A red priest of R'Hollr, quietly searching for or hiding from destiny. Depends on the day.


Without his red robes, Reynart doesn’t look like much of a priest.

Reynart smiles genuinely and easily enough, a smile that plays easily around his green eyes. His features are slightly vulpine; nose lightly pointed, and his triangular face framed by a short brush of reddish blond hair. His red robes – a gift from a believer (well, the wife of a believer) – are finely tailored to emphasize his lean physique. His sanguine demeanor sets him in stark contrast to the few dour Septas and Septons who find themselves this far north, and though some may find him overly ingratiating, few people find themselves truly bearing Reynart any ill will.

Game Statistics

Age: 26
Gender: Male
Benefits: Attractive, Third Eye, Polyglot
Flaws: Survival (Pampered)

Agility: 2

Animal Handling: 2

Athletics: 2

Awareness: 3
Specialties: 1B Empathy

Cunning: 4
Specialties: 1B Decipher

Deception: 3
Specialties: 1B Bluff

Endurance: 2

Fighting: 2
Specialties: 1B Long Blades

Healing: 2

Languages: 2
Additional Languages: 1 Lysene, 1 Myrish, 1 Asshai, 1 Valyrian, 1 High Valyrian

Knowledge: 3
Specialties: 1B Streetwise, 1B Education

Marksmanship: 2

Persuasion: 5
Specialties: 1B Charm, 1B Seduce

Status: 3

Stealth: 2

Survival: 2
Note: 1D Flaw (Pampered)

Thievery: 2

Warfare: 2

Will: 3

Intrigue Defense: 10
Combat Defense: 7
Composure: 9
Health: 6
Destiny Points: 1
Movement: Move 4/ Sprint 16

Possessions and Equipment:

Remaining Coin: 100g


  • Gained:18
  • Spent: -
  • Remaining:18

Reynart’s made some bad choices.

The first bad choice was the night he spent in the company of a certain Myrish merchant’s daughter. A wealthy, powerful merchant who had fostered some hope of marrying said eldest daughter into a particular noble family who would be less than pleased to find that she had spent an evening – well, maybe two evenings – or four – or whatever – with a cobbler’s fair-haired boy.

Still, life as a Red Priest wasn’t all bad. Sure, there was the endless chanting and burning of things. The less said of that, the better. The sacred prostitutes, however… That’s a different story.

Plus, Lys was thriving, cosmopolitan. Not like Myr at all. Reynart found he could get lost amongst the pleasure palaces for days. And, well, he might have. Maybe two – or four – or whatever.

The second mistake came a year or two later. A certain Asshai prior had taken particular notice of Reynart’s lack of attendance at the usual chanting, burning, and more chanting events. So, one night Reynart found himself staring into the red flames of R’hollr. As one does.

That’s when he had the vision.

A land of ice. A burning sword. The roar of fire made flesh. And death. So much death.

And the third mistake? Telling someone what he saw.

Well, with the screaming and all he didn’t have much choice. And that’s when a certain Asshai prior decided to send a certain fair haired cobbler’s boy from the opulent gardens of Lys to Westeros.

The north of Westeros, to be more specific. Northwesteros.

They called it summer, but it damn well felt like winter to him already, and if he who must not be named was to rise anywhere, this godforsaken backwater seemed like as good a place as any. Still, no one seemed to mind much that the Red Priest took the confessional of the occasional sinner. Or widow. Or wayward wife. Or whatever. I mean, they don’t even know that Red Priests don’t really do that sort of thing in the first place in Northwesteros.

And now Reynart found himself idling around a particular noble’s house in some cold and awful place ostensibly trying to convert the new lord to the Faith (but in all honesty, not trying very hard, though how hard should it be to convert a bunch of frozen, tree-worshipping barbarians to worship a god of light and heat?). The only real issue is that the last lord seems to have gotten himself a bit poisoned and now some of the Northmen are starting to wonder whether the itinerant priest was somehow involved.

The next move for Reynart is either to really convert the young lord to the faith or find another similarly sympathetic lord with whom to break bread and salt. And while he still chants the chants and burns the things, he tries not to stare into the fire too long. Meanwhile, there’s a woman with a crooked smile and raven hair who lives down the road. So much to confess. So, maybe another day. Or two. Or four. Or whatever.


A Dirge of Oaths and Omens Ixalopolis