“Conan, destined to wear the jeweled crown of Aquilonia upon a heavy brow, leaned into the wood and pushed. Long had they been lashed to the Wheel of Pain, sinews straining to honor their commitment to King Riff. Lo these many years did Conan’s toil yield downtuned sacrifices to the King, great heaving plates of troo doom crashing into each other as the sound of their collision rose to the clouds to challenge the thunder itself. Mighty indeed were Conan’s labors, and yet, as they strained against the Wheel, Conan couldn’t help but wonder: Is this all there is? Is it meant that I should spend my days cranking out an endless chain of plodding tribute? What is to be Conan’s and only Conan’s?” Crom as you are.
