Natural speed, please! Thank you very much! :D
A snarling expression was drawn on Conan’s face: he had felt that sort of excitement that comes from the physical agony of the strife. Extracting his broadsword from the dead body, he decapitated Heimdul and then ditched his head on the snow. Conan glanced at his sword which was coated with blood. After another colossus had died and his blood ran crimson on the hoarfrost, the Cimmerian growled: ”Northern scum! Is there no one else!?” He faintly tried to grip the hilt of his broadsword. The sun was shining and groaning for his wounds he looked at the black crows that were eagerly feasting upon the banquet of corpses that war had left behind. Absently leaving his broadsword on the ground he knelt and then laid on his back: all day long he had been harvesting lives and now felt like life was running away from him, slowly abandoning him like a lascivious woman who no longer requited his love.
