Who: Theon Greyjoy
Action: SS Paisley
When: January 1. Happy New Year?
[ The man who appears on the screen is a pitiful sight indeed. He’s has a gaunt, tired face, framed by brittle white hair, and looks as if he hasn’t eaten a good meal in months.
This is clearly a man with one foot in the grave, and is altogether unfamiliar—until he speaks. ]
My name is Theon. Theon Greyjoy.
[ You have to remember your name, he thinks as he chuckles dryly, a ghastly smile breaking across his face. His teeth are showing his teeth to be a painful, splintered mess; a far cry from the charming grin that’s become Theon Greyjoy’s trademark. He’s skin and bones and appears as if he’s aged ten years, though no more than a single year has passed for him. ]
You won’t recognize me, but I’ll recognize all of you. I will.
[ He still sees their faces clearly; those from his own world, his crewmates, and those he’s met from other ships. He remembers how this works. He may be addled, driven half mad by the horrific things he’s gone through, but his mind and memory both still work. His voice is hoarse, less commanding than it once was, and he seems to be teetering somewhere between laughter and tears with each word, but he’s holding it together none the less. It could be worse; it could always be worse. ]
Perhaps Atroma should have reconsidered bringing me back.
[ He chortles, gesturing to his skeletal appearance. He looks awful, nothing like the handsome young man he once was, but at least he can joke about it, right? What can he do to change it now? ]
They’ll only lose their audience when they see me. Do you regret it now, Atroma? I was of use to you before. [ Another laugh, something closer to a giggle. ] You’ve only harmed yourself, but not me. There’s little left that you can do to harm me.
[ And for all crew and visitors on the Paisley, this new Theon can be found in the armory. It’s silent, free from the sounds of what used to be his near-daily target practice. He isn’t even looking at the weaponry. Instead, he’s seated himself at the desk, staring at his hands. A quick glance will show that they’ve been mangled just as badly as his teeth. Three fingers have been removed, one from the left and two from the right, leaving nothing but nubs.
He knows he’ll never be able to pull a bowstring again. ]