands a powerful will and magic that arguably rivals any other soul on the continent. There are many rumors and folktales about the high priest, some spanning back many years, which tell of his faith's war with the dark god. The very hand of Ibis, Kalanthes has battled the darkness for a very long time. Kalanthes had crossed paths with the adventuring Conan several times. Their lives were at stake almost every time, but fate saw it to spare them repeatedly. Even the most horrid and powerful of Set's agents were unable to successfully take the high priest from this world-a feat that only a few can ever boast. The command of his faith and the gifts it bestows is dazzling and mysterious, when he chooses to use them. The high priest of Ibis would like to think himself a normal Nemedian man, but he knows the nature of destiny all too well to ignore it. Kalanthes has made many allies, and counts a number of them as close friends. It seems that, like his old friend and comrade King Conan, he has pulled back from the front lines of the war against Set. There have been fewer stories of his magics, and the influence of the serpent god has not waned. Yet, there have been sightings of a man fitting a similar description around the beaches of Tortage-an island that few would call a place of peaceful retirement. It's as if he is waiting for someone King Conan King Conan of Aquilonia Having dethroned the late King Numedides III and claimed his crown to rest on a troubled brow, Conan of Cimmeria now sits upon the throne of Aquilonia. His tales are known as legend and fable all over Hyboria. Except in the darkest reaches of the Black Kingdoms or the savage tribes of the Pictish Wilderness, there is not a soul who has not at least heard of the life of Conan, and there is not an adventurer whose life does not mirror his own in some way. Conan has lived many lives on his fractious journey to the throne. His adventures began in a barbarian clan growing up in the harshness of Cimmeria. Even as a young boy of merely fifteen summers, he had partaken in the sacking of the Aquilonian outpost of Fort Venarium. He enjoyed life as a raider with the Aesir, crossing blades with Vanir and Hyperboreans alike. He bled as a laboring slave and gladiator, a sell-sword and a prisoner. He lived as a thief in the streets of Shadizar, making a living on ill-gotten treasures and "forgotten" coin. Conan has lived on both sides of the law, as a ship's captain and pirate, as a mercenary and a soldier-and eventually, as king of Aquilonia itself. He has slain beasts, monsters and demons, never sparing their dark, sorcerous masters. His blade has tasted the blood of hundreds, and his travels took him across thousands of leagues. But not all of his adventures were born of blade and blood. He has also loved as fiercely as he has battled. Women from many lands have earned his attentions throughout his travels, some say that few even held his heart for a time-perhaps longer than even Conan would like to admit. No matter his past loves and conquests, it is Zenobia who would share his life and become his wife and Queen. He has led Aquilonia's armies against his kingdom's foes from Nemedia, Ophir and Koth; sending a message that the Border Kingdoms will not be left to their own devices. There has been too much blood spilled in those broken lands to ignore any longer. As king, Conan cannot venture forth as he used to, so he must leave it to his able-bodied and loyal subjects instead. They are enjoying a vagabond's life of travel and excitement day to day behind the hilt of a bloody sword, while he must patiently wait to hear of their successes. His role has become more structured, more bound to Tarantia and the fate of Aquilonia than ever before. The crown has never felt heavier for him. He sits on his throne in Tarantia, watching and waiting tensely as threats to his rule rear back like cobras ready to strike. He would like nothing more than to ride out and meet these enemies in battle as a warrior should, but as king he cannot-leaving it instead to the brave adventurers who follow in his footsteps. Where he has been the source of legends, King Conan enjoys his heralds' tales of heroes from this new age, the inheritors of his own adventures long passed. He longs to join them again… The Gods Derketo The Goddess Derketo - 'They will put her through paces she never dreamed of! She is too soft to endure what I have thrived on. I am a daughter of Luxur, and before I had known fifteen summers I had been led through the temples of Derketo, the dusky goddess, and had been initiated into the mysteries'. – The Slithering Shadow, R. E. Howard A goddess of fertility and lust originally worshipped in Shem, Derketo can be found among the pantheons of many southern kingdoms, particularly Stygia and Kush. In Stygia, Derketo is a decadent, licentious deity, serving as the religious counterpoint to the strict and humourless devotions of Set, the Great Serpent. Nearly every Stygian city contains a grand temple to the goddess, where young girls are initiated into the erotic mysteries of Derketo. Initiates of Derketo often serve as courtesans to Stygian nobles and high priests, while priestesses of the temple practice the arts of pleasure with devotees in return for contribution to the temple coffers. Followers of the goddess celebrate the harvest and the equinox with wild, wine-soaked orgies that invoke Derketo’s life-giving powers. Though the arch-priests of Set frown upon the wanton rituals of the temple and some would like nothing better to see the religion driven from their kingdom, they know that the noble families and the merchant class would never permit it. The sign of Derketo is the fish, representing her powers of fertility and life, and in Shem she is frequently associated with the life-giving river Styx. In Kush, however, she is worshipped as Derketa, the malevolent Queen of the Dead. Mitra "Mitra would have folks stand upright before him-not crawling on their bellies like worms, or spilling blood of animals all over his altars." -The Black Colossus, Robert E. Howard Plain and unadorned in comparison to the lavish display of Ishtar's shrines, there was about it a simplicity of dignity and beauty characteristic of the Mitran religion. The ceiling was lofty, but it was not domed, and was of plain white marble, as were the walls and floor, the former with a narrow gold frieze running about them. Behind an altar of clear green jade, unstained with sacrifice, stood the pedestal whereon sat the material manifestation of the deity. Yasmela looked in awe at the sweep of the magnificent shoulders, the clear-cut features-the wide straight eyes, the patriarchal beard, the thick curls of the hair, confined by a simple band about the temples. This, though she