ewpierce's page

I too love the tree and root, the branch and leaf. Would Chislev share a boon with this one, who has come from across the seas?

His parents first took note of his temper - abrupt, and often irrational - when he was yet a babe. Nothing they tried lessened the simmering fire within. Word spread quickly as he grew. Parents shielded their children from him, lest his condition somehow spread. Not that the other children wanted anything to do with him either - the few occasions he'd been at play usually resulted in the other child crying. Or bleeding.

His father, Eyuzin Letriua, was not the first to shun him, but his rejection cut the deepest. It'd not been so painful, nor surprising when his mother, Pomiana, suggested that it would be best if he left. Clearly he was not meant for Kyonin, nor wanted there.

He was nearly 20 when he left. He did not feel relief to see the forest behind him, as he'd suspected. The anger was there as always, his constant companion. It had new targets now - his parents, primarily - but it burned just as fiercely as before, crowding his mind with dark thoughts.

Realizing he must master the anger lest it control him, Eikiel joined an order of monks. In many ways, their mountain-top temple was just as peaceful as his forest home, but by their teachings, Eikiel learned to control his anger. Not conquer it completely - it was always there, ready at hand should he let his guard down. But for the first time he knew something of peace.

Eikiel left after a few years to wander the country. In learning to master himself, he'd come to understand the anger, and what tended to incite the rage. For one, too much time spent in one place. He did not know if familiarity caused his careful discipline to slip, or if his legs simply needed to be in motion, lest inactivity stir the rage. As well, any time spent in heavily populated areas, or even in narrow quarters. And of course, any thoughts of his father churned the blood.

He is of average height for an elf. Given his nomadic lifestyle and general lack of appetite, Eikiel appears malnourished. His baggy clothes hide most of his body, but his cheeks are gaunt and the skin stretched tight across his brow. He favors a hood at all times, shading his yellow eyes. He keeps his head shaven. Long days under the sun has deepened his skin to a golden-brown.

I'm game for the tarot card reading.

Bantrim returned from his latest expedition discouraged and weary. The townsfolk of Restov had mistaken the lair of a small group of gnolls for a hive of undead. Gnolls were nasty creatures certainly, but not as like to run ruin over the world entire.

His spirits brightened upon discovering a new missive from Teacher. He cracked the seal. His heart fell even before he read the first word. Teacher's normally smooth and tidy hand was largely absent, save in brief glimpses sandwiched between sudden, jagged lines of ink. An invisible hand clamped over his throat as he began to read.

*

Brother Bantrim -

I hope this finds you well and strong, in spirit as well as body. The work of the goddess is no easy thing to bear. Mine own frail shoulders should well know. And yet, you have carried a far greater weight than any I have ever known.

The long night is nigh upon me. I shall pass from this world, but fear not for me. I rush into the arms of Desna, to know at last of true peace. I can think of no greater reward for a faithful servant. I wish the same for you.

You have been more than a student to me. Yet I must play the teacher one final time. Do not rush home. I will be gone from this place long before you arrive. And there is one final task to put before your road-worn feet.

There is to be a great expedition to restore the hall of Zolurket from the lurking darkness. Clear the vile stain from this proud Dwarven fortress. And then stay your feet, I bid you. Help establish the great Tar-Urkatha once again.

You have done great things in the name of Desna. Yet a restless man knows no peace. Let your hands know something other than the heft of your weapon for a spell. Fit stone back into place. Help life to grow again.

Best you are on your way. Zolurket is many miles and more, and your stubby legs can only carry so many in a day.

Until we meet again,
Progh Nasberil
Friend

*

The next day found Bantrim again on the road, like all the many days before. Teacher's final note was stowed safely inside his pack. He'd re-read the letter a dozen times. His mind lingered over the words as he walked.

At first he'd felt depressed and listless. But with each progressive pass over the note, his spirits restored some tiny portion. It'd been long since he'd been in a proper dwarven fortress. The prospect of cleansing the home of his dwarven brethren, and then making it to rights again, quickened his step.

Traits
Tunnel Fighter: While underground, you receive a +2 trait bonus on initiative checks and a +1 trait bonus on weapon damage rolls for critical hits (this damage is multiplied on a critical hit).

Missionary: You gain a +1 trait bonus on Knowledge (religion) checks, and Knowledge (religion) is a class skill for you. If you cast divine spells, pick three spells on your spell list. You are particularly adept at casting these spells, so they function at +1 caster level when you cast them, and their save DCs (if any) gain a +1 bonus.

Feats
Shield Focus
Weapon Focus

Clerical Powers
Good Domain: You can touch a creature as a standard action, granting a sacred bonus on attack rolls, skill checks, ability checks, and saving throws equal to half your cleric level (minimum 1) for 1 round. You can use this ability a number of times per day equal to 3 + your Wisdom modifier.

Domain Spells: 1st—protection from evil, 2nd—align weapon (good only), 3rd—magic circle against evil,

Trained Skills
Heal +11, Perception +4, Sense Motive +4, Track +4, Spellcraft +5

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 not see nor hear anything, 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.

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.

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.

Long-term, he simply wishes to find this blasted cave, put an end to the darkness within, and return to Korvosa to have a pint with Teacher, provided the old man is not dead by then. Simple.