Rodrik Greyjoy

Crying amongst the howling of the wolves, the sounds of the ghosts of Pyke could barely be heard, within the confines of the Bloody Hall. Their cries still carried the pain and anguish that the dead had carried with them since their demise nearly a thousand years ago, at the hands of the ancient members of House Greyjoy, during the rule of the Grey King. The dead had once been Fetts, and had come to the Iron Islands, to the hall of the King, to demand his fealty. Their arrogance and pride had earned them a coward’s death, stuck down by the swords of bannersmen, and their leader tied to Coward’s Pillar, beside the docks, to drown in the oncoming tide. A crescent moon of blackened stone, flecked with the white stain of centuries of salt, lapping from the sea, formidable like the spines of a dragon rising from the rocky beaches. With a cliff to its back, the Walls of Pyke were dark, but for the three towers of steel and stone that adorned it, alight with the flames of fires that also served as a triple lighthouse to mark the hidden, rocky shoals that surrounded the coastline of the Isle of Pyke. The gatehouse, gothic in construction, grand portcullis engraved with the symbol of The Kraken, the old god of the sea, still worshiped upon the Iron Islands with sacrifices of enemies, celebrated with various festivals, and the execution of prisoners. Footsteps arose upon the darkened stone, as torchlight began to light the hallways with flickering orange, darkening and contrasting the shadows. Within the Throneroom’s hearth, a great fire was burning, made from dried seaweed and long-cut logs from the Thsyliria Trees, which gave off a deep grey smoke, carrying with it the sweet smell of incense, and cooking meat, as upon the fire, turned a spitted calf, dripping and browned. The grand hall, with its marbled table, long enough to fit several Houses of the Liege-Lords, was adorned in the royal colours of ebon and glittering gold, set for the awaiting feast. Upon the Seastone Throne, carved from blackened coral, sat the master of the Greyjoys, Rodrik, King of the Iron Islands, liege only to his sworn daughter, Blackwraith, and the Iron Throne of the Stormlands, where his friend Hadrian of the Augustions, now ruled. He sat, slouched and bent, from the scars and pains of countless wars, upon the Seastone Throne, watching the preparation of the feast. The cry of a herald drew his attention to the grand doorway, as the leader of House Allard made his way into the Throneroom, along with his two sons. With a crooked smile, Rodrik stood slowly, throwing his grey, threadbare cape over his armoured shoulder, before walking slowly to meet Gerald and his sons. With voice like the crashing sea, he spoke, a spark of a strange fire within his shining eyes, the colour of The Wasting Sea. “Gerald... Welcome to Pyke!” Moving his piercing eyes from his old friend, he smiled at the younger men, whom he had not seen in quite some time. Within his weather-beaten face, the tales of the wars of long ago would be easy to read. Turning to Roland, the fire in his eyes sparked and shone as pride filled them with memory. “Roland my boy... Still bearing the scars of The Summertime War? How’s that girl from House Manford?” His smile deepened as he turned to Dorian, for he was his favourite. Not all respect was earned from combat. Intelligence and a masterworking of the criminal mind, was something of great respect among the Ironborn. “Dorian... Goodness, you haven’t changed, have you? How’s that girl you stole from House Hunter of the Mansmeet? Or was it that you won her in a cardgame? Talia, if my memory serves me right. You started a war with that one, my lad, one that profited me greatly!” His continued talking, was interrupted by the arrival of an unexpected guest, and the announcement of the heralds froze all conversation and movement within the great hall. Rodrik slowly turned, facing Augustus, with a small smile upon his face. His voice held reverence and respect as he spoke. “Welcome, Mand’alor, to Pyke... You have come whilst I am meeting with House Allard. You remember Gerald... You knighted him during the War of the Enlaced... Charged that Golden Battalion of Swervis bastards and slew most of them himself... What brings the Stormlands to the Iron Islands?”

Edited and Updated.

Identity Real Name: Rodrik Greyjoy A.K.A: Ironborn Homeworld: Manda'yaim's moon: Concordia Species: Human Physical Description [!dscrp] Age: 57 Height: 6'4" Weight: 220 lbs Hair: Long and white Facial Features: Scarring, very pale, no beard Eyes: Blue Sex: Male Equipment [!equip] Clothing or Armor: Black Duster over a set of Heavy-Duraplast, Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Armor, of jet-black, with forest-green highlights. A black-iron Crown, adorned with the markings of the Greyjoys. Weapon: A long-handled vibroblade, named Morgomir, and a LS-150 Heavy Accelerated Charged Particle Repeater Gun named Tass Common Inventory: Credits, Files, Datapad, Weapons and rations. Tass: This LS-150 Heavy Accelerated Charged Particle Repeater Gun(Heavy ACP Repeater) ia a large air-cooled repeater with disintegrating plasma cartridges. This weapon has a 300 round drum magazine, for which Rodrik carries another drum on his side near his vibroblade. Has a vibro-bayonet on the end. Rodrik inherited Tass from his father, and is very well-versed in its usage and is highly effective in deployment, learned through his Mandalorian training. Faction Information [!factn] Non-Force User Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Current Faction Affiliation: Deathwatch Current Faction Rank: None History: [!hstry] Rodrik was raised on Concordia and Mandalore, in true Mandalorian fashion, by his father, and after his death, Hadrian. Joined up Hadrian when the he was young, serving under his command in multiple battles, across the galaxy, for a mercenary's wages. Became lord of the Greyjoys, sitting upon the Seastone Throne, pledged the Iron Thone of the Stormlands. His commander is the Blackened Wraith. Character Portrait: