Synopsis:
In the raucous Tortage tavern "The Salty Barnacle," bard Rafferty Grimes spins an outrageously exaggerated yarn of Conan the Buccaneer, a legendary barbarian whose laugh curdles milk across kingdoms, whose yawn capsizes ships, and who leaps a mile with ease. When an ancient mariner speaks of Tranicos's cosmic hoard, guarded by star-leviathans and ghost armies, Conan embarks on a quest to claim treasures that include jewels from dying suns and a reality-singing harp. Along the way, he rescues the fiery Lady Chabela from sorcerer-kings who seek to unmake existence, forging a union of fire and iron that shakes the very stars. Pursued by rival pirates Zarono and Strombanni, shadow-assassins from pocket dimensions, and the scrying sorcerer Maduro, Conan commands a fleet with sails woven from storm clouds and lightning. Armed with a map etched on a star-beast's still-beating heart and sailing through mists of madness to lands unknown, the Cimmerian buccaneer embarks on his most outrageous adventure, where even sea gods bow in tribute and the ocean itself reshapes its currents to escort him toward cosmic plunder and impossible glory.
The air in "The Salty Barnacle," a notorious Tortage tavern, was thick enough to slice with a dull dirk – a heady fug of stale beer, cheap rum, unwashed bodies, fish guts, and the faintest, most unsettling tang of otherworldly spices and old blood. The din was a living thing, a monstrous chorus of drunken shouts, booming laughter, the occasional crash of a tankard (or a body), and the off-key warbling of some forgotten sea shanty. The very foundations of the place, rumored to be the colossal, fossilized ribs of some primordial sea beast, seemed to vibrate with the raw, untamed energy of the pirate port.
Into this maelstrom of joyous depravity swaggered Rafferty "Raff" Grimes. Lean and wiry, with a perpetually tousled mop of dark hair and striking blue eyes that held a devil-may-care glint, he moved with the easy confidence of a man who knew how to handle himself in places where life was cheap and stories were currency. A battered lute was slung over his shoulder, and a quick, knowing grin played on his lips, hinting at the outrageous yarns brewing in his mind. He hopped onto a rickety table that looked like it had survived a kraken attack, the wood groaning in protest.
He strummed a deliberately discordant chord on his lute, the jarring sound cutting through the noise momentarily. Heads, adorned with scars, bandanas, and varying degrees of intoxication, turned his way.
"Alright, you swabs! Scum of the seven seas and assorted land-sharks!" Raff bellowed, his voice surprisingly resonant. "Lend an ear, or I'll use 'em for fishbait! This ain't no bedtime story for yer lily-livered lordlings. This is Conan! And not just any Conan – this is Conan when the seas boiled at his frown and mermaids offered him… well, let’s just say favours to avoid his temper!"
A burly pirate with a voice like rocks grinding together yelled from a dark corner, "Heard it all before, Grimes! Bet it's another one of your windy lies!"
Raff’s grin widened. "My friend," he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, "the only thing windier than my tales is the draft whistling between your ears! But since you're so eager for truth, perhaps you'd prefer a lecture on the mating habits of the Stygian slug? No? Didn't think so. Now, shut your gob and listen, or I'll tell everyone about that time in Shadizar with the goat and the… well, never you mind."
The pirate grumbled but subsided, to the amusement of his fellows. Raff winked at a barmaid, who rolled her eyes but smiled faintly, then launched into his epic.
1. The Whisper of a God's Ransom & The Cimmerian's Whim (Or, How Conan Got Bored)
"So picture this," Raff began, his eyes twinkling. "Tortage! Not the charming seaside resort you see today, oh no. This was Tortage built on the very bones of krakens and sea-dragons, where the grog was so potent it could make a high priest renounce his gods and take up interpretive dance! And there, on a throne made from a bloody meteorite – still smokin', mind you, probably nicked it from some wizard's front lawn – sat Conan himself. This ain't your average brooding barbarian, lads. This is Conan whose shadow, they say, could make a kraken spontaneously combust and apologize for the mess! His laugh? Could curdle the milk in a nunnery three kingdoms over!
