Three weeks short of his 35th name-day, Bantrim Stonecracker lay dying deep within the Mindspin Mountains. His fellows, the battle lust full upon them, rushed deeper into the lair of Cragjaw, king of giants. Weapons flashed in the dim.
His lips trembled, his mind strained to recall the words, to pray for one last boon from Torag, god of the forge. But he'd not been the most devout of clerics in those days, and had blustered and faked his way through most of the rituals. He slipped away while still at the trying.
He dreamt of a land, rolling and wide and green. Before his eyes, shadows spilled from a fissure in the land. The inky black waves crashed against the land, smothering all.
Bantrim found himself floating in the air. The darkened land flew past in a blur of silouetes. He came to rest upon a mountain, standing before a cave. though he could see nor hear nothing, he felt certain eyes watched him from within. Dead eyes. Hungry eyes. Something immense stirred. Pebbles rolled down the face of the mountain.
It was coming for him. He reached for his axe but found it gone. His fingers closed around his holy symbol instead. A flare of light shot into the cave, white light, brighter than the sun. Bantrim instinctively closed his eyes to it.
When his eyes flickered open again, he was back inside the giant's lair. Grombli, his cousin, peered closely into his face.
The battle was won, though there was no sight of Cragjaw.
Recovery was long, speech and motor skills slow to return. The giant's maul had caved his helm in, shattering the steel at the point of impact and lacerating his skull. They would never completely remove all of the shards.
He shared his vision with Hrotin Stonefist, the elder cleric. Hrotin attributed the visions to his grevious wounds, noting that it was fortunate that Bantrim had even survived the blow, much less recovered. Bantrim wasn't so sure, however.
Nearly two years after the battle, Bantrim shouldered his few possessions and turned his back to his home. He wanted to find answers, but there were none for him within his clan's holdfast.
He walked aimlessly. He wasn't looking for divine intervention to lead him - he'd only been to the surface on a few rare occassions, and had no bloody clue where to go next. His feet pointed him to Janderhoff, the dwarven trading town.
The clerics of Torag there greeted his story with equal parts derision and disbelief. He was bid to return to the mountains, and to lay off the ale.
Discouraged, he chanced upon a small shrine to Desna, the goddess of dreams. The cleric there sent him to Korvosa, where he learned at the Temple of Stars from an elderly human priest simply called Teacher. And so again he had to re-learn what he'd already known.
Teacher instructed Bantrim then to travel the world, to seek out the source of his dream, to bring light into dark places. And so Bantrim has, chasing rumors of evil and rooting them out where they grow. The rumors are, as oft as not, just that. Over the years he has grown a bit jaded, though he still believes strongly in his mandate, and sees all tasks - rumors or no - to their ends.
His faith keeps him on the path. The dream as well, which has not faded the past ten years. He keeps in contact with Teacher by letter, and wonders openly in the text if the old human knows of some secret to longevity that his ilk do not. Hidden in the jest is his fear that his one and true friend will die before Bantrim sees this task done and can return to Korvosa.
Description
Bantrim is not quite as rotund as his brethren, a result of long days on the road, and his long beard is now streaked with traces of gold. He travels by cart when he can, but abhors horses and fears water, so many of the miles are passed one step at a time. Though no harm came to his legs all those years ago in the giant's lair, he walks with a slight limp. The tip of his left boot is prone to drag slightly.
Sometimes he shield hand tingles for no good reason at all, though Bantrim swears it works just fine. He shakes it as though to awaken it from some slumber. He keeps his head shaven, plainly baring the scars of long ago. Though mostly invisible to the eye, Bantrim can feel the tiny bits of steel still buried under his skin, and he rubs at them when deep in thought.
His speech is slurred, especially when he isn't mindful to talk slowly. This, coupled with his heavy dwarven accent, makes him hard to understand at times. If he's been drinking, forget it.
