Legends of Belariath
Harlon Nayl
The Untill is named as such by its inhabitants due to the fact that it is completely untillable. No gardens, no farms. Nicknamed Dusk by those outsiders who have survived accidental forays into the damp, dank gloomy twilight of its swamps. "A walk in Dusk." has become a by word for a horrible and painful death amoungst those who know of the Untill.
The barbarian clans that call the Untill home are a hardy people, toughed by the harsh existence. Childhood is brief, almost none existent as once a child is old enough to contribute they are put to work in some fashion. Harlon and his brothers were skilled hunters. They stalked the muddy tracts of land for the various beasts that evolved there. Of all the creatures there the one that was so sought after was the giant moth. The size of a large dog this venomous thing is hunted ritualistically for its wing casings, which the people of the Untill grind into a grey paste and apply to their bodies. Many of the beasts hunt by piercing the gloom to read the heat given off by all living beings. The wode blocks this and also allows them to blend into their surroundings. After many years of applying the wode to every centimeter of their skin it begins to stain, its considered a great portent when the grey begins its staining.
Competition for resources is fierce, even among the members of the same Clan..even the same family. Harlon's older brother Mabbon was considered the Clan's foremost hunter, much praise was given to him. Harlon however was jealous of the attention Mabbon recieved from the clan's leaders and its many women. Whilst out on a hunt with his brother he secretly plotted to murder him. Fate it seemed was not without a sense of irony, he fell victim to the venom of a Dusk Moth and as Mabbon lie there begging Harlon to help him, Harlon instead strangled the dying man.
Life in the Untill went on like that for many years, barely surviving and warring with the other clans. A great storm blew in and brought with it a trade caravan who'd sought shelter from the storm in the swampy mangroves. They'd become mired and stuck, Harlon's clan found the traders and took to helping them with their wagons and pack animals. The traders thankful for the assistance offered to trade supplies for a few of the clan's sturdier children. Harlon was among those traded away for a few precious items.
Barely sixteen at the time, he got his first unobstructed view of the sun and then the night sky. Harlon worked the caravan as a simple laborer, traveling its routes caring for the pack animals, defending the caravan when needed. He was exposed to a great many cultures in this life. Learning to read and write, drink , fight and fuck. The caravan became more of a family to him then his real one.
The sun rose red the morning that life ended, a army of raiders fell upon the caravan as it attempted to rouse itself from sleep. Bloodcurdling screams jerked Harlon awake from beneath one of the supply wagons. Already a great many of his friends were dead, several wagons burning and throwing up pillars of thick black smoke. It was too late for anyone to be saved, Harlon instead fled the slaughter into the high grass and made his escape.
He wandered the world for sometime after this traumatic event, finding work as a body guard, mercenary and even as a bounty hunter. However he never seemed to place worth staying for very long. He spent weeks traveling to Nanthalion, having heard of it from a stranger in a bar. Now he lives there full time, having fallen in love and found something worth staying around for.