"Then in shuffles some ancient mariner, more barnacle than man, gibbering about Tranicos's hoard. Not just gold, oh no! We're talking the ransom of fallen star-empires, jewels that pulsed with the light of dying suns, and a harp that could sing new universes into being! Guarded by star-leviathans and ghost armies, naturally. And Conan? He just stretches, yawns fit to swallow a small whale, and says..."
Raff struck a dramatic pose and sang, his voice surprisingly powerful and resonant, capturing the Howardian cadence:
"In Tortage, built on kraken spines,
(Or some such lies the drunkards tell!)
Where grog could strip a bishop’s shines,
And reek enough to gag all hell!
Sat Conan on a throne, they say,
Of meteorite, still smokin' hot!
(Probably stole it on a Tuesday,
Just for a laugh, the big galoot!)
His shadow? Made krakens piss their ink!
His laugh? Could crack a giant’s stones!
Then some old coot, half-mad, I think,
All barnacles and rattling bones,
Screeched of a hoard, Tranicos's stash!
"Gold?" Conan yawned, "Don't make me sick!
"Unless it's guarded by things that crash
"And bleed pure fire, it ain't worth a kick!"
The old fool raved of star-gems bright,
And harps that sing new worlds to be!
Conan just grinned, with teeth so white,
"Might use 'em, lad, to pick my teeth, you see!"
2. Verification (Or, Staring a Bloke Into Spilling His Guts)
"Now, Conan doesn't just ask for directions, does he?" Raff continued, leaning conspiratorially towards the crowd. "He's got N'Gora with him, a lad who once arm-wrestled a cyclops for the last pickled egg in the jar and won! Conan just looks at this old sea-dog, a gaze that could probably see into your past lives and tell you what you had for breakfast three eons ago. The old boy doesn't so much talk as… leak information. Probably filled his breeches too!
"And then, poof! Charts appear! Not your common parchment, mind you. We're talking dragon-skin that still twitches, inked in the bioluminescent blood of some abyssal horror. The stars themselves supposedly re-aligned to show him the way. More likely Conan just glared at the sky and it got the hint!"
He strummed his lute again:
"With N’Gora, built like a siege machine,
(Once arm-wrestled a cyclops blind, I’ve heard!)
He didn’t ask, that Cimmerian keen,
Just stared the truth, every single word!
That ancient salt, his soul laid bare,
(Probably wet himself, the poor old sod!)
Coughed up the route to who-knows-where,
As if commanded by a grumpy god.
Then charts appeared, on dragon-hide!
(Or maybe just some painted goat, who cares?)
In squid-blood ink, they couldn’t hide
The path to riches, and to terrors in their lairs!
The stars themselves, they say, went squint,
To light the way for Conan’s whim!
(More likely he just gave a hint,
And threatened 'em with grievous limb!)"
3. The Encounter (Or, A Dame in a Damp Situation)
"So off they sail on The Wastrel!" Raff declared. "And this ain't no pleasure cruise! This ship, she moves so fast she parts the bloody waves, leaving a dry path behind her! Probably had to stop every now and then to scrape confused fish off the keel! And what do they spy? A ship in trouble, swarming with the kind of bottom-feeding pirates who’d steal the copper pennies off a dead man’s eyes and then come back for the eyelids!"
His lute sang the setup:
"The Wastrel flew – no, I ain't lyin'!
It skipped the waves like a flat, chucked stone!
Left bits of ocean bone-bloody-dryin'!
When up they pops, not sailin' alone,
A ship in grief, about to sink,
Swarmed by some pimple-arsed pirate band!
Whose captains, if you make me think,
Had sold their souls for second-hand sand!
Their crews? All barnacles and slime,
The kind of rubbish you scrape off your boot!"