did not know it, was art in its highest form -the free, uncramped artistic expression of a highly esthetic race, unhampered by conventional symbolism. "This is but the emblem of the god. None pretends to know what Mitra looks like. This but represents him in idealized human form, as near perfection as the human mind can conceive. He does not inhabit this cold stone, as your priests tell you Ishtar does. He is everywhere - above us, and about us, and he dreams betimes in the high places among the stars. But here his being focusses. Therefore call upon him." -The Black Colossus, Robert E. Howard Mitra is the most common god worshipped in Hyboria, and is the chief deity in almost all Hyborian kingdoms, including Aquilonia, Ophir, Nemedia, Brythunia, Corinthia, and even Zingara. The worship of Mitra is a monotheistic one. There are a host of saints, but there must be no other god than Mitra. His followers are fervently suspicious towards other gods and religions, especially the worship of Set and of the Pictish animal gods. As opposed to Crom and Set, Mitra is a kind god, although he holds his followers to high standards. The theology is based on justice and a very strong sense of right and wrong. His followers are expected to strive for justice and are encouraged to forgive. There is a huge clergy associated with the worship of Mitra, and one can find temples in his honor everywhere his influence is spread. Mitra's temples are conspicuously free of ornamentation. They are supposed to reflect the pious and ascetic ideal he holds over his subjects. Mitra doesn't need precious metals and elaborate ornaments in his honor. He wants dedication and prayer, not superfluous sacrifice; and he abhors the ritual of human sacrifice prevalent in many other Hyborian religions. Crom Crom was their chief, and he lived on a great mountain, whence he sent forth dooms and death. It was useless to call on Crom, because he was a gloomy, savage god, and he hated weaklings. But he gave a man courage at birth, and the will and might to kill his enemies, which, in the Cimmerian's mind, was all any god should be expected to do. - The Tower of the Elephant, Robert E. Howard Crom is the head of the Cimmerian pantheon of cruel gods, sending forth dooms and death from his seat on the great mountain of Mount Crom, or Ben Morgh, the holiest place in Cimmeria. To pray to Crom is a pointless task, as it will only invoke his anger. Prayer is a sign of weakness, and Crom has little patience for the weak. Cimmerians prefer to not attract his attention, and if his name is muttered, it is invariably in the form of an oath or a curse. Nominally, every Cimmerian is a follower of Crom, but there is no established clergy devoted to him, he doesn't inspire any rituals, and the people bid him no sacrifice besides using the strength he granted them to take what they want from life and to cleave the skulls of their enemies. "Their chief is Crom. He dwells on a great mountain. What use to call on him? Little he cares if men live or die. Better to be silent than to call his attention to you; he will send you dooms, not fortune! He is grim and loveless, but at birth he breathes power to strive and slay into a man's soul. What else shall men ask of the gods?" --Queen of the Black Coast, Robert E. Howard Set Under the caverned pyramids great Set coils asleep; Among the shadows of the tombs his dusky people creep. I speak the Word from the hidden gulfs that never knew the sun- Send me a servant for my hate, oh scaled and shining One! -The Phoenix on the Sword, Robert E. Howard Set, the Old Serpent, is Mitra's arch-enemy, and the ancient god revered and worshipped mainly in Stygia, and is known and worshipped as Damballah in the Black Kingdoms. He is a cruel, jealous god who demands constant sacrifice from his subjects, and his priests are only too willing to comply as they bring naked virgins screaming to his altar to appease his blood-lust. In Stygia the snake is holy and to kill a snake is a mortal sin. If a snake slithers into the cities or to the streets, Set's subjects will lay prostrate before him, hoping to be found worthy of his bite. His priests are almost as frightening as the god himself, and they terrify their own people almost as much as they terrify their enemies. Stygia is a theocracy, and the mad and corrupt clergy run the country on fear and wonder, as well as an indiscriminate willingness to sacrifice their own people. The Beastiary Troglodytes Hyborian evolution is a continuing process, and while some races emerge from stone-age darkness, others sink back into the mire of pre-human cannibalistic savagery. Among the forest-covered hills of the northwest exist wandering bands of ape-men, without human speech, or the knowledge of fire or the use of implements. They are the descendants of the Atlanteans, sunk back into the squalling chaos of jungle-bestiality from which ages ago their ancestors so laboriously crawled. To the southwest dwell scattered clans of degraded, cave-dwelling savages, whose speech is of the most primitive form… - Robert E Howard – The Hyborian Age Hyborian evolution is a continuing process, and while some races emerge from stone-age darkness, others sink back into the mire of pre-human cannibalistic savagery. One such tribe of savages lurks in caves near Atzel’s fortress after descending from the frozen mountain plateaus to the north. They follow the mammoth migrations, hunting the great beasts as well as taming them. They have been blamed for stealing prisoners from Atzel’s detention camp nearby and menacing unwary travelers in the snowy wastes, but they are tolerated by Atzel’s bandit forces (they have no loot or valuables to pillage). However, the truce is an uneasy one and should the cave dwelling savages start dining on bandit flesh open warfare is likely to break out. Atzel's Bandits It would be ill-advised to mistake Atzel’s Bandits for another band of ill-equipped outlaws hiding in the hills and menacing remote regions. This army is made from the warlords of the Border Kingdoms combined with the worst fugitives, marauders and brigands from every corner of Hyboria. Now they gather under Atzel’s black bull banner. Atzel’s troops number in the thousands with a cellular and distributed command system. It is made up of hardened mercenaries and brutally trained conscripts and slaves; well equipped, well armed and well-drilled. They are a formidable force, a mix of specialist tacticians and bloodthirsty fighters and whoever commands them is a master strategist. Against Cimmeria in west they carry on a war of attrition while trying to out maneuver the Cimmerians. The Cimmerian retaliations have been effective but their impact has been limited by the dispersed nature of Atzel’s forces. To the south