The Road to Acheron, Part Four - "Zukundu of the Twilight" & "The Glacier of Time's Abyss"

(DM's NOTE: The first story is the conclusion of the previous sessions' adventure, and some story elements of Helena Nash's "Devils Under Green Stars" are included... with some significant alterations. The thrilling finale to the Zukundu saga is here at last - and we even had time to fit in the next adventure! Both ripping yarns are included in this post - the question being, who survives? )

The Road to Acheron, Part Three: "The Fall of Zukundu"

(DM's note: In my optimism, I projected that this adventure would be finished in one session. The players, being the wonderful meandering adventurers they are, saw fit to extend this story for another session - so much so, in fact, that the final chapters will take place in the first part of next week's session. I wouldn't have it any other way - though I'm going to take steps to improve my time management for the next set of stories!

As with the previous week, plot elements from Helena Nash's "Devils Under Green Stars" may be spoiled for anyone who wishes to play that adventure in its unadulterated form)

("The Lion's Reign," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)

The Horror in the Greenhouse

Amatagt and Kryxus met each other somewhere outside of Kush. When they learned they shared the same destination, they agreed to work together - for now. Both heard different stories about the lost city of Zukundu, of what may lie behind its great walls, and the dangers that lurk within. The pair brave the jungles of Kush and its denizens, and arrived at the great basin where the city dwelt. They skilfully avoided the monstrous reptiles infesting the lake surrounding the city, and climbed the outer walls.

When they entered the city, they saw a woman. When she noticed them, she froze, before turning and racing into the jungle. The two began a pursuit, and followed her to a doorway leading downwards, overgrown with red vines. They heard a bloodcurdling female scream from below, and ran down into the corridor. They entered a strange greenhouse-like room with green glowing windows, stone planters, and red vines growing over all of them. The woman, standing in the centre, was trembling in terror: she spoke in Kushite, and though Amatagt is not well-versed in the language, he has taken enough slaves to understand "No! Get away! Get away!"

Something grabbed Amatagt by the waist, constricting around him like a snake. Before he can reach for his sword, Kryxus felt more constrictions binding his limbs, and snaked across his chest. Both were jerked backwards into the darkness, their vision swimming in a sea of red...

The Road to Acheron, Part Two: "The Children of Zukundu"

Welcome to the second session of The Road to Acheron. Last time, seven adventurers escaped the very pit of the serpent: Python, the capital of the Nightmare Empire of Acheron, was struck down by mighty magic practically unseen even in this sorcerous realm. Amatagt the Stygian, Arcus the Argossean, Dusan the Hyperborean, Kenyatta the Kushite, Kryxus the Gunderman, Tiberius the Kothian, and Zafia the Zamorian were some of the few who escaped the writhing death throes of a screaming city.

After putting many miles between themselves and the site of that unholy destruction, the seven departed. Amatagt, Kenyatta, and Tiberius rode out on their own, each having their own goals and quests in mind. Arcus, Dusan, Kryxus and Zafia, however, formed a band of their own, and roamed the ruins of Acheron as a team. Several months pass: coin is won and lost, adventures were told and experienced, blood and sweat and tears were shed, as the survivors of Python's fall made names for themselves across the western continent. These stories may also be told, in time - but that is for another day.

Something - the will of capricious gods or devils, or fate, or simple happenstance - conspired to draw them together once again.

(Note: this is a heavily altered adaptation of Helena Nash's "Devils Under Green Stars," collected in the Conan RPG supplement Jewelled Thrones of the Earth. It's a beautiful adventure with some great ideas, but I wanted to put my own mark on it as a DM. While there are some changes, anyone who plans on playing the original adventure should keep in mind there will be some elements from the original adventure within, & might want to avoid spoiling themselves.)

The Road To Acheron, Part One - "The Seven Sacrifices"

Last night was the first proper session of my game of Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed Of. Following character creation, I took a cue from a few Howard stories and started the action with the heroes in captivity: their weapons, armour, equipment, and allies all taken from them, leaving them with only a deliberately abrasive tunic & their wits. Will this first adventure be their last? Well, only one way to find out...

The Road to Acheron - A Saga in An Age Undreamed of

It seems like an eternity since I first went to Cross Plains. It leads on from the story of how I got into Conan. To recap: in the early 2000s, I picked up a copy of Fantasy Masterwork's The Conan Chronicles Volume One: The People of the Black Circle. I recognised the name from the plethora of Conan media, but to see it included in the Fantasy Masterworks subline (number 8 out of what would be 50) piqued my interest. Given that the first story I read (after the "Hyborian Age Essay" which I naturally ate up) was the magnificent "The Tower of the Elephant," of course I was hooked. Shortly after, I started posting on the late lamented Conan.com forums. I started to get acquainted with folk who knew a great deal about not just Conan, but his creator and his work. Over time, I mustered up the gumption to start this blog, & within time, I was nominated for a Robert E. Howard Foundation Award... which led me to Cross Plains, a shy, over-excited Strange Scot in a Strange Land eager to finally meet people who I'd been conversing with, and a pilgrimage to the homeland of an author whose work meant so much. Without exception, each of the regulars - and fellow newcomers - was generous, accommodating, and welcoming, and I'll never forget that.