4. The "Rescue" (Or, Conan Shows Off, As Usual)
"Does Conan send a strongly worded letter?" Raff scoffed. "Does he fire a warning shot? Crom, no! He yawns – and the sheer force of it capsizes an enemy ship! Then he stretches, gives a little hop, and leaps a mile across the churning water! Lands on the enemy deck like a thunderbolt, probably caving it in! His Red Brotherhood, lads who make you lot look like choirboys, they follow, roaring like demons with a hangover!
"The enemy? They didn't just surrender; they evaporated! Some turned to sea foam, others dived in to offer themselves as appetizers to sharks, preferring that to Conan's bad mood. And who do they find amidst the plunder? Lady Chabela! A woman so fiery, her glare could melt steel, and so beautiful, flowers probably bloomed in her wake, even on a pirate ship!"
The ballad continued with gusto:
"He yawned – a wave, just from the breeze,
Capsized a foe, then with a stretch and bound,
He leaped a mile, by Crom, with ease!
(Alright, maybe half, but still profound!)
And landed like a thunder-crack!
(Probably broke their deck, the clumsy ox!)
His boys, they followed at his back,
Roarin' like demons in their battle-frocks!
The enemy? Poof! Like morning mist!
Or dived to feed the hungry sharks below!
(Better than facin' Conan's fist,
Or where his big sword likes to go!)
And there, amidst the gaudy loot,
Sat Lady Chabela, lookin' grand.
So hot, they say, she’d make roots shoot
From a dead stump, just by wavin' her hand!
Her glare alone, so fierce and bright,
Could melt your sword, or maybe just your nerve!"
5. Chabela's Plight (Or, Every Princess Has Problems, Hers Were Just Weirder)
"Now, this Chabela," Raff said, lowering his voice dramatically, "she wasn't just running from some stuffy arranged marriage. Oh no, that's too simple for our Conan! She was escaping a whole coven of sorcerer-kings! Lich-emperors from dying stars, no less! And these weren't your average, run-of-the-mill evil wizards. They wanted her soul to, and I quote, 'unmake reality'! Probably wanted to turn the universe into a giant bowl of particularly unpleasant soup! And she doesn't plead, this one. She demands Conan's help, her voice ringing out so powerfully it makes the ship's cannons fire a salute all on their own!"
The lute strings vibrated with impending doom:
"No arranged marriage made her flee,
(Though that’s enough to make one run, I guess!)
But sorcerer-kings from 'cross the sea,
Or maybe 'cross the universe, no less!
Lich-emperors from stars gone black,
Who wanted her soul – the greedy sods! –
To unwind reality's track!
(Probably to impress some other, deader gods!)
She didn't plead, that fiery piece,
Demanded aid, her voice a queenly shout!
Made cannons fire, for war or peace,
Just by her sayin', "Oi, you lout!"
6. Conan's Decision & The Union of Fire and Iron (Or, When a Barbarian Gets That Twinkle in His Eye)
Raff leered good-naturedly. "So Conan, who's probably bedded more goddesses and demon queens than there are rats in this tavern, just chuckles. A chuckle that makes the ship's timbers groan and probably causes minor earthquakes in distant Zingara! He sees her spirit, you see. A flame to match his own inner volcano. 'You'll sail with me, girl,' he rumbles, 'and we'll drink from the skulls of these sorcerer-kings!' Romantic bugger, ain't he?
"And that night! Gods, that night! Beneath a sky torn open by a comet – or maybe it was just the afterglow of their meeting, so potent it seared the heavens – the Captain's cabin became a legend! Fire met iron! The very stars shivered and rearranged themselves into new, naughtier constellations! By dawn, it wasn't just a pirate king and a princess; it was something more. And the Zingaran fleets? They heard Conan was... otherwise occupied and feeling particularly mighty, and they scuttled themselves rather than face him!"
The ballad took on a fervent, almost scandalous tone:
"The Cimmerian, who’d bedded more
Than just your average farmyard wench,
(Goddesses, queens, and things from yore!)
