Magically banished from the bleeding hells of Hyrkania, CONAN was hurled through time and space to the Forgotten Realms of Toril.



The goal of this build was to give CONAN the hit points and power of a fighter Dreadnaught and an improved Rageblood Goliath barbarian. This build makes it possible to combine massive hit points with a high Ac using light armor on a striker whose sword rarely misses and deals out maximum damage. CONAN can constantly combine temporary hit points + high damage reduction + fighter regeneration. He is designed to take on solo monsters alone but his at will Howl of Fury power combined with the Resounding Thunder feat also allows him to quickly eliminate multiple enemies with thundering shrapnel that skillfully ignores allies. With this power, CONAN can do 9 points of shrapnel damage to all enemies in a close blast four, every round. His power selection and Paragon path make him nearly immune to all status ailments so he is difficult to stop or even slow down. As a result, he is dangerous to every enemy on the field and is nearly invincible in battle, all while remaining drunk and mostly naked.


CONAN is drunk and mostly naked. To calm his nerves and remain compliant with Balasar’s Avengers, CONAN is forced to live in a constant box of self inebriation which dulls his primal instincts as well as his near genius intellect. As a result, he is often mistaken for a brute with low charisma. This vice does not seem to interfere with his athletic prowess, lust or innate fighting skill.

== Created Using Wizards of the Coast D&D Character Builder ==
CONAN, level 11
Goliath, Barbarian, Dreadnought
Build: Rageblood Barbarian
Feral Might: Rageblood Vigor
Background: Akanûl (Akanûl Benefit)

Str 25, Con 25, Dex 19, Int 6, Wis 14, Cha 5.

Str 20, Con 20, Dex 18, Int 5, Wis 13, Cha 4.

AC: 28 Fort: 27 Reflex: 24 Will: 20
HP: 109 Surges: 15 Surge Value: 27

Perception +12, Endurance +16, Athletics +18, Intimidate +18

Acrobatics +9, Arcana +3, Bluff +2, Diplomacy +2, Dungeoneering +7, Heal +7, History +3, Insight +7, Nature +9, Religion +3, Stealth +9, Streetwise +2, Thievery +9

Level 1: Goliath Greatweapon Prowess
Level 2: Improved Rageblood Vigor
Level 4: Weapon Expertise (Heavy Blade)
Level 6: Battle Awareness
Level 8: Acolyte Power
Level 10: Hide Armor Expertise
Level 11: Resounding Thunder

Barbarian at-will 1: Howl of Fury
Barbarian at-will 1: Recuperating Strike
Barbarian encounter 1: Avalanche Strike
Barbarian daily 1: Swift Panther Rage
Barbarian utility 2: Stonebreaker
Barbarian encounter 3: Brutal Slam
Barbarian daily 5: Rage of the Crimson Hurricane
Barbarian utility 6: Indomitable Shift (retrained to Boundless Endurance at Acolyte Power)
Barbarian encounter 7: Curtain of Steel
Barbarian daily 9: Stone Bear Rage
Barbarian utility 10: Mountain Roots

Restful Bedroll (heroic tier), Cask of Liquid Gold (heroic tier), Everlasting Provisions (heroic tier), Endless Canteen (heroic tier), Sending Stones (pair) (paragon tier), Bag of Holding (heroic tier), Magic Battleaxe +3, Giantkind Gloves (heroic tier), Iron Armbands of Power (heroic tier), Cat Tabi (heroic tier), Cincture of the Dragon Spirit (heroic tier), Belt of Feral Might (heroic tier), Assassinbane Earthhide Armor +3, Jagged Greatsword +3, Periapt of Cascading Health +2, Horned Helm (heroic tier), Salve of Power (heroic tier) (2)


After crushing the armies of Thoth Amon, exhausting that Stygian’s spells and beating the epic wizard into cat food for his familiars, the savage sword of Conan lopped off the head of that mystic theurge and victory seemed assured. Suddenly, the corpse burned to ash as Thoth Amon’s contingency spell triggered, hurling the bronzed giant through time and space!

Waking up bleeding in the sands of a foreign world, CONAN cursed the trickery, the dishonor, the cowardice of all wizards. The stench of the Stygian’s burning flesh was still in his skull but his memories of that world were like a fading dream. The smoke from that snake’s disintegrating bones must have been laced with a terrible poison of such demonic potency that even the blood of Crom might struggle to resist. A lesser man would have been killed by that toxin but CONAN yet lived, though not without paying its price.