Atzel’s forces carry out a guerilla war against the Aquilonia, raiding and plundering across the northern border and fading back into the mountains. Aquilonia’s mighty army is ill-equipped for such warfare and its numerical and material advantage is ineffective against the countless small roaming bands that make forays seemingly at random. Atzel’s mercenaries are well paid and currently enjoy rich plunder, but it is obvious to any outsider that this cannot be sustained. Little wonder that the bands are brutally controlled and any discontent is suppressed swiftly and mercilessly. The campaign has worked brilliantly so far but this does not seem a like a long-term strategy. Are they led by a madman or warlord mastermind? Lions of Kheshatta These great cats are legendary across Stygia and the Black Kingdoms to the south. They have a fearsome reputation for strength and savagery unmatched by any other wild animal. They are true lords of their domain, fearing neither man nor beast. The carcasses of their kills litter the lands and feed the clouds of vultures seen wheeling overhead. The lions roam the hills and their mighty roars can be heard from the city walls of Kheshatta itself. Organized into prides, they are extremely social creatures and anyone watching (from a great distance of course) will note the interaction between males, females and the cubs. Seeing a pride hunting together is an unforgettable sight. Fierce and untamed, they are the predator kings. And as the Stygian’s say “Go not lightly where the lions of Kheshatta tread. The Vengeful Mummy These twisted mockeries of human life are all that remains of the ill-fated victims of the Black Ring's quest for power. Slaves, criminals and those too weak to protect themselves from the dark sorcerers of the foreboding citadel that lurks behind Kheshatta disappear into its black halls and emerge as inhuman monsters. Whether any flicker of life remains in them or if they are necromantic creations, the dead given unlife by corrupt sorcery, is unknown by the Stygian citizens of the City of Magicians. The truth is the still living victims are possessed by souls risen from hell, but which failed to survive the vile process of reincorporation performed by the sorcerers of the Black Ring. Now they stand guard in the deepest bowels of the most blood soaked dungeon in all Stygia, below the Black Ring Citadel, the Onyx Chambers… Scaleskin Lizard Their sub-human intelligence is driven by the worship of primitive gods; vile fusions of reptile, insect and slime or tentacled horrors of living madness. The vilest magic and the most dangerous alchemical experiments are carried out by the sorcerers of the Black Ring Citadel. The chambers below have become polluted over the centuries and this has had a strange effect on the lizards dwelling in the lightless sewers below. Whether their evolution has regressed or accelerated is not known for sure but the existence of these hybrid humanoid reptiles is well known…and feared by the Stygian population above. Their sub-human intelligence is driven by the worship of primitive gods; vile fusions of reptile, insect and slime or tentacled horrors of living madness. However, they are god-like beings that heed the call of their worshippers and bestow alien, shamanistic spells on their most blood-soaked and faithful. The Scaleskins are blamed for disappearances in the city above but in fact they are content to dwell in the lightless chambers beneath and perform their cultish rites, but to what end is not known. However, anyone foolish enough to trespass in their territory risks a grisly fate, being torn part alive and consumed by these gibbering, howling monstrosities. The Malicious Shadows Cloaked in the rags of Acheron, the Shadows are zealous protectors of the relics of that ancient empire. "It was there, in the corner," muttered the king, tossing his lion-maned head from side to side in his efforts to rise. "A man – at least he looked like a man – wrapped in rags like a mummy's bandages, with a moldering cloak drawn about him, and a hood. All I could see was his eyes, as he crouched there in the shadows. I thought he was a shadow himself, until I saw his eyes. They were like black jewels." - Robert E Howard, The Hour of the Dragon Cloaked in the rags of Acheron, the Shadows are zealous protectors of the relics of that ancient empire. Amorphous faces leer from beneath ancient helmets, while skeletal hands wield wicked weapons in the complete evisceration of Acheron's foes. Shadows are often found acting as the guardians of long forgotten tombs or caches of hidden treasure. They take a supernatural pleasure in tearing flesh from bone, preferably while their victim lives. Once their victims are dead, Shadows lose interest in the game and leave the torn, bloodied corpses where they lie. Shadows were commonly used to enforce curses in ancient Acheron. Many an unfortunate adventurer has been found torn from limb to limb after picking up an enchanted sword or bizarre tome. Recently, Shadows have been sighted in the Border Ranges, congregating around a strange hill. The hill is rumored to be a place of dark power, the earth beneath it twisted and corrupted by the rituals that have taken place around the altar at its zenith. What draws the Shadows to this place is unknown, but anyone exploring the area should take particular care, lest they end up at the mercy of the Shadows. The Corrupted Bear Five-hundred pounds of tooth and claw, driven insane by the disease coursing through their veins, these predators crash across the landscape destroying all in their path. In their foolish quest for power, the Nemedians experiment with forces beyond their control. They attempt to recreate the black plague that swept their country, and unleash it upon their foes the Aquilonians. Their first attempt, which they disseminated in the Border Ranges, infected the local fauna with a bizarre disease. This disease strips the beasts of their natural skin, their flesh falling in strips from their bodies. As a result of the constant pain, most of the animals are driven insane. Chief among these enraged predators is the bear. Five-hundred pounds of tooth and claw, driven insane by the disease coursing through their veins, these predators crash across the landscape destroying all in their path. Lesser beasts are swept away beneath the onslaught and even the most powerful predators become prey when the corrupted bears rampage. In the northern part of the Wild Lands, there is a hidden way called Devil's Pass. It is said that a demonic bear makes its home there, snatching the souls of any who dare to travel through the pass. Only one man claims to have seen this bear and survived; Athero of the Outcasts. He seeks a champion to slay the bear and claims