[Kuruharan]

Name: Pharno

Age: Unknown

Race: Maenwaith

Gender: Male

Appearance: Small stature, only a few inches over 5’ tall. He would be considered a rather weedy fellow, but he is deceptively strong. Nobody knows what he looks like because he wears a black face cloth at all times. On his head he wears a helmet, but nobody knows what it looks like either because it is wrapped in a black turban. The only part of the helmet that is visible is the gold spike that projects from the top of the helmet out of the folds of the turban. He wears a purple-lined black tunic that terminates at the thigh. He also wears purple-lined, flowing black trousers. Pharno is belted with a long purple sash, around which goes his sword belt. He undoubtedly wears armor under his clothes.

Weapons: Primarily twin scimitars, but he would never let himself be limited to any particular weapon.

Personality: Everyone trembles in Pharno’s presence. He lurks in the shadows on the edge of Maenwaith society. To the world he is a phantom, and a terrifying one at that. He has no mercy, he will only exercise clemency when there is a specific reason for doing so. He is a brutal and bloodthirsty individual who it is wise to fear. As far as anyone can tell he cares for little beyond killing. Little more is known about his personality.

History: He belongs to no clan, he mysteriously appeared soon after the fall of Sauron. It is suspected that he is tied to several particularly heinous assassinations. The most infamous of these was a year prior to the story at the Great Gathering of the Clans. At this gathering an almost sacrilegious string of murders took place; to the tune of 25 clan leaders and their immediate followers. The large number of Wyrma’s opponents that died in this purge would have caused suspicion to center on Wyrma herself, except for the fact that a number of the victims were some of Wyrma’s own supporters. Before this, and continuing afterward, the remains of massacred clans of Maenwaith would be periodically discovered in the desert. These were always groups of Maenwaith opposed to Wyrma’s changes. No connection to Wyrma or Pharno could be proven, life in the desert can be dangerous after all. Any relationship between Wyrma and Pharno, if any relationship does exist, is shrouded in mystery.

Beyond this, there is nothing more that anyone dwelling in the Circles of the World can say about Pharno. However, after a fashion, we aren’t in the Circles of the World, so here’s a few more useful facts about him.

He is one of Sauron’s old experiments. Nobody knows his parentage, Pharno is the name the Haradrim in Sauron’s court gave him. Whatever it was that Sauron did to him made Pharno almost orcish in mentality. Not that he is filthy or foul in any way, as is probably evident from his clothing he has a certain appreciation for the finer things in life. However, this appreciation is superficial. Deep down he really likes killing things.

Obviously, nobody knows what forms Pharno can take, but it is virtually obligatory that they be vicious and predatory in nature.

He is not a person to be trusted for he would just as soon kill you as look at you. This is important in his interactions with other characters, nobody is safe around him. He is probably a little unstable. He will kill oliphants for fun and rumor has it that he has even succeeded in killing a dragon or two. Aside from all the dangerous beasts that he has laid low, there is no sentient that he has ever fought that he did not kill with relative ease.

And now to turn this story down the grim road.

Pharno’s First Post

The sun blazed mercilessly in a crystal sky. The desert baked under its rays. No sane creature would willingly traverse this country under these conditions. However, it did not daunt insane creatures, or rather their insane and dangerous leader.

Across the desert rode a company of robed horsemen. They numbered just over three score. Their robes were white, to try and ease the dreadful heat. On their heads were turbans and all their faces were shrouded. In their hands they gripped lance and shield. Their shields were covered in leather and bore no device or marking of any kind. By the side of each warrior hung a scimitar. Over the neck of each horse hung two full quivers of arrows and a short recurved bow. All the warriors were equipped in this way, all except for the leader.

The leader of this troop rode several paces in front of his men. He was shrouded head-to-toe in black and purple. Out of the top of his turban shot the golden spike of a helmet. By his sides hung two scimitars and, similar to his men, over his stallion’s neck hung two quivers of arrows and the same type of bow. However, this rider carried no shield and bore no lance.

On and on through the shimmering sands of the desert rode this company. The troopers suffering in the heat and secretly wondering how their leader could continue on as he was, draped in colors that sucked in the heat like a magnet.

Finally, the leader rode to the base of a towering dune and halted. He raised his fist in the air. Five of the warriors rode to him and planted their lances in the ground. The rest of the company split into two parties and rode in opposite directions until they vanished in the dunes. The leader watched them go, and then turned and faced the dune for what seemed like a long time. The warriors took out water-skins and drank, but the leader continued to stare at the dune.

He suddenly stirred and rode up the dune, his warriors, abandoned their lances and followed at a respectful distance. They crested the rise and saw before them, another dune. They rode to the top of the next as indifferently as the first. Upon cresting the second dune a very different sight met their eyes.

Below them, in a deep hollow of the desert floor, lay a cool oasis. The water poured forth from a natural fountain into a large pool. The ground was carpeted by lush growth and there were several large clusters of palm trees. In the midst of this natural beauty spread several large tents. Each of the riders estimated to himself that the camp contained over one-hundred occupants. The leader made these calculations to himself with decided indifference, almost verging on disappointment.