Just chuckled, made the timbers wrench.
He saw her spirit, wild and free,
A match for his own burnin' soul.
"You'll sail with me, girl, come and see!
"We'll make those sorcerers pay their toll!
"We'll drink their blood from jewel-rimmed cups!"
(Or something equally poetic and grim!)
Her eyes, they blazed like dragon pups,
A hunger matchin' his, in every limb!
That night, beneath a sky so grand,
(A comet blazed, or so they boast!)
The Captain's cabin, understand,
Became a place where legends toast!
Fire met iron, gods, what a clash!
The stars all shivered, rearranged their dance!
(The ship's cat probably made a dash,
And hid itself in someone's underpants!)
By dawn, they weren't just king and dame,
But somethin' more, touched by the stars above!
Zingaran fleets, they heard his name,
And scuttled quick, for fear of Conan's... love!
(And his big sword, let's not forget that bit!)"
The same burly heckler from before, emboldened by more ale, piped up, "Sounds like you were peekin' through the keyhole, Grimes!"
Raff shot him a pitying look. "My friend, with a cosmic event of that magnitude, you wouldn't need a keyhole. The whole bloody ship was probably glowing! Besides, some of us have an imagination that extends beyond the bottom of a tankard. You should try it sometime; it's like discovering a whole new room in that spacious emptiness you call a head!"
Laughter rippled through the tavern. Raff took a swig from a tankard someone passed him and continued.
7. Infiltration & Information (Or, Conan Asks Nicely, With an Axe)
"So, they need info in Zingara," Raff said, wiping his mouth. "Does Conan bribe informants? Send subtle spies? Ha! The very stones of the cities whispered their secrets to him! He walked into libraries like he owned the place – which, after a few minutes, he usually did – and maps just sort of… presented themselves. Guards? They just fainted from sheer awe, or maybe the smell of his unwashed loincloth after a long voyage.
"And Chabela, now decked out in leathers made from a celestial dragon – looked better on her than any silk, I tell ya – she's unraveling plots so twisted they'd give a serpent a hernia! Her eyes now had that Conan-sparkle, probably figuring out new and interesting ways to use a broadsword!"
He sang:
"In Zingaran ports, the stones, they say,
Would whisper secrets in his ear.
(More like he kicked 'em out the way,
And someone squealed from mortal fear!)
He strolled in libraries, bold as brass,
(Doors flew right open, or he made 'em so!)
Took any map that pleased his... well, his class.
Guards? Just a sneeze, and down they'd go!
Chabela, in her dragon-leathers fine,
(Looked better'n silk, upon my oath!)
Unravelled plots, with wit divine,
That’d drive a sphinx to gibbering froth!
Her eyes now held a spark, 'tis true,
Of Conan's fire, wild and bright!
(Probably picked up a trick or two,
On how to win a proper fight!)"
8. Rival Spies (Or, When Sneaky Gits Get Squashed)
"Of course, our old mates Zarono and Strombanni weren't idle," Raff chuckled. "Their spies weren't just blokes in cloaks; these were shadow-assassins conjured from solidified nightmares! They tried trapping Conan in pocket dimensions filled with, and I kid you not, existential dread and badly cooked fish! Conan just laughed, conquered these pocket dimensions, and wore them as slightly unsettling but fashionable trinkets on his belt!
"And Maduro the sorcerer? Tried to scry Conan's path with his crystal ball. The ball didn't just crack; it created a miniature black hole that swallowed his tower and half his sanity! Blinded him for a year, the poor sod. Serves him right for trying to peep on a Cimmerian's private doings!"
The lute twanged with magical mischief:
"Zarono's spies, from shadows deep,
And Strombanni's thugs, a motley band,
Tried pocket dimensions, secrets to keep.
Conan just laughed, and took command!
Conquered their worlds, then, for a jest,
Wore 'em as baubles on his belt!
