Yâmak-Spiyûn

The clan chief of the Kindilaar was an old Southron who had borne this responsibility for far too long. He was elevated to the post at the age of thirty-one and had already reached an age sixty-seven. The years had been hard ones, and Spijun was a bitter man. His strength and a large part of his wits had left him. He ruled the clan harshly, often placing his own whims above fairness in his decisions. No one complained though; the Kindilaar had suffered such treatment for generations before the current headman was born. It was part of their way of life.

All his life, Jamak Spijun had been baked by the burning southern sun. His face resembled a strangely shaped, dried fruit, and his skin and hair were nearly black, as were his eyes. He wore the colors of the clan, orange and white, throughout the year, though the Far Haradrim usually reserved such dress for feasts and holi- days. The curved sword in his sash and his dark steel breast plate were of the finest Haradan manufacture. When fully equipped for battle, the lord of the Kindilaar looked like nothing more than the corpse of a long dead warlord.