The very mention of his name makes woodcarvers drop their awls and moisten the shavings at their feet. His long-standing hatred of their profession is a tale told to woodworker’s children as they go to sleep, to frighten them into behaving.
Growing up amongst the northron tribes, Harridan always had a healthy respect for trees, and nature in general, often preferring to go for long walks in the woods rather than suffer the stares and whisperings in his village. It was on one such walk in the woods that a small tribe of Mud People attacked him, leaping from the brush and surprising Harridan.
Unfortunately for them, they pulled his eyepatch off during the fracas, allowing Harry to see between the veil and beseech that which stood near him for aid. The Mud People stood looming over him, cackling and squabbling over his meager possessions, but Harry looked beyond them to the forest surrounding him with his dead eye. The wayward pines wafting in the afternoon breeze, the stately birches seeming to salute him with their branches. He saw the spirits of the trees confer with one another, somewhat startled to see Harridan looking at them. Making a decision, the trees brutally murdered the surrounding Mud People. Blood. Gore. Smash. You get the picture.
After then, the trees taught Harridan of their wily ways and he began to think of himself as part tree.
When Harridan left his village, he did so as a Champion of all things arboreal. To this day, there is one symbol of wrong in this world that Harridan cannot see without flying into a rage. It’s as if he is seeing his brother or sister flayed alive and strung up for the world to see, and it’s displayed as casually as a smile for the rest of the world. When he sees one, it must be destroyed and an example set for those that come behind.
Behold. The bane of Harridan’s existence:
They must all be destroyed.