Vipers in the Sand...

Born under a waxing gibbous fading, Al-Hârith knew no family other than the Scimitars of 'Iththîl. Brothers and Sisters in arms, the band was a close-knit brotherhood of warriors oath-bound to one another. From early years, he was raised by a multitude of Scimitars. Trained in swordsmanship, archery, riding, and the use of spears by many a warrior, and taught the ways of the desert, and words of his people and their history by those deemed elders in their twilight years.

As a band of sell-swords and mercenaries, Al-Hârith watched as their homes were packed and moved to new lands every few months; never setting roots anywhere, but remembering the desert that is their home. 

His father, Al-Qa'qâ', was chief, however, and so he tutored him in leadership, and courtesy, which was a vital skill for their livelihood as they presented before warlords or chieftains who hired the Scimitars. Of these councils, Al-Hârith saw but a few, and fewer still, the councils his father took in his own tent; where grim-faced men would meet with him, and voices would rise from his chambers. These nights where when his father stayed up with him, watching the moon, and told him stories of 'Iththîl, and the founding of the Scimitars. Though, he always kept a part to himself.

More and more of these grim-faced men appeared in their camp as the years went by, until Al-Hârith's tenth year. On a moonless night, he heard raised voices from his father's chamber, but this time, they continued longer than before, until he finally heard a pained cry, and ran to the tent. He was stopped, however, by a friend of his father's, who carried him away. Bound, and tied to the back of his horse, the man took him far into the desert, until they came to a small town. Before he left him, he gave him a letter from his father, stained of fresh blood, and handed him his father's Scimitar.

Like wind unto dunes...

His life was now behind him, and the world ahead. Barely a man, Al-Hârith was thrust into the world with nothing but a sword, and a purpose. His father's letter gave him direction, and he took the oath of his father. Besides his father's scimitar, he was equipped with his disarming smile. He began small; manual labour to earn his bread or bedding for a night, and the occasional cut purse, or light fingers work when the days were tough. It was in his nature, and so he never settled in one place for too long; moving between towns and camps as his work took him. 

It was not long before he began using his father's scimitar to earn his keep. Though young, he was trained well enough to impress the petty lordlings squabbling over lands and power amongst one another, and he quickly found tents in exchange to kill someone else's enemies, or sacks of gold to perform tasks the chieftains could not spare the soldiers for. 

Though his sword was sold to others, he never forgot his purpose, as he slowly gained renown, making a name for himself. His travels took him from Khand to Near Harad, and north to Rhûn, where he rode in the open plains, and treated with the Eastern Dwarven clans, learning a little of their tongue, and raising enough gold and gems to begin his plans.

With the gold and renown he had gained throughout the years, Al-Hârith now spread word that a new Scimitars of 'Iththîl was founded. Refusing the relinquish the name behind, he began recruiting companions from his travels, and slowly made his way back to the desert. This time, not alone, but at the head of band of warriors, skilled and armed.

Son of the Desert...

The return was all Al-Hârith could think of for the past thirteen years. He had spent half of his life preparing for a moment, and now that it was here, it was almost palpable. Now he was home again, with a host of Men at his side, but his home was no longer what he had remembered. The old Scimitars were now under the command of another, and they were beholden to Mordor. Not merely for the chests of gold and jewels that they were paid and promised to plunder from the West, but devotedly loyal to Jŭl. Now, they had swept through their land, laying waste to those who defied him. Their chief taking orders directly from Al-Făm, until they had overran the land. There was no refuge, or support to be looked for here.

Even as they began to take contracts, and help rebuild what the old Scimitars have destroyed, news of their work made their way to the new chief, and he put a price on their heads. Now they had become outlaws in their own lands, with no harbour. They resisted at first, but the cost was too great, and they were scattered. This time, Al-Hârith went west, and sold his sword to those who would have it; but as the shadows of Mordor grew, rumours of those after him pushed him further and further westward, until at last he came to Eriador.

_{Notes on pronunciation:}

• ^{'Iththîl: the ' stands for a Voiced pharyngeal approximant ʕ̞}

• ^{Al-Qa'qâ': both ' stand for a Voiced pharyngeal approximant ʕ̞}

• ^{Al-Hârith: the H stands for a Voiceless pharyngeal fricative ħ}