(Probably itched like a damn bird's nest,
But showed 'em how true power felt!)
Maduro, with his crystal ball,
Tried scrying Conan – what a loon!
It didn't just crack, it swallowed all
His tower, beneath a cursed moon!
Blinded him right up, for a year or so!
(Serves him right, the squinty git,
For tryin' to watch Conan's private... show!)"
9. The Map Fragment (Or, Some Bleedin' Monster's Innards for a Map)
"The map they finally got their hands on?" Raff's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not paper. Oh no. It was etched onto the fossilized, still-beating heart of a star-fallen beast that used to eat suns for breakfast! Probably smelled like a Stygian privy on a hot day, but Conan just shrugged. Its lines burned with the cold fire of the void, projecting holographic star charts that detailed pathways through shredded realities! Only a barbarian of Conan's lineage could read that cosmic scrawl. It didn't just hint at dangers; it sang of 'em, a glorious, bloodthirsty opera of doom and plunder!"
The ballad's tone turned ominous:
"The map he found, no parchment scrap,
But a star-beast's heart, still beatin' slow!
(Must've smelled worse than a troll's jockstrap,
But Conan didn't care, you know!)
Its lines, they burned with void's cold fire,
Showed paths through realities all torn!
Only a barbarian could decipher
Its cosmic scrawl, since he was born!
It didn't just hint, it sang a tune,
Of glorious fights and loot to seize!
(And probably how to best harpoon
A kraken, if you aimed to please!)"
10. Setting Sail (Or, The Day the Ocean Said, "After You, Sir!")
"So when Conan roars, 'Set sail, ye dogs!' it ain't just The Wastrel that moves!" Raff boomed. "It's a fleet so vast it stretches from one horizon to the other, sails woven from captured storm clouds and embroidered with lightning! Packed with the deadliest cutthroats from every corner of the known – and several unknown – worlds! The Red Brotherhood, each man a demigod of war, they roar their approval, and the sound awakens slumbering sea gods who pop up and offer tribute, just to be on his good side! The ocean itself reshapes its currents to give them a personal escort!"
The music swelled with impossible grandeur:
"When Conan roared, "Set sail, ye dogs!"
The Wastrel led, a fleet so wide,
It’d make a kingdom count its logs
And wonder where the sea could hide!
Sails of storm-clouds, stitched with light,
Packed with the worst from every shore!
Each man a legend in a fight,
And ready for a thousand more!
The Red Brotherhood, they bellowed loud,
A sound that woke the gods below!
Who popped right up, and humbly bowed,
And offered tribute, just for show!
The tide itself, it changed its mind,
And swirled a path, to speed their quest!
(Guess even oceans can be kind,
When Conan puts 'em to the test!)"
11. Awareness of Pursuit (Or, Conan's Nose for Trouble, and Stinky Fear)
"Think Conan needs a lookout?" Raff scoffed. "He can smell his rivals' fear on the wind like a fine, cheap wine! Hears their teeth chattering across leagues of ocean, a lovely little symphony of terror! The very sea creatures, from the meanest, spikiest anglerfish to the grandest, most majestic whale, form a spontaneous honor guard, probably hoping for leftovers when the Cimmerian starts his work!"
He sang with a knowing smirk:
"He didn't need a spyglass bright,
To know his rivals sniffed his wake;
He smelled their fear, both day and night,
Like week-old fish on a hot griddle-cake!
Heard their teeth chatter, leagues away,
A symphony of pure despair!
The sea-beasts, from the shark to dray,
Formed an honor guard, beyond compare!
(Probably hopin' for some scraps,
When Conan started crackin' skulls!)"
