Born in the mountains of the Kingdom of the Golden Fox, Durlin began his life as a member of the Kerrhylon clan.  Born with glimmering white scales the clan's healers knew he was of rare lineage, attuned to ice instead of the clan's normal fire element. He was deemed Zealous Durlin Kerrhylon in his youth, given special treatment through childhood, and quickly grew to a strong 6 foot 8 inches. He was taught of the clan's god, Iahab,  In his 15th year, he set off to the capital to pursue knighthood and employment within the country's army, promising his clan a portion of his pay as recompense for his upbringing.

It was during his stay in the capital he found a group of mercenaries, well regarded by the local adventurer's guild, and from their looks well paid as well. At a pub he heard tales of their escapades into the new world, exploring long forgotten crypts, slaying creatures thought not to exist and long since past from history. Curious, Durlin approached this band of mercenaries and asked to join them on their next expedition. He proved his resolve to their leader, Shurdin, through single combat with one of their members. Though he lost, he fought hard and during the fight seemed to notice his opponent surging with an almost otherworldly vigor, his weapons gleaming bright in the already sunny day. He accompanied them on their next journey, and would venture on many more.

Months later, before setting out on their next adventure, Shurdin presented an offer. An "initiation" he called it, into the group's true order.  He explained that it would not be an easy thing, nor something that Durlin could turn back from after, it was all or nothing. Agreeing, Durlin accompanied the group to the woods South of the mountains in which he was raised. During the journey, they explained that they were members of an order of Blood Hunters, called the Ghostslayers, and explained their powers and their cause. It was their that they presented Durlin with a vial of liquid they called "Hunter's Bane" and instructed him to drink it. Doing so, Durlin's vision grew cloudy, his thoughts slowed, his hearing diminished. He felt his body go numb, then cold, as his life slipped away.

In death, Durlin came face to face with Iahab, expecting to receive some form of praise for living a devout life in the service of the good of the Kingdom and his Clan. He was mistaken. Iahab laughed at him calling his life a waste and his death in vain. He took it a step further, and showed Durlin a vision of the future, his village in flames as an invading force swept the land under Iahab's banners. Durlin watched as his loved ones, elders and children including burned alive in fear. Iahab saw his despair and laughed, asking him "Did you think I was the god of war for nothing? Look upon the praise offered by the truly devout." Durlin fell to his knees, questioning not only the mad god in front of him, but also how he got here, his mind snapping back to the vial he drank. Feeling himself tricked by both the God he once worshipped, and the group he'd begun to consider true comrades, he closed his eyes and let himself slip into the void once more.

A cold gust of wind blowing through the mountains shakes Durlin from his long slumber. He's covered in light snow, the leaves all gone from the trees. He doesn't remember the seasons changing, no memories of the leaves turning color signaling the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter. In fact, he remembers nearly nothing at all, only two words. "Durlin", his name and strangely "Shurdin" though he doesn't know the origin. In his pocket he feels an object, and reveals a journal. The pages at the front have been burned away, and he tries to think hard and remember what happened but when doing so, a flash of a fiery landscape and screams fill his mind and he doubles over in pain.  Trying to get up, his limbs complain and stiffen as if unused for weeks or more. As he brushes the snow off his coat, his once ornate glimmering scales give off a different luster than before. He looks closely to see runes carved into the scales, almost tattoo-like in their patterns. These runes cover his body head to toe, but are spaced enough such that they can be hidden by regular clothing.

Repeating in his mind "Durlin.... Shurdin... Durlin..." the only two words he can attach any meaning to in his clouded memory, he stumbles towards the base of the mountains seeking shelter.