Exile of Cimmeria

It's been 7 years to the day since Steve Tompkins left us. For the first time since, I've felt really apart from Howardom.

I've contributed to the upcoming Conan board game (which is, as of writing, the most successful board game Kickstarter of all time) and the Conan RPG (which is the fourth most successful RPG Kickstarter campaign of all time), not least because my Howardian scholarly pals Jeffrey Shanks, Patrice Louinet, Chris Gruber, and more are personally involved in their development. I lament the passing of the Robert E. Howard Forums, even in what is a great time to be a Howard fan. I'm long past caring about whatever iteration of development hell the next Arnold Conan is in. I've allowed my memberships of REHupa and the REH Foundation to lapse. And I came to the personal ultimatum that I would not be able to return to Howard Days until certain conditions are met.

I haven't been in regular touch with my Howard friends - but it is far from apathy. I would love to talk about the new board games, new collections and scholarly criticism, new books and films and art that evokes Howard's themes and ideas. I should be shoving my way into discussions about developing Iranistan and the Border Kingdom, asking who thought that dragon design was a good idea, giving my tuppence ha'penny worth on anything and everything. I'd even just love to see how they're doing, how the house and family and work is coming along. But for reasons I think regular readers will guess, I cannot - not until the cause is won.

I sometimes wonder what Howard would do in a situation like mine. Early 20th Century Cross Plains and early 20th Century Inverclyde have a few pointed similarities (formerly industrious towns with busy railroads, now a fraction of their former size, a history as a "frontier"), but for the most part, they might as well be different planets. What if the prospect of true change, to turn away from the corruption and decadence of the political class, were possible in Texas then? Would he continue to do what he truly loved, and type away, rather than take up political cause - when the savage realm of politics is as likely to chew you up and spit you out as you are to affect real change? Or would he try to change his corner of the world at the expense of his art, his long letters to his friends, his roughousing at the ice house? Am I being melodramatic, in comparing my politics to a great Cause and my personal interests as Art?

Who knows. All I know is that if I chose to take a different path, I don't think I could ever forgive myself. I posted this on my political blog, but I think it should be on here, to explain what I'm doing until I'm ready to ride back to Cimmeria.

Since 2010, I’d been going to Cross Plains in Texas. It’s the biggest extravagance I took part in each year, owing to the sheer expense of flights to America in recent years – to say nothing of the security gauntlet. The last time I went was in 2014. There were only a few months left until the referendum. I left Scotland for a month. The final result was decided by 86 votes.

Most of the campaigners I know still wring their hands – if only I did more. Everyone felt that. “If only I didn’t take that night off from canvassing on Sunday.” “If only I helped out at the stall more.” “If only I helped deliver more papers.” If only I stayed this year – of all years. Instead, I went to Cross Plains. I saw all my friends and relatives. I talked about the referendum any chance I got. I was sure we’d win, and win comprehensively. I was itching to get back home, to continue campaigning – but I figured I wasn’t that needed. Everyone at Yes Inverclyde worked hard. A recharge, a break, to come back rejuvenated and revitalised, was my justification.

Would it have changed anything? Would my mere presence in late May and early June in this most important year in Scotland’s history have had any effect on the official count? Nationwide, I doubt it – but it’s hard not to think that a constituency decided by 86 votes might have been affected by even the smallest nudges in a different direction. Would it have turned 86 more votes for No in the official count into a Yes result? Who knows.

I can never go back to America – not without Scotland’s independence assured. Every time I think of how optimistic and determined I was talking to my friends in America, I cannot help but feel the most profound sense of shame. Shame in so many of my countryfolk politely and democratically refusing what scores of countries fought for with every nerve and sinew, sure. Shame in my own misplaced confidence and naivete, that the British Establishment could be so easily defeated, undoubtedly. But most of all, shame in myself. Even putting aside any influence I, or any one individual, may have made on the result locally, what matters is that I left my people in the most important time of my country’s existence. There are people I can hardly bear to talk to online anymore, so deep is my personal sense of failure and mortification. How could I bear to show my face outside Scotland ever again?

I have two choices: either slink back to America with the contrived, pathetic, false nobility of the Dying Gaul, or I stride back with the assurance that my people were not the dog who handed back the leash to its master as soon as we were given the choice of freedom. I don’t want to keep my pals in America waiting much longer.