Folks,

So, our first selection is a contribution from Lord Keegs. Enjoy!

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Fan Fiction by Lord Keegs

Part I

"I'll sooner smash your face with this tankard then tell you how I got this scar!" A grizzled man bellowed, referring to a scar running from his eye to his broken nose. He pulled another swig from his cup as he glared at the yellow haired youth.

The young man who had foolishly inquired shrank back in alarm, hand sliding to his axe frog. Sensing this, the large man made a quick motion with both his corded arms and mammoth hands raised over his head and let out a mighty "BOO!" Pieces of his last meal (that weren't too stuck to his beard) flew in a great spray from his face. The lad abandoned the idea of drawing his axe and made his way in haste away from near the campfire near where they sat.

"By Crom if I were to raid any more with this rag tag party then I'd be bound for your halls quicker then I'd like..." swore the barbarian.

The campfire lit up as such to make the barbarian look even more menacing. The more veteran warriors laying about the campfire hardly stirred. The raiding party had hit a Pictish encampment earlier that day and were resting up for the long march on the marrow. A murmur of "Blast, go to sleep Curran!" and "Yea! do us a favor!" "Mitra knows you're the only cursed Cimmerian I've met who drinks, other then that blasted king in Aquilonia!"

"Dogs! I'll bash you all two a time!" Curran's words slurred as he flexed his mighty thews, shaking his fist at the anonymous voices around the campfire.

Curran surveyed the men around him. The lot was as mixed as mixed could be. An Aquilonian, a Gunderman spearman, was snoring loudly in his makeshift bed, his arm wrapped in a brace from a blow taken earlier that day - a renegade deserter from their army from some failed battle figured Curran. A few red haired Vanir slept in their own corner of the camp, their hands resting on their chests clutched to their weapons which lay unsheathed across them. Two Hyrkanian brothers slept back to back against a massive tree trunk, how they joined up or why was anyone's guess. More men scattered were scattered in tents or wherever they happened to pass out. A Brythunian here, some Zamorans there. Hyboria's finest bunch of outlaws, brigands, or otherwise unwanted seemed to find their way into this camp. Curran didn't exactly fit in, but he didn't exactly stick out.

Curran was originally from Cimmerian, a harsh land north of the "civilized" world. He remembered his clan from his boyhood: he remembered the harsh winters. He remembered his favorite hunting spot where he would capture a hare using his wits and a sling. He remembered the tests of strength he and the other boys would use to clobber each other senseless. It was a hard life, but it was what he knew. That is, before his seventeenth summer when the strange, almost demonic men set upon the small raiding party he was with. It was not known why the men (who later it would become known to Curran as Stygians) set upon the small band of Cimmerians, nor what happened to his companions. It was as if his memory was wiped clean of that night, and seemingly for the following next few years he could recall nothing except for the rowing of the gigantic boat. "Row, you dogs!" Curran could hear in his head to this day as he pictured the image of the dark, almost birdlike featured face of the whip-master in the belly of that ship. Eventually, the bronze-skinned men wrecked the ship in a mighty storm, and the sly (and fortunate) Cimmerian found he was close to land and made distance between himself and his captors.

It was thus how he ended up with this mercenary band of cutthroats. They roamed the borderlands pillaging the smaller outposts and villages where prizes were ripe for the picking. He was quickly welcomed among their small ranks because of his size and aptitude with seemingly any weapon he picked up. Curran traveled (and pillaged) with them for a many months when finally they started heading north. When they neared the boarder of dismal Cimmeria, the barbarian felt his spirit begin to rise. He felt it was time to part ways with this group, maybe or maybe not temporarily, and seek out his clan, known as the Snowhawk.

"Ahh, Home!" He belched loudly, wiped the froth from his beard, wobbled a bit, then fell flat on his face and passed out.

Part II

Curran found himself in a deep dream. There he was, 5 years prior. He was raiding with Glarg, his mercenary comrade and father figure...

"Th'ar be two within that camp," whispered Glarg, a towering red-haired monster of a man spat out.

"Bah, there'll be no fun for you, then!" Curran answered back

"Easy lad, there will be 2 in the woods nearby, laying in wait. Our..." Glarg cut off as his companion began scrambling down the hill. He watched as Curran moved quickly but quietly. Glarg cursed, disgust apparent on his face. Glarg was easily 25 years his senior as he neared 50 winters, and had the scars to prove it. Glarg set out to circle the camp...

Curran approached near the enemy camp through a reed thicket. Once he got near the campsite he dug himself into a bit of the soft mud that resulted from the previous week's worth of rain. He clotted the goopy earth and wiped it on his skin. He saw Glarg off in the distance, the old man spooked a few deer out of there hiding spot and they rustled almost silently on their way.

Out of the corner of his eye, Curran noticed the Pictish sentry. The sentry, in turn apparently noted Glarg on the hill. Curran unhooked his mace and axe from his belt frogs. His muscles tensed and relaxed as he prepared to spring.

The Pict never knew what hit him. He was brained in the head so hard he spun, then cleaved across the chest with a great splatter of blood from Curran's hand axe. He fell with a loud thud as he crashed into the thicket.

It was enough to wake the two in camp.

They were on their feet in a flash, a glint of steel from one and a knock of an arrow by his companion. They were about to make towards Curran. But if they were up in a heartbeat, Glarg was on them in two. His great axe swept through the first one as if through a haystack. With his rebounding blow, he brought his axe up and cut up through the second right underneath the rib cage. Organs and innards flowed out as the Pict tried to bring up his bow like a melee weapon but dropped suddenly like a sack.

A fourth Pict emerged from the woods to Glarg's rear. Curran spotted the movement of the bushes a split second before the attacker rushed forth. Curran's legs sprang into action and with a diving leap he embedded his axe into the Pict's face.

Glarg dusted himself off, and glared at Curran. "You have the patience of a weasel! I guess that is why you need my training though, if ye are going to be hunting with us!

Curran shrugged. "We got them all, and you have all your limbs accounted for! What more do you want?!?" and with that Curran cracked a smile.

The older man looked at him, "You are like a favorite dog that does not listen!" He said with mischievous grin. "I think I have a new name for you! Since you want to act like a dog, I think I'll shorten the name. I'll be sure ta' tell the lads at camp to address ye as Cur from now on!"

Curran woke up. His head pounding, yet he was smiling at the memory of his friend while shaking his head because the nickname had stuck.

to be continued...

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Thanks Keegs! A good read! I'm looking forward to the next installment.

Again folks, do you have fan fiction in Hyboria? A character backstory? The origin of your guild? Or just something you wrote for fun? Send it in to UrfangWarcry@gmail.com and maybe you too can be famous! Sort of.