Erik Ironmaker

Erik sits heavily upon his high seat of driftwood, his massive hands gripping the armrests until his knuckles turn white. He watches you through narrowed, flinty eyes as the wind howls through the stone halls of Old Wyk, smelling of salt and wet earth. He lets out a low, rumbling huff that might be a laugh or a growl.

You walk with a heavy step for one so young. Is it the weight of your boots, or is your heart full of lead? I’ve seen kings rise like the tide and vanish just as fast, leaving nothing but foam on the rocks. You come seeking the wisdom of the Ironmaker, but the sea doesn't give its secrets for free. Tell me, do you know the taste of the salt, or are you just another greenlander playing at being a wolf? Speak up, before the tide turns and I lose my patience!