Avatar of Ezekiel

Status

Recent Statuses

3 yrs ago
Current What's the worst thing about the Roleplayerguild and why is it the status bar?
3 likes

Bio

User has no bio, yet

Most Recent Posts

What a fun and interesting idea, whoever came up with is must truly be a genius.



Seems fun! I'll think up a character.


King's Landing, The Baratheon Manse


The air was thick with the stench of smoke and the sounds of shouting and clashes filled the narrow alleys. Barricades made from overturned carts and debris blocked thoroughfares, while fires raged unchecked, casting an eerie glow upon the faces of the rioters and the stone walls of the city.

Amidst the chaos, the cries of the downtrodden could be heard, their anger and desperation fueling their revolt. They were armed with whatever makeshift weapons they could find, from clubs and pitchforks to scavenged swords and axes. The symbols of authority were torn down and defiled, as the angry mob sought retribution against those they held responsible for their suffering. Just who that was varied from district to district, mob to mob and person to person. Many who had flooded the city since the rise of the Poor Fellow’s struck out against those had spoken well of the King, or even Targaryens of the past. The longer standing residents, those who had more loyalty to their overlords than the past, assailed the inflammatory members of the faith, often catching any Septon in the crossfire.

In that moment, King's Landing was a city on the brink, its streets teeming with violence and rebellion, its future uncertain as the fires of revolt burned bright.

Rhoelle had decided she’d had more than enough of fire and blood for a few lifetimes. Their mark was stamped everywhere, both as the words and deeds of the royal house, and in their more literal sense. She could hear, and smell, it even now, within the fortified walls of the Baratheon manse. They had managed to reach the manse before the chaos following the King’s ’repose’ truly started, with the body of her father, but had not yet been able to progress further, so penned in was the noble district by the rioting beyond.

The elements of the city watch still loyal to the Royal House, as well as the men-at-arms of House Targaryen were stretched thin as it were securing the Keep, Hills and harbour, such that the life blood of the city didn’t entirely die out, nor could the King, vulnerable in his lack of waking, be threatened. Rhoelle felt the later was the far greater part of their calculations, but in that she did not blame the Dowager-Queen, for that was whom all knew was making those orders. If she could have abandoned the city and all its people, to have her father returned to her, she would have gladly done so.

Instead, the body of Durran Baratheon lay in their cellar. Their maester, or at least, the only one they could find to bring with them, tended to him that the rot might not take hold before he could be brought home. The tall, broad frame of her father, whom had seemed so steadfast yet full of vitality her whole life, was rendered unto an ever reducing statue.

She had cried for the first day, inconsolable in her grief. Then the first raven had come. Her bother was missing. Then the second, her uncle and his bethrothed were missing in the riots of Oldtown. Her grief had hardened beyond tears, she had simply ceased to be. Rhoelle wasn’t sure how much time had passed, it felt like an eternity, or a day. She might have hidden away for years or it could have been the blink of an eye.

Standing at her dresser, she forced her vision up to view her own reflection. For as long as she could remember her long black hair had fallen in smooth waves, carefully maintained for the needs of court, both at home or in King’s Landing. Now, said waves had gone to wild curves, a halo of errant blackness around the paleness of her skin. It reminded her of the artwork of her grandmother, cast in her wild fury as she had spat fury at the question of her marrying her grandsire. Those histories had always confused her as a girl, and humoured her as she grew older. She had known both her grandparents to be wrathful people, but never with each other, by the time of her birth only gentle love passed between them.

The closest she remembered to a fight had been when she had wished to learn to fight and ride like her brother, Orys had refused at first, until Argella had reminded him from whose blood the storm in their veins had come. But even then, she suspected it was a whisper of her former wroth, tempered by decades of loving marriage.

She would have to channel more than the hair stylings of the younger Argella, she thought, if she was to make it through the coming days and weeks.

Rhoelle had called for a servant directly for the first time since she had collapsed in her room. She had eaten, and been bathed, since then, but only by the wordless routine of someone moving through the motions. This had been deliberate.

