The vast warrior crouches, cowl-like, on the shoulder of the cyclopean statue. He turns his back on its uncanny feline profile and surveys the ritual below.
He chokes back the acrid smoke of the witch-fires, sends a shuddering echo through the ruined hall.
The chant beneath ends; the blue-eyed giant leaps down onto the altar with an almighty crash. Conan lances a wide palm at the priest, full crushes his windpipe and clutches the ceremonial blade as the body crumples.
Readying the blade, he faces the silent crowd. The transformation halted, still they hiss and stare with septic yellow cat-eyes.