12. Misdirection (Or, Why Bother Tricking Idiots?)
"Misdirection?" Raff snorted. "Conan doesn't do misdirection! He sails a straight course, a brazen, contemptuous challenge to any who dare follow! Meanwhile, that supposedly cunning Zarono? His ships end up sailing in circles, trapped in a time loop of his own making, forced to relive their most embarrassing defeats – mostly at Conan's hands, of course – for what felt like an eternity! His sorcerers were weeping tears of molten lead, their magic undone by the sheer, implacable force of Conan's heroic destiny! Conan just sailed on, probably whistling a jaunty Cimmerian battle hymn."
The lute played a jaunty, mocking tune:
"Misdirection? Bah! He sailed on true,
A challenge to the craven fools!
While Zarono, with his cunning crew,
Got stuck in loops, by their own rules!
Relivin' losses, o'er and o'er,
(Mostly to Conan, serve 'em right!)
Their sorcerers wept tears of gore,
Trapped in an endless, whiny night!
(Conan just sailed on, with a smirk,
Too busy plannin' his next bit o' work!)"
13. The Storm of Storms (Or, Conan Argues With the Weather, and Wins)
"Then comes the storm!" Raff's voice took on a booming quality. "Not just any storm, mind you! This was the sea gods themselves – Dagon, Hydra, and a dozen other forgotten deities with too much time on their hands – throwing a colossal, universe-ending tantrum! Waves taller than mountains, crowned with angry, kraken-infested foam! Lightning not in bolts, but in solid, crackling spears that split the sky!
"And Conan? Stands on the prow, stripped to the waist, laughing into the teeth of it! Wrestles the ship's wheel with one hand while casually punching lightning bolts back into the sky with the other! The Wastrel, bless her timbers, doesn't just ride it out; she surfs down the throat of a miles-wide maelstrom, does a victory lap around the abyssal vortex within, and pops out the other side, gleaming and thirsty for more!"
The ballad crashed like thunder:
"The storm that hit, no common blow,
But ocean gods, in a jealous fit!
Father Dagon and Mother Hydra, all aglow,
Riding tsunamis, throwin' a snit!
Waves like mountains, kraken-crowned,
Lightning in spears, a burnin' rain!
Winds howled like souls in hell unbound,
Screamin' in torment and in pain!
But Conan stood, upon the prow,
Stripped to the waist, and laughin' loud!
Wrestled the wheel, I know not how,
And punched the lightning back to cloud!
The Wastrel, bless her sturdy frame,
Surfed down a maelstrom, miles deep!
Did a victory lap, to cheers and acclaim,
Then popped out, ready for more sleep!
(Or maybe just more enemies to reap!)"
14. Zarono's Desperate, Shadow-Forged Ambush (Or, When Bad Guys Try Too Hard)
"After that little meteorological disagreement," Raff said, "Zarono's fleet – or what's left of it, crewed now by specters, sea-devils he'd bargained from the nether-realms, and fallen angels weeping tears of fire – emerges from a squall line woven of pure shadow and regret! Their cannons, forged in the heart of dying stars, fire bolts of black lightning that scream with the agony of lost souls! Impressive light show, I'll give 'em that."
The music was dark and menacing:
"Zarono's fleet, or what remained,
(After that time-loop, what a mess!)
Crewed by sea-devils, freshly unchained,
And angels cryin' tears of stress!
From squalls of shadow, black as pitch,
Their cannons roared with souls in pain!
Forged in dead stars, by some dark witch,
Firing black lightning, again and again!
(Looked impressive, I'll give 'em that,
But 'gainst Conan? Like a gnat 'gainst a cat!)"
15. Boarding Actions of Mythic, Unholy Proportions (Or, Conan Gets His Axe Dirty)
"Boarding party?" Raff roared with laughter. "Conan is the boarding party! With a bellow that shatters enemy shields and probably causes a few unfortunate bladder incidents, he leaps across fifty feet of raging, monster-infested water! His greatsword becomes a blur of silver death, reaping souls like a farmer harvests wheat! N'Gora, an avatar of war whose skin now glows with ancestral fury, follows, his axe singing a lovely little tune of dismemberment! Each of Conan's Red Brotherhood fights with the fury of ten berserker demigods, their eyes blazing with Conan's own contagious battle-madness!"
