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"Know, O prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and in the years of the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars - Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandaled feet"
- The Nemedian Chronicles
"Come the Daughter of the South
To weave her dark and sorcerous art
Come the Daughter of the North
To cleave and slay with warrior's heart.
- scrawled in demon's blood within the Scarlet Citadel, author unknown.
The half moon rises above the towers of Arenjun, the City of Thieves, nestled in central Zamora, southeast of Crater Lake in the Skarpash Mountains that formed the natural border with Corinthia and the lands of Hyboria. Its nickname was well deserved, for this land was renowned for its particular breed of criminal scum, and Bel, God of Thieves, was the patron of this very city. For the two exiled women, one of grey and grim Cimmeria and the other of shadowed and sinister Stygia, coming here had been a natural, if subconscious act.
To the barbarian, the legendary cities of Zamora were reputed to hold the greatest and most debauched zests of life. The good and the bad, mingled into one. Here at least, she might see the wonders of the civilized world, and perhaps find her place in it, for in her journey through the Border Kingdoms and the grasslands of Brythunia, she had only experienced the repeated sight of petty wars that she neither understood nor relished the thought of dying for. As a mistrusted savage, she was told to move on under threat of violence, and often the worst was assumed of her. Here in the heart of the downtrodden district known as The Maul, an unwashed warrior woman like herself was just one more oddity lost in a sea of the other cast offs...
For the runaway scholar, her headlong flight from her homeland had pushed her into desperate circumstances. She had stowed away on caravans heading north into Shem, and from there she had sold many hastily stolen temple trinkets to be hidden in a caravan heading East. The destination at that point had not mattered, simply that it be somewhere beyond the reach of the Priests of Set. And yet, was there truly such a place? Cold dread had been her constant companion for those many weeks. Then at last the caravan master had told her that he had reached the end of his trade route, here in Zamora. At least here, in a land of strange foreign gods, unaligned sorcerers, and criminals both high and low, her pursuers would find few loyal allies. She had as much chance to disappear here as anywhere...
The establishment was a drinking house that was situated next door to a large brothel. Men of many nations were deep in their cups, sharing stories of daring deeds and crimes that they had committed. There were a pair of Brythunian toughs who had spoke of driving off bandits from a merchant prince's wagons, and a Gunderman who claimed to have been a successful village raider in the wildlands. A bearded Shemite spoke of a golden goblet he had stolen from the dinner table of a Priest of Ong, and a Khauren harper spun a tale of an old barbarian chieftain who ascended to the heavens as a demi-god. As the stories were spun, serving girls brought mulled wine and leaned themselves upon the men, wearing beguiling smiles and promising services in return for coin. At the bar, a stout ugly man with a bald pate, deep inset eyes, and pudgy jowls eyed his patrons beadily and grunted orders to a dark Zamoran youth who darted here and there among the men and would disappear and reappear from time to time out the side door which led to the brothel.
For Hebeny the runaway and Rylynn the exile, coin was in short supply. Both had next to nothing to their name, and the question of feeding themselves and surviving was spinning through their minds. In Zamora, women and children were regarded as property, owned by either father or husband or simply a master if they were a slave, so each of them reminded themselves to be careful how they tread among the lowlifes.
"Ho ho there, lass!" A drunken Zamoran said as he lurched into the establishment and took a seat next to Hebeny. "Such a slight thing, sitting here by yourself, I almost sat on you! Ha! Should be the other way around, I figure. Who's your master here, girl? Are you come to show a man like me a good time? I've got a purse of coin for you and perhaps a pretty bauble if you're very sweet to me. My, you've got an unusual look about you. Not Shemitish, no... Stygian I'd say! What a real treat to have you here!"
The drunk Zamoran reached an arm around Hebeny's waist, seeking to scoot her closer to him.
Meanwhile, Rylynn sat quite closeby, and she could sense some attention coming her way as well. This was the fourth time the bar owner had eyed her and whispered things into the ear of that little gutter rat of a boy who was disappearing all over the place. A group of three Zamoran men with a grey blue brand on their bare biceps had arrived through the side door, following the boy, and were now listening to the bar owner and casually sliding glances at Rylynn out of the corner of their eyes. Perhaps these city folk would not notice such things, but she was a Cimerrian. She knew when the wolves were circling.
