Brannok handed the two bronze coins to the young Kael, who vanished into the crowd like an eel. Pushing open the heavy door of the inn, Brannok was greeted by a scene he knew all too well: the sickly smell of spilled ale and greasy stew, the coarse laughter of drunks, the lascivious whispers of prostitutes, and the palpable tension that always promised a coming brawl. A classic.
He found an isolated table in a corner, his back to the wall, and ordered a mutton ragout and a tankard of dark beer. As he waited, a prostitute, a blonde with generous curves and tired eyes, noticed him. He stood out. Tall, broad-shouldered, a build that screamed strength and endurance, and that young face, marked but not yet broken. To her, he was the perfect client.
"Hello, Barbarian," she said in a drawling voice as she approached. "Would you like to share a cup of wine? A beautiful night?"
Brannok gave her a wry smile. Without a word, he took a silver coin from his pocket and slid it toward her. Her smile widened, but she knew money was often just a prelude. Men like him usually wanted something else: companionship, information, or both.
As she leaned down to pick up the coin, Brannok leaned closer, his voice a confidential murmur that cut through the din.
"The coins are for you. The information is for me. I want to know if the Cult of Set still exists."
Deep down, a question had been burning in him from the start. Which version of Conan's world was he in exactly? The one from the films, where the serpent-god was a tangible threat, or the one from the comics, far vaster and more complex? Now that he was free, he could finally seek answers.
The prostitute, surprised by the question, narrowed her eyes, thinking. "Hmm... Let me think... The Cult? It was dismantled... six years ago, I'd say. A great barbarian, a Cimmerian, I believe. He killed the High Priest, beheaded him, and brought a king's princess back to her home. King Osric's daughter, if I'm not mistaken. A crazy story."
Conan. The name resonated in Brannok's mind like a gong. The film. It was the timeline of the first film. His father... had already accomplished his great deeds.
As he digested this information, another woman approached. A redhead with a sharp gaze and a sensual mouth, who looked the blonde over with jealousy.
"Hello, handsome Barbarian," she said, completely ignoring her colleague. "Are you all alone?"
The blonde straightened up, furious. "Sharia! He's not alone, I'm talking to him!"
The redhead, Sharia, sneered. "That's what I said, all alone with a chatterbox."
That was the spark. With a cry of rage, the blonde launched herself at the redhead. Nails scratched, hair flew, and insults mixed with the sound of breaking glass. The inn's patrons immediately formed a circle, encouraging the fight with laughter and bets.
Brannok, however, remained seated, sipping his beer with detached calm. He watched the scuffle for a moment, then his gaze drifted beyond the walls. His father had already left his mark on this world. The question now was what mark he would leave.
The rest of the evening became a pleasant blur. Ale flowed freely, laughter erupted, and the two prostitutes, their quarrel forgotten, seemed to decide to unite against this client who was far too interesting to be shared.
---
The next morning, daylight filtered through the cracks in the shutters. Brannok opened his eyes, his head heavy but his mind clear. He was in a narrow bed, the sheets in disarray. Beside him, the blonde and the redhead slept deeply, naked, exhausted, and peacefully entwined in their sleep, the rivalry of the previous night erased by the excesses of the night.
Brannok rose without a sound, pulled on his clothes, and adjusted the sword on his back. He cast a last look at the two sleeping women. A night of entertainment, a piece of crucial information. It was a good start. He left a few extra silver coins on the bedside table and quit the room silently.
The road awaited him. Now that he knew where – or rather when – he was, he could begin to forge his own legend.