Status Updates From Conan: Lord of the Mount

“You don’t like that taste, do you?” he said with a grin, and then, holding the skull by both horns, drove its face down onto his knee. The skull shattered, leaving him a sharp horn in each hand, to flip around, hold like a proper dagger. This time when he rushed the beast, it cringed, it scampered, it whined. But it didn’t matter to Conan of Cimmeria.

This was no natural beast, nor an animal native to this clime, nor any other in Hyperborea. This was a creature of legend, conjured up in the tallest tower or the deepest pit. Some sorcerer or god from ages ago had needed something like this to do its bidding, and so had dredged it up from some foul pool of dark magic, but then the sorcerer had fallen—perhaps to their own creation.

“Ho!” Conan said, swinging around to face the presence his keen senses had felt behind him. Some creatures of the darkness will pad around, taking your measure before springing. And some of them don’t need to. The Lord of the Mount paced out from behind a crumbling wall. “By Crom!” Conan exclaimed, setting his feet and holding his sword before him as if it were a flame.

“I’ll sell what we make it through the pass with,” Jen Ro said. “And then, by my troth, your cup will never run dry.” “My people are a thirsty people, herdsman,” Conan said. “I say that only because you’ve been honest with me.” “And have I told you about the women of Trinnecerl?” Jen Ro said, flashing his purple teeth. Conan clapped his mighty hand on his hard thigh, and so it was decided.

I just started and - Crom!!- this is my Conan; hard-@$$!