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The Cimmerians (Cimmeria)

Known for their strength and ferocity throughout the Western world, the Cimmerians were barbarian tribesmen to whom war was the only known way of life. Few Cimmerians left their homeland, but those who ventured into the great world to the south soon learned that the other civilized races did not follow their own codes of honor or loyalty. Cimmeria was an unremittingly somber land, “all of hills, darkly wooded, under skies nearly always gray, with winds moaning drearily down the valleys” and its inhabitants were wont to be moody, taking on the cast of their gray skies. The Cimmerian people were the direct descendants of the vanished Atlanteans who had settled Thuria after the Cataclysm. They were tall and powerful, with dark hair and blue or gray eyes. They lived in small, isolated tribes made up of

extended family units which herded cattle, grew oats and raided one another for cattle or wives.

A hard region of tundra, mountains and wooded fields seated beneath a cold, gray sky were the lands of Cimmeria. It was surrounded by those who would aim to either kill or conquer the native barbarian clans that had thrived there since the time of the Atlanteans. The hard terrain was often softened with the blood-churned mud of Pictish invaders, Vanir raiders, Hyperborean Gurnakhi, or

unconquerable people—or the lands in which they struggled daily to survive. Cimmeria was a harsh place of clan wars and tightly-knit families, where strength and cunning were the keys to survival.

Cimmeria was a land filled with dangerous people and predators, where much of the life that can be found in its frozen hills only sought to take life from another. Wolves, mountain cats and fierce bears hunted the frozen ranges and thick woods, more than capable of killing entire hunting parties unprepared for their savagery. Stories of monstrous beasts and dark legends waiting in the icy wastes for foolish travelers were told around crackling campfires, many of which had been proven true time and time again.

In Cimmeria, if the weather and the terrain did not claim you, something else likely would.

Only the strong carved out a living there, often quite literally. The terrain was difficult, but many came to see for themselves. The Eiglophian Mountains tempted adventurers into their frozen heights to test their mettle against bloodthirsty cannibals and fabled creatures of legend. These towering peaks marked the northern border of Cimmeria. Beyond their steep cliffs to the northwest were the lands of the Vanir invaders; to the northeast were the folk of the Aesir, who were infrequent allies or foes of the Cimmerians. There were few passes through the mountains, so most hostilities were limited to raids and pillaging—or so many believed, before the Vanir marched an army of warriors into Cimmeria.

Passage through the mountains was difficult and dangerous, even for seasoned travelers. Apart from trappers and scouts, few men dwelled in these mountains. To survive in the Eiglophians, one had to be possessed of incredible willpower, physical strength, and great courage. The howling winds and biting cold gnawed at both body and soul; the leopards and ice worms weeded out the weak, and treacherous paths and sheer cliffs killed the unwary. What human life did cling to existence here was divided between scattered Cimmerian clans and the savages of the flesh-eating tribes that had bedeviled hunters and

trappers for decades now. These murderous cannibals raided nearby Cimmerian villages, not for conquest, but to capture people who were fated to be eaten in the deep, dark caves that the flesh-eaters claimed as their territory. The range itself was a holy place to the Cimmerians. In the eastern spur of the Eiglophians, there stood Ben Morgh, known to outlanders as Mount Crom. Here, it is said, Crom dwelled, sending out death and doom to those who had failed him. His anger shook the peaks in the form of thunderstorm and avalanches—and Crom was wrathful of late, as invaders from Hyperborea, Vanaheim, and the Border Kingdom trespassed ever deeper into Cimmeria.

Among the other notable locations in frozen Cimmeria was the “Field of Chiefs” and its Standing Stone, where the Cimmerian clans came to speak of peaceful alliances, fearless of treachery, was a living piece of history. There was little question as to why foreigners who believed themselves strong of arm and swift of blade came to Cimmeria.

