Finarfin
Habitué
- Messages
- 122
Conan, Barbarian Dwarf: Part 31 – One Last Drink
Conan returned to the main part of Pocket Plane after the battle with the Ravager. The air felt heavier than before, as if the place itself knew the end was close. For the first time in what felt like forever, Imoen was waiting for him — sitting on one of the stone benches, legs crossed, pretending not to have been pacing moments earlier.
“Hey, you’re alive. Again,” she said, forcing a smile.
They talked for a while — nothing important, just small things that didn’t matter but somehow did. Imoen was quieter than usual, looking at the glowing rift at the center of the plane. Finally, she said:
“You know… this might be our last night before the end. How about we don’t spend it surrounded by floating rocks and doom energy? There’s a tavern down in Amkethran. Let’s go have a drink.”
Conan smirked. “I like the sound of that.”
They found a quiet corner in a half-empty tavern at the edge of the desert town. The place smelled of smoke and stale beer, the kind of establishment where the mugs were older than the patrons. Conan sat with his back to the wall, his trusty athlantean sword propped against the bench. Imoen stirred her drink with one finger, staring at the foam like it held answers.
The first few rounds went down fast. The second few went down easier. Before long, the sharpness in their words started to dull — the kind of haze that makes the world seem softer, or maybe just further away.
“So…” she began. “After this, you will probably go home. Hyboria. Big skies, big swords, bigger egos.”
Conan nodded. “Aye. If the gods permit.”
A ghost of a smile flickered on Imoen’s face. “You make it sound like a morning walk.”
“I’ve walked worse roads.” he replied, voice low and steady.
There was a pause — the kind that stretches too long and starts to sting.
“You ever think about what happens after all this?” she asked quietly. “Like, if there’s nothing left to fight?”
Conan shrugged. “Then I’ll find something. There’s always something.”
Imoen laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Of course there is. Always another fight, another quest, another monster to hit until it stops moving.”
He looked at her, confused. “You’re angry I might be going home?”
“No! I’m angry that’s all you think there is!” Her voice rose before she could stop it. “You win, you leave, you move on — like none of it ever mattered!” She stopped herself, realizing what she almost said. Like I don’t matter.
Conan blinked, unsure what to say. “You’ve got your world, Imoen. You’ll be fine.”
“Fine,” she breathed, too soft to sound angry at first — but then the mug hit the table hard enough to spill what was left of her drink. “Always fine. That’s me, right? The cheerful sidekick, holding your back, standing by you and pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
Her laugh came out sharp and bitter, the kind that tried to hide the crack in her voice. “Gods, you really don’t get it. Screw you, Conan.”
She turned before he could answer, shoulders rigid, boots scuffing against the floorboards as she strode to the door. The candle between them wavered, then went out, leaving him staring at the thin trail of smoke curling where her smile used to be.
Conan stared after her. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed and finished his drink.
The bartender, who had been pretending not to listen, polished a mug and said, “Woman, eh?”
Conan gave a dry chuckle, barely more than an exhale. “Crom... I just don’t understand her.”
The barkeep nodded wisely. “Best not to try, lad. Women and gods — both belong to mysteries we’re not meant to solve.”
Conan dropped a few coins on the counter and stood. “Noted.”
Back in the Pocket Plane, the air shimmered again. Imoen was already there, waiting at the edge of the portal.
She looked up as he approached, cheeks faintly red. “Hey. Sorry. I… overreacted. You know me.”
Conan gave a small nod. “And I said nothing wrong, yet somehow, I’m still sorry.”
That drew a laugh out of her — quiet, breathless, but real. For a heartbeat, the silence between them felt almost peaceful.
A few moments later, as they prepared to step through the portal to the final battle, Imoen reached into her satchel and pulled out a small pendant shaped like a crescent moon.
“It catches light when you’re in the dark,” she said, holding it out. “I thought… maybe if I can’t be there to keep an eye on you, this will.”
Conan took it, heavy in his calloused palm. For a long moment he said nothing. “You made this?”
She nodded, smiling despite herself. “There was a reason I was away so long before,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “The ingredients took time to find. Added a bit of my own magic, too. Won’t save you from everything — but maybe it’ll remind you that someone’s still out there watching your back.”
He put it around his neck, giving a small nod. “If this thing shines when I’m in trouble,” he said, half-smiling, “you’d best start worrying.”
Imoen’s smile faltered into something softer — genuine, but touched with sadness. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I probably will.”
They stood there a moment longer — two souls bound by battle, pride, and everything they hadn’t said.
Then Conan turned, stepping through the portal.
The light flared, and Imoen followed close behind — her hand brushing the empty air where he’d stood.
The final battle awaited.
The question is, does it change the character's alignment, or merely onlookers' perceptions of your alignment ? No doubt subsequent actions will let us know. Whilst in my set-up, the helm of opposite alignment has been removed, this wig looks to be a substitute. It doesn't have the attributes of a helm though, and it can be used by anybody.]