Rising to his feet, the dark maned lion tested his strength and found it lacking. The hot desert winds cut him with their sands and he knew that he was naked. His sword, his plate armor and all of his possessions were lost to that Serpent’s spell. Also gone were the Barbarians bard sung strength and agility as his muscles now seemed weakened and slow. His once sharp mind was now drunk and clouded, he struggled to remember his own name.

Though a shadow of his former self the Cimmerian would not accept defeat. Clothed in the rotten skin of a long dead camel, he wandered half mad through this foreign desert for three years without meeting a soul, taking his water from scorpions and vultures and the dew collected on the surface of rocks in the morning air.

Never once in his grim misery did CONAN whisper a prayer to the cold god of his people, yet one year mercy was given to the naked Cimmerian on what may well have been his birthday. Through the rising haze of the desert heat, twelve fierce raiders spotted him and he them. The killers drew their swords and charged their mounts, bringing a grin to the foreigner’s sun dried lips.

The long silenced screams of mercy from the terminated predators echoed softly through CONAN’S primal skull. The horse flesh was the best he felt he had ever tasted as he relished the sound of liquid fat hissing in the fires of the dead. The piled bodies of his attacker’s, his saviors, made a nice bonfire for cooking meat. They had brought him water, dark wine, gold, armor and swords, comfort. Even their foreign war cries had sounded vaguely like his own.

The tracks of their captured animals were plain to read. He forced their clothes to fit him, then left their armor to the sands. Nothing was left on the bones of the horse he had killed. This world had familiar animals, familiar language and familiar fighters. Perhaps the Stygian’s spell had not been so damning after all. CONAN saddled his best mount and tied the other animals to it. He would follow the dead men’s tracks to whatever hell they would lead him.

In time, the barbarian learned the common tongue of this land. It was definitely another world but the language had a style to it that reminded him of home. The legends of his people were slowly returning to his poisoned mind as his natural vitality slowly repaired itself. He remembered tales from his ancestors passed down from the chiefs and shamans of his tribe. Hyrkania was mostly void of wizards. Like the dragons and monsters of the stories, wizards too were feared. They were all hunted down and burned alive before the gods. If any survived, they fled to the caves and hid beneath the earth from the awful rage of man. Yet, in the days before men had tamed them, the world was mostly populated by wizards, elfs, alien monsters, giants, angels and demons. Toril seems like such a world.

The people hear speak of the murder of the goddess of magic and the destruction of the great houses. Magic items were once mass produced and sold cheaply in shops by Thay Wizards, War Casters and Zhent Sky Mages but today these weapons are horded and difficult to come by. The economy is failed and in most cases, barter seems more useful than gold, but the wizards…the wizards are everywhere. This world is filled with monsters and even they can use the scattered magic of the murdered Goddess. CONAN is reminded of the tale of Atlantis, a country of wizards who destroyed their own world with arcane madness. They were the reason man hunted wizards and Hyboreans trust only fire and sword. The elders said that his tribe was descended from Atlanteans and of their once godlike magic, they remembered only the secret of steel. Perhaps he had not been sent to another world, but another time, 5000 years into the past.

Currently, CONAN is a captain in a powerful but random mercenary group by the name of Balasar’s Avengers, the famed Adventure guild of Loud Water Dale. He leads the Gray Wolves, a famed squad of bloodthirsty mercenaries that owes allegiance to Balasar the Dragon. Under his command, the weak are protected from raiders, monsters and villains. All funds are taken from the dead and payed to the guild for a cut. He is content to learn from these champions for now.

CONAN’S memory is returning and with it his instincts, training and prowess. His body is shaking off the toxin and grows stronger each year. He knows that one day soon, he will regain his former strength.

CONAN’S goals are simple. He will take what he wants when he wants it but he will not take it from innocents who are to weak to challenge him. He will not bow to any king or law and serves Balasar only so long as he respects the dragon’s deeds as a leader. He likes his drink because it slows his spinning mind and gives him a small measure of peace. CONAN wants only the strength to destroy any monster or man that seeks to harm him. One world is as good as another but though CONAN trusts only in the sharpness of his sword and the strength in his body, he especially distrusts anyone who can cast arcane spells.

He hopes one day to return to Hyboria where there are few wizards and fewer priests and the power of the gods has faded nearly to oblivion. There, slaying the tyrants and then slaying their replacements, CONAN may die of old age in battle if there is yet a young lion whose sword can cut him. Such a deed would require a fierce army of which that world has not yet seen.

The bards say that death itself cannot kill such a man who is not a man at all but the primal rage of NATURE, personified.


Chains Unbound ARLEM