Born where winds screech with baleful force, to land where summer equates to the harshest of Bree winter, Svanlyr lived out much of her early life within the Northern Wastes. Known as Forodwaith to some, the Northern Wastes were not the ideal location to raise young, nor carve out a living amongst the tundra. Despite this, people lived (and even thrived) upon the land.

The tale of Svanlyr is a peculiar one indeed, the daughter of two Forodwaith native tribe members. To some, she would be judged as being born with gigantism from hereafter, she towered over all in terms of height and tended to be rather clumsy throughout her younger years. Her servitude to the tribe she was born into was done so out of unquestionable loyalty, a habit she would later always come to embody, seeing no 'middle' ground and a relative 'good' and 'evil' standing - and often getting confused on which was the right side to pick.

Her life, one of strife and constant conflict from threats outside her tribe, challenge from wildlife and wasteland marauder alike, would take a sudden turn when the tribes-woman became acquainted with a little whelp within the tribe. A scrawny, short thing that was the complete opposite of her bulky, colossal stature. The thing's name? 'Gentle'. A skinny whelp that was borderline a half-ling in terms of size and stature. Svanlyr befriended the creature, cared for it. Garbed it from head to toe in fine furs to keep it from the chill of the winter. They forged a rather legendary friendship, one of Gentle and Giant. Alas, it was not to last as the clutches of winter stole Gentle to a bitterly cold grave. The mountain of apathy suffered a quake, one that would be repaired in time, but cause her to be a rather different individual in the sights of all half-ling kind, seeing them as another one of Gentle's kin.

When rumors of a growing shadow in the south had reached the tribe from a group of wandering merchants, they could send no one better than Svanlyr. A hardened veteran of the wastes, yet virtually unschooled in etiquette, happenings and customs of the southern world.

Now, the rather burly giant wanders across Eriador, seeking out this 'shadow' and the tales of which her foster-father used to spin to her, the tales of men clad in 'mailed chain dresses' and 'feathered caps'. Whether she forgets her original quest and blends in to the mainstream south or returns home, is in her hands. At the ripe age of thirty eight, she's plenty to see in order to catch up with the happenings of the Great South.