The riders waited long enough until they could tell by the stir in the camp that they had been seen. After prolonging his pause until a large cluster of figures had gathered near the pool, the leader leisurely rode down the slope. His men continued to follow him, although with growing nervousness for their personal safety. The black figure rode at an even pace directly at one individual. Directly in front of the selected person, the dark rider halted. There was an uncomfortable pause as everyone eyed each other. At last, the dark rider spoke.

"Greetings, Nimlot," came a quiet voice from behind the black face cloth. "Do you know me?"

Nimlot was an old man with a long white beard. He wore simple desert robes and seemed what he was, a tired old man who only wanted to be left alone.

"N-no, stranger," he faltered as he tried to look the dark one in the eye. He quickly subsided and stared down at the ground.

The rider shifted in his saddle and waved his hand indifferently in the air. "No matter," the quiet voice said. "Why are you and your people out here Nimlot? You know that the Great Wyrm desires that all our people gather and prepare to move into the city."

Silence fell like a stone. There was a general shifting as hands moved closer to weapons and the encampment’s men moved closer to the riders. The women and children stayed back and watched from near the tents. The only one who remained unmoved was the dark rider. Unperturbed by the lack of response, the quiet voice continued, "Since this is the case, and since the Great Wyrm is the leader of our folk, I ask again, why are you here?"

Nimlot did not reply.

A strapping figure suddenly strode forward and stood next to Nimlot. The sun shown down on handsome features and dark eyes that glared at the mysterious stranger. "Father," bellowed the man, "bid these rude strangers to be off, and let the desert have them!" Nimlot stirred and looked nervously at his son, but still said nothing.

"Come now, Nimlot," resumed the quiet voice, "what is it you wish to preserve? A life of poverty and desperation, blown by the winds from one side of the desert to the other? Living your life in and forcing your family to endure a wretched existence, barely able to feed yourselves? Just think of it! If you will come with me you can have riches and wealth like you cannot imagine! A mansion for your family to dwell in, and human slaves to do your every bidding." A trace of sarcasm crept into the quiet voice. "You could even build yourself your own lush park so that you could go around and pretend to be a gazelle, as I know you love to do."

Silence fell again. This time Nimlot looked up toward the rider. Finally he spoke. "What do you know about this?" he sadly asked. "And what is it you wish of me? To live a life of imprisonment in a fixed city? To cruelly lord it over unfortunates in a household of misery? To help you carve out a great empire of suffering to engulf the world? To teach my children to follow in that way until I could get no rest at night for fear that they would kill me and take what I had plundered from others?" He paused. "No," he said softly. "I can see quite clearly that my life is over and will end here. However, I will tell you this, milord Pharno, since you were so courteous to offer me the choice, even though I must die for it I could never turn to your way. There are things more important than life itself and keeping my hands from aiding in the bloody conquest of a vicious empire is one of them. Do what you will! I have no doubt that you will succeed in all your schemes, kill thousands, and establish a regime of terror that will horrify the world for ten thousand generations, but in the end you will not gain by it. Someday you will be reduced to death, just as I am, and then you will see what all your life’s work has brought you!"

"Father," cried the son, "you’ll not die today!!!" He drew his sword and sprang forward toward the rider.

Quick as thought, Pharno sprang from his horse, scimitars in hand. He landed between Nimlot and his son and with a stroke from each sword sent their headless bodies sprawling on the ground. Turmoil erupted all around. Those of the shapechangers who could assume the form of dangerous beasts did so while the others drew their weapons and closed in on the riders. The riders slashed around them and tried to ride back. Pharno hastily killed a few men, some dogs, and a leopard before he charged straight for the women and children. The mothers of children too young to change form picked up their children and ran for their lives. The others assumed the forms of birds or another fleet creature. After mercilessly slaying several helpless mothers and children, Pharno, ignoring the rest, thrust his swords into the ground and drew his bow. He quickly started shooting the birds from the sky. The reason for his indifference to the land bound escapees quickly became apparent as the rest of his men surged over the dunes on two different sides of the encampment. They ruthlessly slaughtered all those who tried to flee before turning into the camp. When Pharno finished shooting the last fleeing sparrow, he turned to the fight by the pool. All of the other five troopers who followed him lay torn and dead on the ground. The surviving shapechangers moved warily to attack him. Without batting an eyelash he shot two of them before they moved two steps. Then they charged him, but Pharno remained unmoved. Before they could come to grips with Pharno they were suddenly caught and ridden down by the horsemen and every last one of them was slain.

Pharno retrieved his swords and placidly surveyed the grisly scene as he cleaned his blades.

"Burn your comrades," he ordered his men, "and take the best items from the camp. Leave everything else to the scavengers!"

As his men busied themselves about these tasks, Pharno inspected the bodies. When he was done he stood up and looked around.

"There should be one more," he said to nobody in particular.

Suddenly, he spun about, seized his sword, and slashed at the trunk of a nearby tree. The sword went clean through the trunk. The tree swayed and crashed down into the pool with a splash.

Pharno stooped down and picked up the forlorn remains of a butterfly. As he stared down at the sad sight he smiled to himself and thought, "And so Nimlot’s seed passes from the earth! My task here is done."

He dropped the remains of Nimlot’s daughter on the ground and strode to his horse. He mounted, turned to his men and said, "We ride!"

The troop rode off into the merciless desert that was their home and kin.