that only with the knowledge he possesses can anybody hope to be successful. The Blood Defiler These noisome demons are made solely from blood. They are not flesh like men, instead they are beings of the warm clotted blood used in their foul summoning ritual. These noisome demons are made solely from blood. They are not flesh like men, instead they are beings of the warm clotted blood used in their foul summoning ritual, bound together by unwholesome sorcery and their own maleficent will. Only found guarding the darkest sanctums and in the service of the most powerful practitioners of the dark arts, they are found lurking near the pools from which they were raised. Some surmise they are linked to the blood source of their creation. The gaze of their empty eye sockets is unnerving, their glistening skin gently throbs and drips of blood fall continuously from their rictus grins, but it is the flopping vestigial proboscises under its arms that horrify. They writhe seeking fresh sources of blood and should a blood defiler envelop a victim in its arms these appendages burrow into the host and greedily pump blood from their screaming prey. The blood used in their creation directly affects the blood defilers power. Sorcerers are careful to use pure and innocent blood in their creation for tainted blood diminishes their control over the abominations. Tainted blood and tainted blood defilers can turn on their creators or run amok, killing all in their reach in a frenzy of teeth, claws and blood spray. The Acheronian Warlord Blackblade cursed and shook a mailed fist at his men, his voice like the crack of a whip. A soldier paused to wipe his sweat drenched brow and, in the process, threw off the rhythm of the others. “His given name was Dhurkhan Blackblade, a name that filled the hearts of men with fear and hate. His brutish biceps were thicker than a man’s calves; his shoulders rose above a tall man’s head. And Blackblade’s ability to intimidate was more than physical, for he was Supreme Warlord of the Army of Acheron and brother of the dreaded Xaltotun. “Blackblade cursed and shook a mailed fist at his men, his voice like the crack of a whip. A soldier paused to wipe his sweat drenched brow and, in the process, threw off the rhythm of the others. An instant later, the soldiers head flew from his shoulders with a scarlet spray. It thumped down the marble steps as Blackblade ordered another to take the dead man’s place.” Acheron; long will it’s name live in infamy. An ancient civilization of black hearted sorcerers, it conquered the north in the name of vile magic and blood fuelled corruption. Only the wild tribesmen who dwelled in the gray hills of the north, where Cimmeria stands now, were able to resist them. All other nations fell beneath their blades and sorcery. Dhurkhan Blackblade was one of its most feared dark-champions. Leader of the thirteen hosts and commander of the greatest army to march across Hyboria, they were all lost when the Holy City of Nithia was scoured from the face of the earth some three thousand years ago. Yarekma the Soul Eater What madness would possess anyone to deal with such a creature is beyond comprehension and an even greater madness lies in opposing the archfiend. From what layer of Tartarus this monstrous angel of war was dragged is lost now for the thing has slaughtered those responsible for conjuring it. Not only did it slay their mortal forms but it dragged out their eternal souls and ravenously ate them, feasting on them while tearing their victims bodies apart and grinding them to bloody pulp. Yarekma is still trapped within the deeper recesses of the Black Ring Citadel. Only the most disturbed and avaricious of diabolists risk consorting with this entity, but the power it still offers tempts the weak. The gargantuan beast dwarfs men and women, standing to fill the enormous underground chamber. It is hemmed in by arcane symbols seared into the marble floor and towers soaring to the vaulted ceiling and arcing incredible flashes of lightning. Yet the most fearsome aspect is not its size, but the aura of unbridled rage that surrounds it as it seethes against its captivity. A general from the eternal battlefields of the mythic underworld, it is demeaned by its imprisonment and offers heaven and earth to any who would set it free, while threatening eternal damnation against anyone who contemplates trying to force its service. It’s rage is capable of shaking the mountain to its foundations. What madness would possess anyone to deal with such a creature is beyond comprehension and an even greater madness lies in opposing the archfiend. And Hyboria is surely doomed should it ever escape… The War Mammoth Thunder can be heard on the fields of the Border Kingdom, it is the thunderous steps of the mighty War Mammoths. These gargantuan beasts, mounted by skilled riders, strides across the blood-soaked fields as mighty battleships set to conquer some unknown harbor. A vital instrument in any siege attack, a War Mammoth may very well determine the outcome of a battle. Employing these beasts in your attack means that you can break down walls and damage buildings even without using traditional siege weapons. In Age of Conan: Hyborian Adventures players can acquire and ride their own War Mammoth into battles throughout the Border Kingdom. At launch, the only way to obtain such a beast is to pre-order the game at select retail chains where it is on offer. Killer Rhino With ferocious speed the Killer Rhino charges the fields of the Border Kingdom, plowing through hordes of enemy soldiers, sending them flying through the air. The Devil’s Lance, the enemy calls them – incredible speed packed into a body intended to maim and slaughter. On their backs, skilled riders fight for control, carefully employing them in battle where the death of many is required in as short time as possible. In siege battles the Killer Rhino is a potent yet dangerous instrument of death thanks to its ability to brutally plow through large masses of enemies in a quick, brutal and lethal frenzy. In Age of Conan: Hyborian Adventures players can acquire and ride their own Killer Rhino into battles throughout the Border Kingdom. At launch, the only way to obtain such a beast is to pre-order the game at select retail chains where it is on offer. The Tarantula Tarantulas are very large, hairy spiders that prefer to seek out and kill their prey rather than trapping them in the strands of a web. Tarantulas are very large, hairy spiders that prefer to seek out and kill their prey rather than trapping them in the strands of a web. Depending on their size, tarantulas hunt prey as small as crickets or as large as lizards or even small birds. Like other spiders, they inject their prey with powerful venom that