Conan, grim, blood-stained, naked but for a loin-cloth, shackles on his mighty limbs, his blue eyes blazing beneath the tangled black mane which fell… - Robert E. Howard

Did you deem yourself strong because you were able to twist the heads off civilised folk, poor weaklings with muscles like rotten string? Hell! Break the neck of a wild Cimmerian bull before you call yourself strong.

It is the individual mainly which draws me — the struggling, blundering, passionate insect vainly striving against the river of Life and seeking to divert the channel of events to suit himself — breaking his fangs on the iron collar of Fate and sinking into final defeat with the froth of a curse on his lips,

But not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood, restless harbingers of violence and bloodshed, knowing no other path....