- The Nemedian Chronicles
"Come the Daughter of the South
To weave her dark and sorcerous art
Come the Daughter of the North
To cleave and slay with warrior's heart.
- scrawled in demon's blood within the Scarlet Citadel, author unknown.
The half moon rises above the towers of Arenjun, the City of Thieves, nestled in central Zamora, southeast of Crater Lake in the Skarpash Mountains that formed the natural border with Corinthia and the lands of Hyboria. Its nickname was well deserved, for this land was renowned for its particular breed of criminal scum, and Bel, God of Thieves, was the patron of this very city. For the two exiled women, one of grey and grim Cimmeria and the other of shadowed and sinister Stygia, coming here had been a natural, if subconscious act.
To the barbarian, the legendary cities of Zamora were reputed to hold the greatest and most debauched zests of life. The good and the bad, mingled into one. Here at least, she might see the wonders of the civilized world, and perhaps find her place in it, for in her journey through the Border Kingdoms and the grasslands of Brythunia, she had only experienced the repeated sight of petty wars that she neither understood nor relished the thought of dying for. As a mistrusted savage, she was told to move on under threat of violence, and often the worst was assumed of her. Here in the heart of the downtrodden district known as The Maul, an unwashed warrior woman like herself was just one more oddity lost in a sea of the other cast offs...
For the runaway scholar, her headlong flight from her homeland had pushed her into desperate circumstances. She had stowed away on caravans heading north into Shem, and from there she had sold many hastily stolen temple trinkets to be hidden in a caravan heading East. The destination at that point had not mattered, simply that it be somewhere beyond the reach of the Priests of Set. And yet, was there truly such a place? Cold dread had been her constant companion for those many weeks. Then at last the caravan master had told her that he had reached the end of his trade route, here in Zamora. At least here, in a land of strange foreign gods, unaligned sorcerers, and criminals both high and low, her pursuers would find few loyal allies. She had as much chance to disappear here as anywhere...
The establishment was a drinking house that was situated next door to a large brothel. Men of many nations were deep in their cups, sharing stories of daring deeds and crimes that they had committed. There were a pair of Brythunian toughs who had spoke of driving off bandits from a merchant prince's wagons, and a Gunderman who claimed to have been a successful village raider in the wildlands. A bearded Shemite spoke of a golden goblet he had stolen from the dinner table of a Priest of Ong, and a Khauren harper spun a tale of an old barbarian chieftain who ascended to the heavens as a demi-god. As the stories were spun, serving girls brought mulled wine and leaned themselves upon the men, wearing beguiling smiles and promising services in return for coin. At the bar, a stout ugly man with a bald pate, deep inset eyes, and pudgy jowls eyed his patrons beadily and grunted orders to a dark Zamoran youth who darted here and there among the men and would disappear and reappear from time to time out the side door which led to the brothel.
For Hebeny the runaway and Rylynn the exile, coin was in short supply. Both had next to nothing to their name, and the question of feeding themselves and surviving was spinning through their minds. In Zamora, women and children were regarded as property, owned by either father or husband or simply a master if they were a slave, so each of them reminded themselves to be careful how they tread among the lowlifes.
"Ho ho there, lass!" A drunken Zamoran said as he lurched into the establishment and took a seat next to Hebeny. "Such a slight thing, sitting here by yourself, I almost sat on you! Ha! Should be the other way around, I figure. Who's your master here, girl? Are you come to show a man like me a good time? I've got a purse of coin for you and perhaps a pretty bauble if you're very sweet to me. My, you've got an unusual look about you. Not Shemitish, no... Stygian I'd say! What a real treat to have you here!"
The drunk Zamoran reached an arm around Hebeny's waist, seeking to scoot her closer to him.
Meanwhile, Rylynn sat quite closeby, and she could sense some attention coming her way as well. This was the fourth time the bar owner had eyed her and whispered things into the ear of that little gutter rat of a boy who was disappearing all over the place. A group of three Zamoran men with a grey blue brand on their bare biceps had arrived through the side door, following the boy, and were now listening to the bar owner and casually sliding glances at Rylynn out of the corner of their eyes. Perhaps these city folk would not notice such things, but she was a Cimerrian. She knew when the wolves were circling.
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