Cimmeria was the land that spawned the great and famous Conan the Barbarian, whose travels and adventures became the road map of legendry for all of Hyboria. Many of his exploits echoed across his homeland, beckoning others of the Cimmerian clans to mimic his life of danger and excitement in the pursuit of women and wealth. In a way, it was this land’s harshness that tempered Conan as much as the drive of the man himself.

Cimmeria, the land of the god Crom, was not peaceful, pleasant, or easily survived, but it made a tough people even tougher and sent forth the foolish to an early grave. It was a difficult place that laid low the weak and heralded the strong. There was a saying among the Cimmerian clans of the southern border,

“Make peace with your gods before you come to Cimmeria, as it will not be found here.”

A shroud hung over the people of Cimmeria. While one might assume it was the pall of the dark weather overhead, eternally threatening grim days and violent storms, the truth was that the Cimmerians lived under a shroud of impending doom. As the Hyborian Age entered its final centuries, few people felt it as acutely as the northern barbarian clans. It was a subconscious sensation—more a subtle, ever-present melancholy than any true emotion. But it was there, in the blood and bones of every Cimmerian. They all felt it. They each sensed, deep within, the end was coming.

King Conan I of Aquilonia was Hyboria’s most renowned Cimmerian, though he was not a typical example of his people. He treasured life while his people struggled through and endured it. He burned with a curiosity to see the world’s wonders, while his kinfolk stayed within the mountainous boundaries of their homeland and cared nothing for what occurred outside their clan territories. Life was hard in

Cimmeria, and no greater evidence for this fact exists than the dour Cimmerians themselves. The Cimmerians were a barbarous people, with a culture shaped by their harsh and dreary land to the point where foreigners looked askance at the tribes of the north and wondered if they ever laughed or sung any songs other than dismal dirges. To the world beyond Cimmeria, the barbarians of this cold and rugged region were locked in the misery of internal wars between feuding tribes and surviving through the efforts of dedicated hunters that provided meat and fur for each community. The Cimmerians lived hand-to-mouth subsistence lives in a hostile realm. It earned them the pity of the other nations, but it gave them a strength no training could ever teach. While the Cimmerians acknowledged Crom as their god, they did not worship him as the Aquilonians revered Mitra and the Stygians feared Set. Crom watched and brooded from his mountain throne, but he cared nothing for the lives of mortals. The Cimmerians

believed that Crom gave them strength at birth—the strength they will need to meet the trials of life. After that, they were on their own, as it should be.

These barbarians had little in the way of writing or book-learning, instead passing their lore verbally in fireside tales or whispered legends. They valued martial prowess over their enemies, physical strength, and the ability to provide for oneself over all else. While they had their seers and shamans, the

supernatural held terror for most barbarians, not any wonder or tempting appeal. They prided themselves on working through life with their strength, skill and cunning, and never relying on the arcane mysteries that blackened the souls of the men in other “civilized” nations.

One of the most famous regions of Cimmeria was Broken Leg Glen, once the home of Conan the Cimmerian himself. Typical for Cimmeria, Broken Leg Glen was a deep valley surrounded by steep mountains and cut by a cold river running through its center. Positioned between the controversial Aquilonian colonial settlement of Venarium and the battletorn Conall’s Valley, it had its share of travelers simply “passing through” to reach other parts of Cimmeria.

Some came just to see the stretch of land that gave birth to King Conan himself, and the rest of his now lost Clan Conarch. For those who chose or were chosen to stay in the Glen, they were likely to have adventure thrust upon them. The rocky soil and frequent rains and snows, depending on the season, made agriculture a difficult endeavor that many families simply did not have the resources to pursue. Even so, there was a life to be carved from the Broken Leg Glen, and many succeeded in doing so. There was a large village located there, at least by Cimmerian standards, that was home to many. It was arguably the most civilized settlement in the nation, and was home to a number of families. A large waterwheel-driven grain mill ground out flour and mash for the Glen’s families to use, powered by the cold water that rushed down the river from the mountaintops.