liquefies their organs into a stew that the tarantula can then consume. Though desert dwellers fear the tarantula, the spider’s venom is rarely poisonous, although its bite can cause severe pain for a short period of time. Despite their fearsome appearance, tarantulas are rarely aggressive toward humans unless provoked, although the villagers of Pashtun ascribe a diabolical intelligence to the swarms of tarantulas infesting the nearby Island of the Ancient Ones. The Mammoth Colossal elephant-like beasts, mammoths are creatures clad in shaggy brown fur, with curved tusks as long as a man is tall. These beasts roam the lands of Nordheim in herds, hunted by the Vanir and the Aesir for food, fur and precious ivory. While the fur can be used as blankets and armor, the tusks are made into weapon handles or ivory jewelry, and mammoth meat will feed a clan for some time, purely because there is so much of it on even a single animal. In battle, a mammoth is a fearsome foe, often requiring the strength and skill of many warriors to bring the beast down. Their thick, hairy hides are armored against sword slashes and spear plunges alike, and between their great strength and lethal tusks, an enraged mammoth is more than capable of killing a group of careless hunters. Even peppered with a dozen arrows, such creatures will fight on, trampling the men that seek to kill them or goring them with their tusks. It takes all of the strength Crom gave a man at birth to stand and face a rampaging mammoth, with the ground shaking under a warrior’s feet and a gruesome death awaiting if he falls under the beast’s legs or is impaled on the creature’s tusks. Some warriors among the Vanir and their Ymirish leaders have a different use for the mammoths they come across in the frozen wilds of Nordheim. These huge animals are shackled and enslaved, either through mundane means or Ymirish sorceries, and used as beasts of war, driven into battles in order to dishearten their foes before being unleashed to crush them. In the Eiglophian Mountains, mammoths roam the wilds, and recent rumors tell of a blood-furred beast striking fear into the hearts of Cimmerian hunters. In the Border Kingdoms, mammoths are not only scattered through the wild but also serve as battle-mounts for the soldiers of the bandit-king Atzel. In the past, the northern warlord Grimnir Stormbringer has ridden into battle atop a war-mammoth. In any conflict between the Vanir and the Cimmerians, mammoths have inflicted horrendous casualties against the Cimmerian defenders. Vistrix Atzel’s Approach offers a variety of torments to ensnare unwary travelers, and not all of them—not even most—are human. While the bandit groups under Atzel’s banner are a grave threat throughout the region, darker dangers exist. The greatest of these, and the father of many lesser evils, is the demon known as Vistrix. Little is known of Vistrix in truth, and much of the death-filled rumor tied to the beast is born of fearful speculation rather than iron-hard fact. The tales spin into myths as the cold nights pass, blending legend and truth into one. Young mammoths are taken from their herds, torn from the earth by a great shadow and a thunder of swift wind. Snake-like inhuman beasts, the chill crawlers, crawl free of the entombing snow in obscene numbers and claw their way to the surface world. Those eking out a living on the slopes of the region’s mountains blame Vistrix for these acts. The demon takes the mammoths to feed. The chill crawlers are the monstrous spawn of the dragon-thing. Vistrix appears to be a new threat to the region, rather than some ancient evil well-known for plaguing Cimmeria and the Border Kingdoms for centuries past. All aware of the spreading evil in Atzel’s Approach know the arrival the demon-dragon coincides with the blossoming darkness. Whether Vistrix is the cause or another symptom of the foulness in the realm, none can be sure. In form, the demon is a reptilian echo from a long-forgotten age when cold-blooded and scaled predator-kings claimed the world as their hunting ground. Does intelligence—a human intelligence—gleam in its giant eyes? The answer to that depends entirely on which tales a traveler believes… The Flesh Eater These behemoths tread through the cold pools of bog water like manifestations of the defiled swamp, all muscle and slime and hatred. It is said by those insightful in the ways of the world that the wilderness is alive, just as people or beasts are alive. An area exists in a balance—a balance of the flora and fauna that dwell within its boundaries. But the balance is not eternal. It can be lost, especially when humans come to the area. A warrior’s body bleeds when he is wounded, and so too does a region react when injured by human presence. The Frost Swamp, violated by the foul magics of invading Hyperborean sorcerers, has spawned horrors as a reaction to its wounds. Chief among these are the monsters known to Cimmerian hunters as Flesh Eaters, which in recent months have risen from the icy wasteland of the swamps, each possessed of only the basest animalistic cunning, and hungering for the flesh of men. These behemoths tread through the cold pools of bog water like manifestations of the defiled swamp, all muscle and slime and hatred, with their stone-hard skin festooned by twigs from swamp trees and reeking of the region’s tainted water. To stand against one of these hulks is to stand against the Frost Swamp’s fury incarnate. The Frostcrawler No natural beast, a Frostcrawler is somewhere between a serpent and an eel, yet with aspects resembling neither creature. Among the malefic horrors spawned by Hyperborean sorcery are the feral blasphemies known to Cimmerian hunters as Frostcrawlers. These rapacious things ghost through the mist-cloaked forest, hissing to themselves and slithering in search of prey. No natural beast, a Frostcrawler is somewhere between a serpent and an eel, yet with aspects resembling neither creature. A serpentine tail thrashes through the foul-smelling swamp water as the Frostcrawler glides towards its intended prey, while a roughly humanoid torso rears up from the depths to lash out with surprisingly powerful arms and multi-jointed fingers tipped with vicious claws. Its mouth is that of a sea-snake or giant eel—an ugly slit in its reptilian face, lined with rows of needle-like shark’s teeth. Some of the few living witnesses to have seen a Frostcrawler describe it as a throwback from an earlier age, when crocodilian beasts claimed the world as their own. Most survivors are not educated enough to make such an assumption, and merely point to Hyperborean sorcery, citing the creature as the brutish, malformed result of black magic tainting everything it touches. The Grol Harbingers of a greater evil to