In the middle of town, on the town square, stands a statue of a brave man, valiantly looking towards the east, the place where the sun comes up. He is Rutherford, Archimbald Rutherford. Marauder of the first hour and embodier of everything Harbat stands for.
In fact, there never was a Rutherford. He is a concoction, a figment of the imagination, born from the pen of the advocate's romantic daughter, fidgetting around in his office and making dreamy scribblings on his documents. Now then, everything that is on a document is of course a sound fact, so when these documents were delivered to the office... well you can imagine what happened!
The clerks, later realizing their error, found no other way to rectify for their mistake but blowing the whole thing up: and lo! the GREAT RUTHERFORD was born! A bare-torsoed god! Of late, the myth of the wrathful saint Rutherford serves a much more sinister purpose: it is being abused by the church to keep the people under sway).