Game animals were plentiful and hunting was a household practice. Some families took to raising livestock, keeping them in small numbers to avoid attracting the numerous predators that stalked the forests. Bears and wolves were a constant threat to lone travelers. These mighty hunters were responsible for the deaths or disappearances of livestock, children, and even full-grown villagers.

The beasts of Broken Leg Glen were hardly the only threats, however. With the red-haired Vanir raiders moving in on nearby territories from the frozen north every week, there have already been “Vanir sightings” in the Glen. Some dismiss these as rumor; others are already sharpening their axes and

tightening their armor straps down for an impending battle. Some wonder that the Vanir may be coming for simple conquest; others believe they are after the renowned blue iron ore that is used to make the fabled Cimmerian Blue Steel. The mysterious and powerful metal would be a boon to an invading force to be sure, if they could also steal the secrets to forge it, for Blue Steel cannot be crafted using normal

metallurgical techniques.

The Vanir invasion is not the only thing that keeps the people of Broken Leg Glen at arms. There were darker rumors too; whispers of a deeper evil from the area’s past that had crept out of their nightmares. Likely it was nothing more than old fears, but those who remember were not taking any chances.

In Cimmeria’s icy east, the ravine of Conall’s Valley cuts a shallow slice in the stone and soil flesh of Hyboria. Here, in the shadow of Ben Morgh—Crom’s mountain throne—his people made a valiant and desperate last stand against invaders from the north. In times past the region was known for its wild beauty and was home to several Cimmerian clans; each tribe founding their settlements among the many ancient Atlantean ruins that the lush northern forests have never completely concealed.

Then came the Vanir.

Now the woodland pass is littered with the ashen remnants of villages burned to the ground, and where Cimmerian forts once rose among the trees, Vanir spears are plunged into the earth, bearing the severed heads and rotting bodies of the valley’s slain defenders. When the Vanir swept down from the north, they came not to raid, but to conquer. The Cimmerian warriors who fought for their homeland were slain; their families enslaved or slaughtered while villages burned. The few survivors were mainly outcasts, hunters and warriors who managed to flee south and escape the blades of the Vanir.

The once-beautiful Conall’s Valley has become a battleground; its beauty spoiled by savagery and bloodshed as the Vanir and Cimmerians fight over the ruins of destroyed villages. If the woodland pass falls completely, the way into Cimmeria will be laid open to the berserkers of Vanaheim. The survivors of the northerners’ assaults gather around their night-fires in makeshift settlements and sharpen their swords, vowing to sell their lives dearly in the name of their homeland. All the while, these last Cimmerians cast looks at the distant tower of Ben Morgh. Their distant and cruel god watches from that mountain peak, and the warriors know that dying while Crom himself looks on would be a shameful death indeed.

Conall’s Valley was also adjacent to the Field of the Dead, the sacred burial ground for Cimmerian chieftains that had been used for many centuries. The Field of the Dead lay at the eastern end of Conall’s Valley in the northern part of Cimmeria. Situated at the very foot of Ben Morgh, the towering mountain where Crom himself was said to dwell, the Field of the Dead bore a close resemblance to Cimmerian descriptions of the afterlife. It was a rocky, windswept land, full of cold mists and pitiless rain. Dark heather grew on the stony hillsides and the burial mounds of old chieftains, and the howls of wolves echoed plaintively from the depths of the twisting valleys. It was a bleak, haunting place, as grim and cheerless as a Cimmerian’s soul.

