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The Cimmerian

The Cimmerian After mythic Atlantis sank beneath the sea, And long before the Sons of Aryus rose to be, There came an Age unnamed, dark, unknown, Where Fate bestowed on Conan Aquilonia’s throne. Fire and wind fell roaring from the sky, Evoked the wrath of gods who rule on high; Yet in the Earth Crom abided, silence-held, In primeval stones where ancient truths dwelled. In chaos giants stole Steel’s Secret once he gave, Till wrathful Earth became their shattered grave; No god, no man, no beast escapes the final rust— Know this: only the blade endures. This you can trust. Ashes were trampled to the ground, the blood to drifting snow, His people once had lived — yet no soul would ever know; The Raiders pounced like wolves, till all his kin lay dead, Forever carved in memory: his mother’s severed head. In chains he toiled beneath the Wheel’s turning stone, As years tightened sinew, built muscle, strained bone; The Wheel of Woe knew not rest, denied mercy or plea, Yet forged his brutal strength for trials yet to be. His worth was proven through the blood-drenched sand, His blade swung unyielding, many lay slain by his hand; Untold trials tempered his Will, away drove mortal Fear, And cold Steel stayed beside him, fierce and ever near. He met Valeria where shadows loomed in kingdoms old, A daring thief whose nimble hands stole gems and gold; By risk and fire, in time their wary trust was spun, Danger forged their fates, and wild their love begun. A snake turned to arrow, through the night it hissed, It pierced Valeria’s heart, by Death she lay kissed; He did not weep, but gazed in silence at the sky, He was a true Cimmerian — such men do not cry. Before dawn he lit the Pyre, solemn beneath the sky, Scarlet flames rose upward, bore her spirit high; He clasped his sword, a dark oath left his breath, And swore in silence then—to avenge her cruel death. A raised standard, two snakes facing a black sun, The slayers of his people, savage, sparing none; They also struck Valeria, her blood by them was shed, Vengeance loomed in him, till all such snakes lay dead. He came upon Thulsa Doom, the fearsome snake Priest-King, Perched high upon his temple while dark choirs sing; Conan climbed the steep stairs, his trusted sword in hand, Thulsa turned his face at last, unmoved, severe and grand. “My son. My son.” Thulsa crooned, Conan bound in spell, Yet rage prevailed—he struck, the Priest-King’s head fell; The Serpent’s sorcery lay torn, his disciples awoke, And Conan stood stone-faced as crumbled the evil yoke.