come, the Grol are lesser echoes of more powerful demon lord that has languished in magical bindings for centuries. Harbingers of a greater evil to come, the Grol are lesser echoes of more powerful demon lord that has languished in magical bindings for centuries. While their master remains trapped within the bole of a great tree, bound there by the magic of the witch Zelata, the weaker Grol creatures manifest in the land nearby, foreshadowing the appearance of their filthy scion. Every fifty years, the spell imprisoning the demon within the tree grows weak and must be renewed. There are those tasked with the watching for when the spell must be restored. These watchful souls know the time is near once they begin to see the Grol appearing across the Wild Lands. The ichor-covered imps delight in attacking humans, bearing all the spite of their patron demon in his hatred for mortal life. Mutilations and deaths at the hands and teeth of the Grol are becoming commonplace once more in Aquilonia’s easternmost reaches. Those aware of the ancient secret know the signs are waxing as each night passes, and unless the Grol are killed soon and the spell around the great tree renewed, the frontier settlements of the Wild Lands will be at the mercy of the imps and their malicious lord. The Dark Beast The Wild Lands and the frontier villages are bedeviled by the presence of creatures earning the name ‘Dark Beasts’ from the lips of terrified peasants. The latest threat to the peace of Aquilonia comes from no natural source. It is not the thunder of a Nemedian army’s march, or the howling cries of a Pict tribe running to battle. Instead, the Wild Lands and the frontier villages scattered throughout its reaches are bedeviled by the presence of creatures earning the name ‘Dark Beasts’ from the lips of terrified peasants. Exactly what the Dark Beasts are and where they come from remains a mystery known only to those involved in the creatures’ sorcerous birth. The beasts hunt animals and humans alike, though not always for food. While many victims of Dark Beast attacks end up serving as feasts for the creatures’ appetites, many more are slaughtered and left to rot unburied, seemingly killed for no reason beyond the malice of these monsters. Few who meet the beasts live long enough to tell of what they saw, so the creatures are known to the people of the Wilds Lands as a shadowy threat, a faceless danger, and the gruesome evidence the Dark Beasts leave after a hunt. Those who survive to speak of the creatures tell tales of black-furred abominations with long, bestial claws and maws of teeth that tear flesh with hideous ease. The Savage Cannibals To those who know of these primitives, they are considered beast-men, savage cannibals capable of little in the way of reason and lacking all higher intelligence. There were about a dozen of the mountain men, armed with crude wooden clubs and stone-headed spears and axes. They were short-limbed, thick-bodied creatures, wrapped in tattered, mangy furs. Small, bloodshot eyes glared out from under beetling brows and sloping foreheads; thick lips drew back to reveal large yellow teeth. They were like leftovers from some earlier stage of evolution, about which Conan had heard once heard philosophers argue in the courtyards of Nemedian temples. Just now, however, he was too fully occupied with guiding his horse and aiming his lance to spare such matters more than the barest fleeting thought. Then he crashed among them like a thunderbolt. –– Conan of Cimmeria Some scholars believe there were other ages before the Hyborian Age, and that if one travels far and looks hard, there is the chance one might discover echoes of these lost ages when men walked the world, yet were not as they are now. To those who know of these primitives, they are considered beast-men, savage cannibals capable of little in the way of reason and lacking all higher intelligence. They are incapable of anything but the most basic, simple culture, and communicate in a language little more than the first grunts and growls mankind made when the world was young and humanity was new. The Cimmerian clans of the Eiglophian Mountains know that these beast-men still exist, though they care nothing for whether these primitives are echoes of humanity’s past or degenerate monsters that take a form close to that of humans. What concerns these clans most is the merciless raiding carried out by the savages, who attack Cimmerian villages and outposts in order to capture weapons of better quality and drag villagers screaming back to their filthy, squalid little caves, where the Cimmerian captives are devoured by the savage cannibals. These flesh-eaters are a source of great terror for the scattered clans of Cimmeria’s northern mountains. Tribal tales tell of even darker fates than as the raw meal of a cannibal family; be it as the living sacrifice to the great ice worm Yakhmar, or worse—offered up to the snow dragon Coltranach, whom these ugly, misshapen half-men worship as a god. Yakhmar The greatest and most terrible of the ice worms is Yakhmar, gigantic in size and ferocious in its cold hatred for any of the living. The higher animals, he knew, radiated heat. Below them in the scale of being came the scaled and plated reptiles and fishes, whose temperature was of their surroundings. But the Remora, the worm of the ice lands, seeming unique in that it radiated cold; at least, that was how Conan would have expressed it. It gave out a sort of bitter cold that could encase a corpse in an armor of ice within minutes. Since none of Conan’s tribesmen claimed to have seen a Remora, Conan had assumed that the creature was long extinct. This, then, must be the monster that Igla had dreaded, and of which she had vainly tried to warn him by the name yakhmar. –– Lair of the Ice Worm, L. Sprague de Camp & Lin Carter The ice-crusted hell of northernmost Cimmeria is a land where life fights to survive. The Eiglophian Mountains rear up into the skies, becoming ever more hostile to humanity with each step up the face of those jagged spires. While scattered clans of Cimmerian barbarians cling to a joyless existence here, the only life that truly thrives in this realm of untouched snow and ancient stone is utterly inhuman. They are the predators of the peaks, and the mightiest among them are some of the deadliest creatures to be found anywhere in the world. First among these are the ice worms of Cimmerian and Hyperborean legend. Some warriors of the northlands believe with certainty that the ice worms are extinct. But the ice worms still live, burrowing ever deeper into the earth’s skin in order to hide from the agonizing touch of the sun’s heat and the fire-arrows of human hunters. The greatest and most terrible of these creatures is Yakhmar