Each Cimmerian clan laid claim to a specific part of the Field of the Dead, interring their leaders in mounds shaped of earth and stone. The chieftain’s final resting place was surrounded by armor and weapons, fine clothes, trophies and treasure, so that he would enter the realm of the dead with all the wealth that befit a great leader. Tales of such treasure sometimes lured raiders and treasure-seekers onto the burial fields, despite the terrible risks. Even if these would-be looters managed to avoid the watchful eye of Cimmerian patrols, they had still to face the wrath of the spirits themselves. Many who ventured into the depths of the burial mounds never saw the light of day again. This terrible drama is now being played out on a grand scale as a large force of Vanir warriors have invaded the sacred burial grounds. They are pillaging the grave mounds of ancient chieftains and plundering them of arcane relics, caring nothing for the warriors interred within. Bodies have been dumped onto the dank earth, or defiled by Vanir knives. Now the specters of angry chieftains haunt the Field of the Dead, seeking to avenge themselves against those who wronged them—or upon any living soul unfortunate enough to cross their path. Worse still, Cimmerians struggling to turn back the Vanir raiders have heard terrible howls in the darkness, and some claim to have seen werewolves stalking the mist-shrouded valleys. It was feared that the Vanir had unleashed an ancient curse locked up in one of the older burial mounds, and the Cimmerians of this period were powerless to stop it.

Cimmeria was a land known for its grim weather, harsh terrain and its mountain ranges which formed Hyboria’s icy spine. The most hostile patch of the grey realm was not, however, the snow-wracked Eiglophian Mountains or the ghost-plagued grave land called the Field of the Dead. Even Conall’s Valley, where Vanir berserkers brandished bloodstained blades and howled their challenges to the retreating tribes, was not the most feared or dangerous part of that sunless northern region. That sinister honor went to a place named with typical barbarian simplicity: the Frost Swamp.

If one region could be said to house every nightmare of the frozen north, it was here. Dark legends walked, stalking the misty paths with ichor-wet fangs and trembling claws, seeking human prey. Mortal foes abounded, from the loose-fleshed doppelgangers who murdered through illusion-aided hunts, to the corpse-white mystics of Hyperborea. Truly, the gods themselves must laugh at the collection of hateful evils that gathered here to torment the Cimmerians, all stirred up by the probing fingertips and black sorceries of the Hyperboreans. It was said the Hyperboreans came to the Frost Swamp to unearth ancient secrets from a time before the gods drowned Atlantis. Whatever the truth behind their presence, their insidious touch had roused malicious forces within the stagnant, greasy waters of the region.

Few souls willingly entered the Frost Swamp, and those that did (who have any expectations of walking back out again) were invariably the finest, most skilled hunters and warriors Cimmeria had ever

bred. Only these souls, the strongest sons and daughters of the northlands, stood any chance of navigating the winding, fog-thick pathways or overcoming the many breeds of inhuman creatures that prowled through the brackish bog waters of the swamp.

The first Cimmerian clans existed contemporaneously with Atlantis, intermarrying with Atlantean colonists who had settled in the Western region of the Thurian continent prior to the Cataclysm.

Cimmerians of Conan’s time apparently still existed in a hunting and gathering culture, living in villages deep in the humid forests of Cimmeria. The people used iron, and more rarely, steel weapons and had borrowed other elements from the more advanced cultures to the south. Cimmerians respected strength and little else. This belief was best represented by their chief god, Crom, the Lord of the Mound, who the Cimmerians believed breathed life into men when they were born, and gave them the strength and courage to conquer all which they must face in a hard life. Afterwards, a man could rely only upon his own skills to carry him through life. The practice of magic of any kind, the Cimmerians believed, corrupted the soul, and extracted a terrible price from those who practiced it.

Men could expect little pity from a Cimmerian. Women were to be protected, but a man who could not fend for himself was usually left to die. Even the sick were rarely helped unless they were of the Cimmerian’s own tribe or clan. Those children born deformed were left in the snows to die so they would not burden their families or their tribe; life was too hard to spare pity on those who could not pull their

Men could expect little pity from a Cimmerian. Women were to be protected, but a man who could not fend for himself was usually left to die. Even the sick were rarely helped unless they were of the Cimmerian’s own tribe or clan. Those children born deformed were left in the snows to die so they would not burden their families or their tribe; life was too hard to spare pity on those who could not pull their

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