“COME ALL! TOMORROW SEE MY MIGHTY 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑵! A Barbarian from the forgotten lands of 𝑪𝑰𝑴𝑴𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑨! See as he takes on the giant 𝑨𝑷𝑬 𝑳𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑵𝑨𝑺𝑯𝑫𝑼𝑳! Seven foot tall and more beast than man! See my might 𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑭𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑬𝑹 win for all!”

There is no time to waste - - to hesitate. He moves through the hole created, chains rattling by his every step. Slaves in the further corners mumble and gasp, they may not be freed today, but they will be in time. It is a promise he makes himself.

His eyes move to her, watching her move close to the cage - - why? Why does she do so? Must all who come to him 𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑬 the end of a steel blade? He keeps no friends. No one who has come to know him has 𝑳𝑰𝑽𝑬𝑫.

“Hm.” “Do what you will.”

“Zamorian slavers. I’ve been with them since I was a 𝑩𝑶𝒀. I fight for them. I win for them. I 𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑵 for them.” He shifts, chains rattling at his ankles and wrists. “. .You should not be here. These cages are meant for us 𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑺 and us alone.”

“You walk softly, you will not be ready for when you are about to be killed. Learn from it.”

She speaks names he doesn’t know, words that he can almost not follow - - or at least he tries to. “. . .” Conan takes a second, quiet between the words and her pleading. Freedom. It seemed like a dream. He was born, and he was in 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑺. There was no other life.

“I do not believe in treading carefully.”

“A life lived in chains is 𝑵𝑶 life at all. But these chains are all I’ve known.” He says quietly - - his voice so soft that maybe even the wind would carry it away.

Hm.

“ COME ONE COME 𝑨𝑳𝑳 OF SEMECH! See the mighty 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑵! Undefeated in the arenas of 𝒁𝑨𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑨 and 𝑲𝑼𝑻𝑰𝑪𝑲! See him now as a tamed 𝑩𝑬𝑨𝑺𝑻 before he fights to your 𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑻𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻! “

Morning comes, the troop is on the move, a larger arena awaits them in 𝑺𝑬𝑴𝑬𝑪𝑯. His Master rides in an elegant coach - - while the slaves keep pace behind.

You will be killed.” He says softly, as if a whisper. “Then I will be killed.” He adds with a more definitive huff. “Zamorian’s do not take kindly to theft of their property.”

“I will not argue. By my Master will - - and he will kill me.” Turning away from them. “I’d rather not die over an apple.”

“Gifts are for the proper. I am not that.” He lets his hands fall back before his waist.

He raises his hands - - shackles adorn each wrist, metal clicks together through silver and rust. “ It does not belong to me. Therefore it is not mine. . . “

“ I am not. .to accept food.”

“. . .” He doesn’t know what that is. So he chooses not to answer.

Hm.

| also, for followers, take any of my posts as a sort of open to response thing :) feel free to jump in if you want

Now, chains upon his wrist, Conan wanders the empty land owned by his 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹. Where grass does not dare to grow - - and the shade refuse to visit. There are hills to the east, and they call to him, they have since he was a 𝑩𝑶𝒀.

“ You fight again 𝑻𝑶𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑹𝑶𝑾. “ The master says between sloppy sips of his wine cup. “ Try to keep 𝑶𝑵𝑬 alive, however. I’m running out of 𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑽𝑬𝑺. Be a shame if I had to sell you 𝑶𝑭𝑭 - - “ He spits. “𝑪𝑰𝑴𝑴𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑨𝑵.”

It is sometime after, the arena is laid empty with fallen men. In the slave halls, where many weep and some still fight, Conan washes the blood of the others from his arms and hands. He knows it is not their choice to fight, but he knows it is his to live.

𝒁𝑨𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑨. 27 years later. They chant his name but it does not feel like his 𝑶𝑾𝑵. This is merely an act of 𝑺𝑼𝑹𝑽𝑰𝑽𝑨𝑳 - - but to them it is a show. Yet there on no chains to his wrist, their calls feel as so. “ 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑵! 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑵! 𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑵!

𝑨𝑪𝑻 - 𝑰 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑽𝑬.

Born in the shadowed hills of 𝑪𝑰𝑴𝑴𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑨, taken by raiders and sold to cruel 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺, his youth was forged in 𝑻𝑶𝑰𝑳 and 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫. Yet within him stirred the will of forgotten 𝑮𝑶𝑫𝑺 —- a will no 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑰𝑵 could master.