<i>The muscles of his heavy bronzed arms rippled as he pulled the oars with an almost feline ease of motion. A fierce vitality that was evident in each feature and motion set him apart from commen men; yet his expression was neither savage nor somber, though the smoldering blue eyes hinted at ferocity easily wakened. This was Conan...

<i>...Wolfhere poked a finger unto his scarlet beard to scratch. ... a giant with breast muscles that bulged like a brace of shields beneath his corselet of scalemail. He grunted when he stooped for his horned helmet. With that on his head he was even more formidable and giant-like.

<i> Many men are born outside their cuntury; Esau Cairn was born outside his epoch... I never knew a man of such intelligence so little-fitted for adjustment in a machine-made civilization... Cairn was not a great sluggish lethargic giant as so many powerful men are; he was vibrant with a fierce life, ablaze with a dynamic energy. Carried away by the lust of combat, he forgot to control his powers, and the result was broken limbs or fractured skulls for his opponents.

<i> He was a man apart in other ways, his armour different and his hair a swatch of the midnight sky. Grim, stolid with the insouciance of a fighting man who expects neither reward nor punishment but takes what may come from gods and men, his mouth was tightpressed and his scarred face almost impassive.

<i>At first he thought it was the shadow of a man who stood in the entrance; then he saw it was a man himself, though so dark and still he stood that a fantastic semblance of shadow was lent him by the glittering candle. A tall man, as tall as Le Loup he was, clad in black from head to foot, in plain, close fitting garments that somehow suited the somber face. The features of the man were saturnine and gloomy. "You are Solomon Kane, I suppose?" Le Loup asked.
"I am Soloman Kane." The voice was resonant and powerful " Are you prepared to meet your God?"

<i>Not on the Topaz Throne sat Kull, but in the saddle, mounted on a great stallion, a true warrior king. His mighty arm swung up in reply to to the salutes as the hosts passed.

<i> But the frenzy of slaughter was on Black Turlogh; froth flecked at his lips and his eyes were those of a madman. "The devil take Malachi!" he shouted, splitting a Dane's skull with a stroke like the slash of a tiger's paw.

<i> "Kiss her lad!" bellowed some drunken lout; and then as taut as a spring snaps, I jerked the dagger from my bosom and sprang at Francois. My act was too quick for those slow-witted clowns even to comprehend, much less prevent. My dagger was sheathed in his pig's heart before he realized I had struck, and I yelped with mad glee to see his stupid expression of incredulous surprise...

<i>His was a figure alien and incongruous, his red mane contrasting with the black locks around him no less than his dusty gray mail contrasted with the plumed burnished headpieces and silvered hauberks of the slayers. He was tall and powerful with a wolfish hardness of limbs and frame that his mail could not conceal. his dark scarred face was moody, his blue eyes cold and hard as the blue steel whereof Rhineland gnomes forge swords for heroes in northern forests.

<i> Such a man the watcher in the doorway had never seen -- tall, deep chested, broad shouldered, built with the dangerous suppleness of a panther. His eyes were as cold as blue ice, set off by a mane of gold tinted with red; so to the man in the doorway that hair seemed like burning gold. The man at the table wore a light shirt of silvered mail, a long lean sword hung at his hip, and on the bench beside him lay a kite-shaped sheild and a light helmet.

He was a hairy mountain of iron muscle, and he moved with the quickness of a huge cat... Lastly, his bullet head was set so squarly on his shoulders that it was practically impossible to strangle that thick squat neck of his.