The ballad became a whirlwind of action:
"Conan himself, a one-man show,
Became the boardin' party whole!
With a roar that made their spirits go
And hide inside some dark mud-hole!
He leaped a gap, fifty feet wide!
(Alright, a hundred! Maybe more! Who's countin'?)
His sword, a silver, deadly tide,
Reapin' their souls, no time for dismountin'!
N'Gora, like a god of war,
His skin aglow, his axe a song,
Cleaved through their armor, and their core,
And abstract concepts, all day long!
Each Red Brother, a berserker bold,
Fought with the madness in their eyes!
Their battle-lust, a sight to behold,
Cheered on by thunder from the skies!
(Or maybe that was just Conan, breakin' wind from the strain!)"
16. Outcome of Cosmic Proportions (Or, How to Make a Big Mess, Conan Style)
"Zarono's flagship?" Raff grinned fiercely. "Cleaved in two by a single, contemptuous blow from Conan's sword! Exploded into a rain of cursed, screaming doubloons and tormented spirits! The sea ran red for leagues, not with blood, but with the ichor of demons and the liquid despair of fallen angels! The surviving rivals scattered like chaff before a supernova! Strombanni, watching from afar, didn't just age ten years; he turned to dust and blew away on a wind of pure terror, his last thought being, 'Crom, I should have taken up knitting!'"
The music was triumphant and brutal:
"Zarono's flagship? With a grunt,
Conan's big sword just split it clean!
It rained cursed coins, right in the front,
The most expensive mess I've seen!
The sea ran red, not blood, but worse,
With demon-guts and angel-tears!
The rivals scattered, under a curse,
Their courage drowned in all their fears!
Strombanni watched, through spyglass cracked,
Then turned to dust, just blew away!
His Kothic nerve completely lacked,
And whispered, "Should've stayed home today!"
(Good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?
More loot for Conan and his crew!)"
17. Through the Mists of Utter Madness (Or, Sailing Where Sane Folk Don't)
"And so," Raff said, his voice dropping as if sharing a profound secret, "after an eternity of sailing where stars themselves feared to tread, The Wastrel clove through a mist. A mist so thick, so ancient, so imbued with primordial insanity, it was said to be the solidified, sorrowful breath of a sleeping elder god whose dreams were of dying universes! And the island that emerged? Not of any world known to man, or even most gods! Jagged peaks piercing skies of impossible colors! Jungles that writhed with malevolent, alien life! The very air thrummed with a palpable, concentrated hatred! And Conan? He just grins that wolfish grin of his and says..."
Raff’s final verses were delivered with a chilling relish:
"Where stars themselves would scream and flee,
Through mists so thick, they’d choke a god,
(The sorrowful breath, they say, of thee,
Old Slumberin' One, on whom worlds trod!)
The Wastrel sliced that ghastly shroud,
That veil of madness, old and deep,
And burst upon a shore so proud,
It made your very liver creep!
A land not meant for mortal sight,
Where sanity just packed and ran!
And Conan grinned, "This looks alright!
"Let's go and kick some cosmic can!"
Raff Grimes took a long, theatrical swig of ale, looking immensely pleased with himself as the last notes of his lute faded. The tavern, for a moment, was almost quiet, the pirates and cutthroats digesting the sheer audacity of the tale.
"There!" Raff declared, slamming his tankard down. "And that’s just the start of gettin' to the bleedin' island! Stick around, buy me another drink – and make it a good one, you cheapskates! – and I'll tell ya 'bout the beasties that crawled from the slime, the Black Citadel that wept tears of molten stone, and the treasure that screamed for its mum when Conan came knockin'! What a day, what a lovely, bloody day!"
A roar of approval, mixed with demands for more ale and more of the story, filled The Salty Barnacle. Raff Grimes, the Bullshitter Bard of Tortage, had them hooked.
The End.
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