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The swamp was alive with the sounds of nature in the early light of dawn, the croaks of frogs and the buzz of insects. The cries of birds and the splash of jumping fish added their own sounds to the chorus of the swamp. Through the humid murk a giant of a man strode, he was clad in but boots and a loincloth, aside from the weapons belts crossing his tanned and scarred flesh. His face was contorted in one of intense concentration as he trudged through the swamp with an axe over his shoulder. His faithful Atlantean sword hung at his hip, and a dagger rode on his other hip. The man scowled as he continued his quest. Conan he was known by, and he had been many things and called many more. Thief, warrior, pirate, chief, slave. All had been titles he had once held. For now though his title seemed to be bounty hunter. Conan had made an agreement with the local ruler to retrieve the Panther’s eye emerald, a prized jewel that had been stolen in a raid on a diplomatic caravan. The bandits had absconded into the swamps with their ill gotten gains, and Conan was intent to track them down. A wanderer such as he was always in need of more coins. In silence the barbarian trudged through the shallow water until he reached a patch of dry land. The wanderer narrowed his eyes as he pushed past the thick foliage, he could see the telltale signs of men passing through, blades of grass flattened, and scuffs in the soft dirt. As Conan ventured a bit further he paused as he found several arrows embedded in the grass and treetrunks. The seasoned warriors nostrils flared as he caught the familiar scent of blood. Holding his axe at the ready Conan strode forward, wary of an ambush. Dried blood lay before him spattered against the grass and trees, the buzz of flies was heavy in the air along with the stench of carrion. Conan moved forward and paused his foot half raised, a snare lay before him. Scoffing the warrior picked his way around the crude trap and soon found himself in an encampment. Or at least the remains of one. Tents lay torn and broken, utensils and cooking pots were strewn about the ashes of a fire and weapons lay scattered around. A glance upward and Conan cursed at what he saw, skinned bodies hanging from the tree branches. Something bad had happened to the bandits, that much was certain. But what manner of man or fiend could have done this? A growl rumbled in Conan’s throat as he could see the treasure chests piled up in the camp. This was a trap. The hair on the back of Conan’s neck stood up, the cacophony of the swamp had fallen silent, the only noise the barbarian heard was a distant clicking noise. The barbarian hefted his axe, ready for anything. Or so he thought. “Come swamp fiend, face me!” As if in answer to his challenge there was a roar in the distance.