“My Lady?” A quiet voice, but not a stammer, as a young maid pressed the doorway to her chambers open.

“I wish to dress, prepare one of my gowns, suitable for riding. I’ll need the necklace given to me by the late King, as well.” When the Maid approached her following the commands, brush in hand, Rhoelle waved her away. “Leave the hair.”



Chaos has spread across the city, but nowhere was it more prevalent than Flea Bottom, a name that had stuck only coloquially but had already wormed its way into the lexicon of most who had chance to live within, or visit, the Westerosi capital.

Rolling conflicts between Poor Fellows, locals and Royal Partisans had kept many of the small fires burning for days, and the already filthy streaks slick with befouled blood. It was into this quagmire and inferno, that the Baratheon party marched. The majority of the retainers the house commanded within the city were what many knew as ‘Stag Knights,’ men of keen loyalty to House Baratheon, who fought in the heavily armed and armoured style of Valyrian retainers but now in the stylings of Westeros knights. Silvered plate gleamed next to tabards and cloth of black and yellow. Only three of the party were mounted, and they took the head of the column.

Rhoelle rode beside two able knights of her household, who seem to strain testily at the bit, ready to cast aside caution to ensure her safety, but for the moment, she had refused them. The young woman rode forward in the saddle, her gown adjusted to allow it, and despite the stench and ruin about her, kept her features fierce and forwards as they moved, halting only as they encountered the first true signs of rioting. The din was brought, momentarily, under control by the sonerous blast of a Baratheon hunting horn.

“People of King’s Landing, you have been left in the dark and fallen to predations.”The young woman began, the almost ludicrous nature of the scene before them keeping the rioting still even after the blare of the horn had subsided. “These are trying times for all, but we will not allow further damage and harm to be done to each other.” Her words were echoed by the sudden collective flash of drawing steel, as the Stag Knights drew their blades in salute to her words, and in threat to those around them. “Disperse now, peace will reign.” She avoided mention of the King’s peace, even as she wore a necklace gifted to her from House Targaryen, a sure sign of her loyalty to those with courtly knowledge or might perceive this as a power play from her own great house. She wasn’t not here to crush rebellion, or win a war, but to bring an end to the riotous violence.

The Stag Knights were not many, and she had not the time to attempt to gather a wider force from the City Watch or any who might aid the cause, she was hoping instead that the first act might bring those who wished to help from out of the shadows, but in the confined spaces of the street, the armoured bulk of fifty men meant more than hundreds more of rabble. They menaced with a threat most were not willing to risk.

A few did, perhaps distracted from the threat of the men by the perception of an easier target of the young noble woman, rushing forwards with foul cries on their lips. A slight nod from the noblewomen spurred her riding companions to action, and those who tried had barely stepped forwards before maces had caved in their skulls.

“You may have peace, or fury.”

For one night, on one street, King’s Landing chose peace.


The Reach, Ashford


“In case you haven’t noticed, Ser Davos, we have a war to win.” It was perhaps to the Lord’s credit that the look he gave the younger man seemed more sour now than when the matter of betrothals were brought before him. “That is hardly the time for me to parcel out men on a whim.”

Davos hadn’t attempted to broach the matter with Vittoria, their parting had been a whirlwind of emotions and act that hadn’t seemed fair to bring up the issue of his own impending daring deeds. Her focus was on her duty, to the point she’d been very direct about not allowing him to intervene even in an effort to keep her from doing harm to herself. Meanwhile, he could hardly put aside the fact she had almost died, was not yet recovered, and already throwing herself back into the crucible. Then he’d received the issive marked with the Wylde spiral, and his world had changed once more. He’d shared the news with her, but not the details of what he must do.

“I understand,” Davos spoke with a simple nod, before handing the same letter over to Theo Tyrell, stepping away only to give the seated lord a chance to read through the missive. The venerable man’s face was steely, but despite this there was still some shock readable on his features.

