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It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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 island breeze and lights down low, theolyppa <3
THEON GREYJOY
 Posted: Dec 6 2017, 09:43 PM
Quote
Nica is Offline
18 years old
IRON ISLANDS
Greyjoy
Greyjoy
Pyke
Not Lord Reaper


When Greenlanders thought the word "island", inevitably, images of warm sands, cool breezes, and endless sunlight crossed their minds. Such an image was merely a fantasy to the Ironborn. Their island breezes were sharp and biting, smelling of salt, and carrying the furor of the North in their claws; their sands coarse, strewn with pebbles and sharp shards of shells. The sky above was slate gray, moody clouds hung low upon a horizon that darkened to navy in the east, and still burned copper in the west. The young Greyjoy ran long fingers through his unkempt mane of black hair, spilling dark curls from his crown to his collar, mussing them before the wind got her clawed fingers into them, and tangled the silky locks into a coarse mess. Blue-gray eyes mirrored the sea that stretched on endlessly before him; alternately calm and yet stormy, gentle and yet fierce, kind and yet cruel. It had been a habit of many years for the youngest Kraken to find himself upon this rocky point, jettisoned out to sea. Upon low tide, one could walk across slate-gray stones what felt like halfway out to sea, and peer into pools of water collected within divots in the cold, slick stone. At high tide, the stones were of the Drowned God's domain, hidden beneath the cold water.

The tide this evening was low, enabling the young Greyjoy to leave his boots upon the shore and traverse the stones barefoot, arms outstretched for balance's sake, carefully placing one foot before the other, taking special care to not slice himself upon the sharp rocks, nor to slip into the cold, dark waters that rushed to either side. It was a metaphor of sorts, Theon mused to himself, as he stared at the white-lined waters that lapped at the slick stones beneath his bare feet. Balancing between equally dark forces, forces that rushed to either side of him. The Iron Islands were upon a precipice, the whole of the Ironborn people held their arms out for balance as the Krakens wrestled for dominance. His stranger of a father had sailed upon dark tides to return to his roost in the dark towers of Pyke, to sit upon the unsettlingly black Seastone Chair. And his brother, also a stranger, but not quite so strange, eyed that chair with an intensity that made Theon's skin crawl. Sure, as a boy, he'd dreamed of sitting upon it himself (and even had slipped into the throne room when none were looking to sit his boyish frame upon it, short legs dangling over the side), but he'd grown out of such fantasies.

However, those were far from the darkest tidings to have reached his ears. More disturbing, it seems as if his brother and father were either unaware of them, or did not care. Theon wasn't quite sure which would be worse. Because, thanks to Theon's less than savory habits of lurking within sailor's sinks and simply listening to sailors' gossip, he'd heard rumors of the Crow's Eye. Balon was too proud to find himself where his youngest lurked, Rodrik too busy with his own business. But Theon...well, he was just as swiftly forgotten in Lordsport as he was within the battlements of Pyke. All, save one. He awaited her even now, ears sensitive to the sounds of feet upon soft sand, the crunch of boots upon pebbles. There was a strange warmth within his chest as he contemplated her lopsided grin, the slit-lidded glares she leveled upon him when he cracked a particularly distasteful joke, the way her hips swayed to and fro as she walked. Girls came and went for Theon, much like the tides, but she was constant. Much like the rocks he stood upon even now. Sometimes she wasn't there, sometimes he wasn't there, but neither was ever truly far away. The sound of feet drew him from his reverie, and the young Kraken spun around, lopsided smile upon his lips.

"My lady," he greeted, somewhat mockingly.

@PHILYPPA
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PHILYPPA
 Posted: Jan 17 2018, 07:06 AM
Quote
Os is Offline
18 years old
IRON ISLANDS [A]
Greyjoy
Sea
Iron islands
Commoner


“The Iron Islands are in turmoil!”
“They’re always in turmoil, we’re in the middle of the fucking ocean.”
“The Krakens are going to kill themselves before anyone else.”
“As long as they leave us out of it, eh?”
The conversation trailed off good naturedly, thank the Drowned god. It was one of the tamer ones that was held throughout the small, salt washed walls of the inn. Though Pip was sour to admit that it had been a slow day, only two fights and hardly enough teeth to make the blood worthwhile. Perhaps a lively conversation could have lead to a better afternoon. It made her bones ache for the fresh air, being drowned within the damp and stale tavern, she was surprised it had not turned her lungs as moist as the salt clad seamen who crawled through the door of the age old tavern.

