Arus the watchman grasped his crossbow with shaky hands, and he felt beads of clammy perspiration on his skin as he stared at the unlovely corpse spr… - Robert E. Howard

Like you, the Sagas of Norse Gods and heroes fascinate me. Their mythology seems more characteristically Nordic than any other-naturally, of course. I still feel deep resentment toward Charlemagne for his bloody conversion of the Nordic pagans – and while I do not consider that it was revenge for his ruthless crusade that sent the more remote Norsemen sweeping down to ravage the south – it was more likely a natural result of growth and expansion and press of population – still I can appreciate the feelings of those Odin-worshippers who destroyed shrine and monastery and burned priests in the ruins of their altars.

Belît sprang before the blacks, beating down their spears. She turned toward Conan, her bosom heaving, her eyes flashing. Fierce fingers of wonder caught at his heart. She was slender, yet formed like a goddess: at once lithe and voluptuous. Her only garment was a broad silken girdle. Her white ivory limbs and the ivory globes of her breasts drove a beat of fierce passion through the Cimmerian's pulse, even in the panting fury of battle. Her rich black hair, black as a Stygian night, fell in rippling burnished clusters down her supple back. Her dark eyes burned on the Cimmerian. She was untamed as a desert wind, supple and dangerous as a she-panther. She came close to him, heedless of his great blade, dripping with blood of her warriors. Her supple thigh brushed against it, so close she came to the tall warrior. Her red lips parted as she stared up into his somber menacing eyes.

Wenn das Leben eine Illusion ist, dann bin ich es nicht weniger, und somit ist die Illusion für mich Wirklichkeit.