itself, gigantic in size and ferocious in its cold hatred for any of the living. The rare tales that tell of Yakhmar speak of a monstrous white-furred worm, its body formed of coil upon coil of winding, rippling, muscled flesh. The beast’s eyes are a sickly, undersea green that radiate cold light in the dark surroundings of its lair, and its opened maw is a gaping hole in inward-pointing teeth and a slick, grasping tongue that snares a warrior’s limbs and drags him closer so the creature may feed. Yakhmar, and perhaps its lesser kin, possesses the ability to produce a piping call that is able to hypnotize even strong-willed souls, luring them from the safety of their campfire and into a foul death. Ice worms feed on the flesh of warm-blooded creatures, rasping the flesh away from their victims’ bones and leaving the bodies encased in a block of solid ice once all warmth is leeched away. Of all the ways to die in the Hyborian Age, such a death is surely one of the most agonizing. The Camel The famed “ships of the desert”, camels are large, ungainly-looking herbivores whose strange bodies are uniquely adapted to allow them to thrive in the harshest desert wastes. Players can use camels as mounts. Standing up to eighteen hands at the shoulder, the camel has a tall “hump” of fatty tissue that the animal can draw upon for energy when traveling through regions where food and water are scarce. Their long necks and sharp teeth allow them to feed on even the thorniest of plants, and broad, two-toed feet give camels excellent traction along the soft desert dunes. Though notoriously foul-tempered and prone to spitting at handlers who have earned their ire, desert nomads and merchants plying the southern caravan routes value camels for their intelligence and legendary endurance. The Python In the shadowy streets of ancient Stygia, where the worship of the Set holds sway over one and all, the serpent is the living image of the true god. Because of this, serpents are held in high regard in Stygian culture. It is forbidden to harm a snake for any reason, and in the cities of Keshatta and Khemi the faithful live in the constant presence of all manner of serpents. Cobras slither unchallenged through the corridors of the temples and vipers sun themselves upon the street corner or in the market square without fear of harm. If a man is bitten by a serpent it is the will of Set, and there is nothing for him to do but seek solace in the temple and let the venom run its course. Of all Set’s children it is the giant python that is revered the most. These deadly constrictors are housed in temples all across Stygia, where they are treated as sacred treasures by the zealous priests. When these giant reptiles grow hungry they are free to leave the temple and hunt the city streets for their prey. When a Stygian crosses paths with one of the sacred pythons he must prostrate himself on the ground before the hungry snake and await Set’s judgment. It is considered a great honor to be chosen as a sacrifice to the Great Serpent, and every day men and women willingly submit themselves to the coils of these dreadful beasts. Once they have fed, the sacred pythons return to their subterranean lairs beneath the city temples to slowly digest their meals. The pythons of Stygia continue to grow each year they are alive. Sailors who ply the sacred river Styx claim to have seen specimens as large as thirty feet in length. It is rumored that within the confines of Set’s temples there are pythons that are hundreds of years old, grown so large that they may feed upon a grown man as easily as a lesser snake eats a common mouse. The Specter Chieftains There are reasons why the honored dead are laid to rest on biers of stone, with trophies of past deeds and treasures piled at their feet. Their deeds in life earned them honor and respect, and their long service and sacrifice bought them hard-won rest in the afterlife. But such fierce spirits do not rest easily. As in life, they are quick to offense and all too willing to take action against those who have wronged them. More than one grave robber has come to a grisly end when the spirit of a former chieftain rose in his wrath to defend the treasures won over the course of a lifetime. This terrible drama is now being played out on a grand scale in the Cimmerian Field of the Dead, as a large force of Vanir warriors have invaded the sacred site. They are pillaging the grave mounds of ancient chieftains and plundering them of arcane relics, caring nothing for the warriors interred within. Bodies have been dumped onto the dank earth, or defiled by Vanir knives. Now the specters of angry chieftains haunt the region’s southern forest, seeking to avenge themselves against those who wronged them—or upon any living soul unfortunate enough to cross their path. Worse still, the Vanir digs have uncovered relics of an even more ancient time. At the northern end of the Field of the Dead, the raiders have found Atlantean ruins and while tunneling through a Cimmerian burial mound they stumbled upon an even older tomb cut into the mountain itself. When the Vanir broke into the tomb, they were shocked to discover the resting place of a tall, powerfully-built woman, laid to rest in ornate Atlantean armor and surrounded with grave goods fit for a mighty chieftain. Her name, as written in the runes of lost Atlantis, was Chief Toirdealbach. None of this mattered to the Vanir; they cared only for the ancient relics scattered about the tomb. Toirdealbach’s fingers were cut away to strip them of their rings, and her neck sawed through to get at the torc of gold that rested against her collarbones. Her remains were them dumped unceremoniously on the stone floor, piled like the bones of a peasant. But the greedy jests of the Vanir changed to screams as the howling spirit of the angry chieftain rose up before them. Only one of the raiders escaped to tell of what he’d seen, though he died of his wounds shortly after. Since then the raiders’ mysterious leaders have sent one group after another into the tomb, each one larger and better-armed than before, but none have ever returned. Their mangled bodies fill the tunnels leading to Chief Toirdealbach’s resting place, warning would-be treasure seekers of the peril that awaits them. The Werewolf The Field of the Dead is a grim, haunted place in the best of times, but lately the cries of wolves howling from the dark valleys have ominously changed in tone. Cimmerians standing watch over the lonely fields have gone missing, and others claim that there are werewolves stalking through the mists, hunting human flesh. According to legend and superstition, a werewolf is a mortal who has fallen under a terrible curse and been transformed into a bestial creature that is part