While what the two gossiping old fools said bore true, the Iron Islands was currently aflame with talk of the Kraken son Euron and his return. Those who burned for the old ways whispered his name behind their chalices. For what spoke more of true ironborn spirit than taking what the Greenlanders had failed to protect? While others wore their loyalty to the bone for the reigning Balon that seemingly only just returned from his entrapment in the Greenland. The constant argument over who truly ran the Iron Islands was still up for debate. Between himself and Lady Gwynesse, Pip did not know if she could discern the line. Her dampened cloth moved to sweep up the last of the swill in a particularly rusty cup. Bejeweled gaze glazed over, staring at a particularly interesting divet in the wall. It seemed only fair that after thorough inspection it was past time to take her leave for the day.

Not met with any resistance at her departure, the watery rays of the sun was the only cloak draped about her shoulders as she made her exit. Accustomed to the bitter and almost tormenting winds that ravaged Pyke, there was still a familiar unrest stirring in the pits of her stomach as she traced the well worn path with her boots. None so much as casting a glance at where the raven haired bar wench went to spend her time. The wet sand eroding away beneath the leather pressure of her boots, the waves almost baying for her attention, Pip ignored them all in favour of one. Wayward strands of ink coloured tendrils wove across her features, uncaring of locking them away, or perhaps even un othered, Pip came across the man that had been occupying her thoughts for the turn of the afternoon.

“My Lady, A playful jaunt careened across her bronzed features, turning the corners of her darkened lips as the harmony of colours in her gaze almost gleamed in the afternoon light. “Hardly yours,” The barmaid bit back playfully, “I’m surprised the sea returned you, she was in a particular mood when you left.” The sea and him both, if she recalled correctly. Stepping within the breadth of his presence, close enough to feel the warmth of his form, yet too stubborn to admit she enjoyed it. “I was worried I would have to find another sailor to fill my time with.” Pip’s lascivious words sounded almost silky, scarred hands rolling lazily across his shoulders. The weight of seriousness resting across the plains of her features, only the depths of her humour only glowing faintly in her gaze gave away her true intent. If there was one at all.

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THEON GREYJOY
 Posted: Mar 8 2018, 12:37 AM
Quote
Nica is Offline
18 years old
IRON ISLANDS
Greyjoy
Greyjoy
Pyke
Not Lord Reaper


A laugh escaped the young kraken's lips, and the lopsided grin widened until a fierce grin split his face. This was the Pip he knew. Knew, and perhaps loved. The lordling was unable to diagnose the warmth that spread from his chest, the fluttering within his gut, as he lay blue-gray eyes upon her ochre features. "And hardly a lady," he retorted, grin growing wicked. The sea-gray eyes narrowed as he drank in the curves of her form, the way the wind's fingers pulled her dress taut about her figure and ran through her ink-spill of hair. He didn't bother to disguise his gaze; the way he looked her up and down, drinking in every detail. It was no fun if he played coy. She knew better, at any rate. Balancing upon one foot, Theon leaned over the precipice, dipping his other into the black water swirling below; the deep blue-green flecked with bits of foam, with curls of sea-grass. The water was cold; but that made little difference to him. He was Ironborn; seawater had once flooded his lungs; and it was what flowed through his veins. The sea was meant to be his life, and, as he stared into the dark waters, he knew it would be his death.

"Aren't I always?" Theon asked, shrugging shoulders that were just beginning to thicken with muscle; he was just beginning to fill out the lankiness of his form. He glanced away, down to where his foot was still half-submerged, and with a twist of his lips, he pulled it out once more, flinging saltwater from his skin with a flick of his ankle. "And isn't the sea always? We can time the tides and learn the currents, but she always surprises us." He'd always known how to talk; to twist his tongue into the words, the phrases sailors said. But there was something hollow about them; like he was echoing others' words, merely a mouthpiece. And in many ways he was. Of course, he'd been out to sea, but was he truly Ironborn without a vessel of his own? Was he a Kraken without blood upon his hands? Teeth clamped down upon the inside of his lip until he tasted iron, the sharp pain enough to remind the young kraken of the present.

"You whore," Theon accused, sounding aghast, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his jest. He took a step forward, lips twisted back into his typical smirk, and ran his left hand down Philyppa's side, curling down her form to rest upon her ass, whereupon he cupped the supple curve before giving her a smack. The smirk upon his lips cracked into a sunny grin, and there was something boyish about the expression, some air of innocence there. His insolence would be easy to find infuriating, but it would be so difficult to rage at such an innocent face. His other arm curled about her form, and he rested both hands somewhere at the small of her back, holding the dusky girl at arm's length. "Tell me who this other sailor is," he began, drawling the words, his speech leisurely. The sunny smile returned with his next words, spoken faster, more matter-of-fact. Almost as if he was commenting upon the weather. "So I can kill him." Coming from most men, such a statement would border upon the absurd. But Theon was Ironborn. Now he sounded like a Greyjoy.

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