The Merchant was said to hail from Umbar of the South, where the black ships lie at anchor beneath the burning sun. Long has he wandered in the train of the Southron host, bartering in rare fineries and strange tokens gathered from far fiefdoms, and from places where no light has shone for many an age. Some whisper that arts unclean were taught to him by the Nine, for a shadow clings to his speech, and the wares he bears gleam with a perilous hue.
Wherever the host makes camp, he is found at the furthest edge of the firelight, as if shunning the warmth of mortal flame. His tent is ever changed, wrought of rent canvas and old sails, and hung with relics of fallen halls. Few dare draw nigh, for many dark tales are told of him. Some say he has forgotten the need of sleep and breath. Others swear he casts no shadow, save when the moon is veiled, and that neither blade nor frost troubles him.
Yet there are those who seek him still. Rangers out of the waste, wanderers burdened with oaths, delvers of deep places where tomb air lingers. They speak his name softly, for the path to his stall is known only to the bold. In hollows beneath broken towers, in forests where the sun falls dim and ancient boughs sigh in the wind, he sets out his wares.... relics wrought with craft long lost, and treasures none of the Free Folk would willingly touch.
Thus the Merchant of Umbar goes ever on, unseen by the many and feared by the wise. A shadow among shadows, a keeper of forgotten lore, and a servant of the Nine whose tale is told differently in every land where his passing is known.