man, part wolf. Fierce and terrible, the werewolf remembers nothing of its former self, driven only by feral urges such as rage, lust and hunger. Unlike true animals, however, the werewolf holds no fear of man; indeed, it relishes the flesh of humans, and will hunt them whenever it can. A werewolf is far quicker and stronger than the average human, and fights with its powerful teeth and sharp talons. Though they can be slain by magic or steel like any other creature, fighting a werewolf is fraught with risk. A mortal bitten by the monster becomes infected with its curse. Such victims often succumb to madness and die an agonizing death, but an unlucky few are transformed into werewolves themselves. Cimmerian clan leaders are mystified as to the sudden appearance of these monsters. Were they drawn to the Field of the Dead by the Vanir raiders that have entered the region, or are they part of a ancient curse called down by the specter of an angry chieftain? As yet, no one knows. So far no one is bold enough to search the dark corners of the burial fields for the source of the monstrous plague. The Hyena One of the many species of predator that roam the desert, the hyena is a cunning and opportunistic hunter, as capable of living off the bodies of the dead as they are at stalking and killing live prey. Operating in large packs, hyenas use the same tactics as the wolf packs of the far north, pursuing solitary, sick or injured prey until they are exhausted, then closing in from all sides to finish off their victim with their powerful jaws. Fierce and extremely territorial, hyenas have been known to chase lions from their hunting grounds, and have no fear of humans whatsoever. The Scorpion Rightly feared by desert dwellers and the bane of weary travelers, scorpions are eight-legged arachnids with a hard outer shell and a long, flexible tail containing a venomous stinger. These predatory creatures typically lie in ambush for their prey, striking from concealment and trapping its prey using a pair of powerful, crab-like pincers. Once immobilized, the victim is stung repeatedly until it is incapacitated by the powerful venom, then the scorpion dissolves its meal with a spray of powerful acid and slurps up the remains. Even when not hunting, scorpions are typically highly aggressive, and will not hesitate to attack much larger opponents if they feel they are threatened. Some desert traders even tell stories in the caravanserai of massive specimens large enough to prey upon unwary camels—or people. The Wolf Any night spent sleeping on Cimmerian soil will have its tranquil silence cut by the distant howls of wolves. These beasts call the land their home in much greater numbers than the northern barbarians, stalking and sprinting through the forests in search of prey. In other regions, wolves tend to be aggressive to humans only when starving. In Cimmeria, the wolves are yet another aspect of the local wilderness that will kill a man unless he is careful or greatly skilled. In this harsh land that breeds strong beasts and strong men alike, the wolves chase down human prey whenever they get the chance. The northerners are used to this aggression and fight back with blades, fire and arrows, but the notion that people are prey to Cimmerian wolves is a lesson many outsiders have learned only at the last moment. As pack beasts, wolves rarely fight alone. Travelers will face many sets of snarling jaws at once, as the wolves seek to latch onto his flesh and drag him down with their weight. With leaping attacks that make use of their great strength and speed, they will knock prey down and feed even as their victim thrashes on the ground. Even among the stoic and dour Cimmerians, warriors sometimes suppress shudders at the sound of distant howls. Hunters tracking prey for their families’ plates will rarely hesitate to kill a lone wolf that they come across in the wild, either out of spite for the beast’s kind or to slay it before it can kill the hunter. The most common wolves in Cimmeria are the timber wolves -- large-bodied, ferocious and strong. Dire wolves, coming down from the frost-ravaged winters of Nordheimer lands, are also seen in great numbers. The Great Ape Terrifying in size, strength and stature, the Hyborian great ape comes in many colors and from many different territories across the world. Terrifying in size, strength and stature, the Hyborian great ape comes in many colors and from many different territories across the world. They have very little to fear from most of their natural neighbors. These savage beasts are always willing to rend an armored man limb from limb if it means protecting their home or getting a quick meal. They are fast and powerful, able to split forged metal with their bare fists like shale. It is no surprise that these aggressive animals are hunted not for flesh or fur, but to keep their numbers down and protect nearby settlements. Fighting with their metal-bending fists and bone-crushing jaws, they are huge beasts able to withstand a great deal of punishment. Some might think them just “dumb animals”, but there is a clever cunning behind their sloping brows. Hunters surviving encounters with the hulking towers of sinew and muscle claim that they can cross great distances in long strides, ignoring the pin pricks of arrows until they are within their considerable reach. While perhaps not as deadly as some of the creatures of Hyboria, the great ape is one of its most recognizable threats. The Sabre-tooth Sabre-tooths resemble tigers or other big cats in form but have minimal markings and have extremely powerful forequarters in comparison to other big cats. Sabre-tooths resemble tigers or other big cats in form but have minimal markings (their fur is typically a sandy color all over) and have extremely powerful forequarters in comparison to other big cats, though even their hindquarters are more powerful than those of a lion. This makes them very strong but their bulk makes them slower than most big cats and has contributed to their quick and savage hunting style. Their most distinctive feature, though, is the pair of vast teeth that give them their name. These are huge curved fangs, bigger than daggers and capable of inflicting the most devastating injuries. Though these fangs are enormously powerful weapons, they are far more brittle than smaller fangs and older sabre-tooths often have one or both of their great teeth broken off. Sabre-tooths are not so common as in former times, now that Humanity and wild cats have spread over many of their old hunting grounds. Deep in the forests of the Pictish Wilderness, though, they can still be found wild and shamans of the Pictish race often call upon them as powerful allies.

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