A hundred lands had passed beneath his boots and a dozen new languages to learn as he crossed the earth under foreign stars. Stars who'd long since lost their remote and ominous unfamiliarity. Now they were there, to guide his nights as the road of men and more importantly the sun guided his days. And although he no longer fought against sorcerers and monsters as he did of old? In this new land there were other monsters to fight; those with fangs or fur. Some had four legs, some had two but a man did what he had to and over the decades there were less that would come against him as Conan's legend began to grow.
He'd lost track of who's land this was, and truth to tell he didn't care. Was it owned? Maybe. There had been no one around for several leagues however, and the man himself had not seen another human in a spate of days. So finding a flat enough space at the edge of a wood line, looking out to the flatland's and the tall grass beyond is where the Cimmerian made his bed for the night. His horse had been fed and tied close, and Conan had rolled out a few furs to lay on as he roasted one of the long lop-eared hares over his small fire.
Yes, it was a good night, but strange in a way that kept him awake and alert. The warrior kept his sword, Cimmerian steel at his side as his eyes roamed the ocean of grass in front of him.