“You would share this knowledge with me?” The eyebrow was raised as he looked up, studying the relatively youthful, but scarred, countenance of the Baratheon. “This is enough to shake any alliance, we cannot build on sand.”

“My brother has been confirmed dead, and his son in chains, you can think what you wish of how much you can rely on my House once I have enough men to storm Ashford and set him free.” There was fire in Davos’ words, but the shrug of his shoulders more matched the flippant nature of their meaning. Thoughts of the future had been burned away, and the look of his father was upon him. He would do what he must for the here and now.

It was evident that Theo Tyrell had misgivings about Baratheons, he’d found Orys brash in the extreme and overly given to emotion, despite his competence, and nothing that he’d seen of his descendents suggested they were any different. This, along with the willingness to so freely present evidence of the House’s current weakness were factors so very different to what he had looked to build. At the same time, there were worse things than an honest ally, and one whom owed you a favour.

“How many do you need?” Already Theo’s focus was back on his desk, the scratch of ink onto parchment underscoring his words.

“I need riders more than I need numbers, enough to pull them out of the city, I trust my nephew to cause trouble on his own.” He did not add that any number of men wouldn’t prevent the captors from taking the younger Baratheon’s head should that not be true, and speed was more important in this endeavor.

“Reclaiming Ashford is a worthy aim, it is improper that such rabble be allowed to lord themselves over our loyal and true bannermen.” The stamp of the rose came down on the missive, and this new letter was handed up towards Davos. “It is good of you, Ser Davos, to volunteer to assist the Reach in this way. We will pray that in doing so you are able to recover the noble hostages held by the rebels, and if not, to avenge them.”

Davos dipped his head in a respectful bow as he took the missive, a look of gratitude flashing across his features only partially obscured by the motion. Providing the men he needed, and the means to motivate them without revealing the vulnerability of House Baratheon to any spies of the faith within the ranks of the Reachmen was an eventuality he could hardly have hoped for.

“Ride with haste, Seven guide you.”




“Silly little town.” Kyle Connington looked down upon Ashford from his place atop a Reach steed, taken in haste from the Tyrell host, as the cutting remark was spoken to Davos.

They were usually alike in their unsevere nature, but Davos’ attention settled on the town with an intensity that didn’t account for laughter or jests. It wasn’t that the Connington knight, one of Davos’ longer campaigning companions, misunderstood the situation or what it meant to House Baratheon, it was simply a different method of coping with that.

House Baratheon hadn’t been alone in being elevated to their position as overlords of their territory. House Tyrell and House Tully were among those that the older great houses may call usurpers, but these were still ancient families extended over twisting webs of hereditary trees. House Baratheon originated from a single bastard and a worthy queen but a generation before. To lose Durran, and have his son and heir lost was a threat that could overturn everything. Stormlanders were belicose by nature, and now was a time where many houses across Westeros were questioning loyalties that had been hard earned, and easily betrayed.

“That helps us.” Edric Celtigar rode up alongside the other two men. Only a distant cousin of the landed house, his grandfather had served alongside Orys in the early Targaryen armies, and so he, his sons, and now his grandsons served as retainers for the now-landed Baratheons. “A town designed to look pretty for tourneys and festivals is hardly a fortress, no matter how hard the rebels pray.” The small party compised of Davos’ retainers among the force he had assembled from what riders the Tyrells were willing to spare had far less moral hesitation when it came to the Warrior’s Sons and their Poor Fellows rabble, they were not men they had served alongside nor the people they ruled over. Still, they mostly kept such comments among themselves.

“They are riding under the impression we are tasked with ensuring the safety of Lord Ashford, and in securing the town.” Davos finally spoke himself, his eyes still on the town as he instructed his companions. “This isn’t a lie, it’s important we achieve these things for the benefit of House Tyrell.” The Baratheon paused only to draw his blade, but kept it low, lest the flickering of light upon the metal draw attention from the town. “I’ll ride and command the force, I want you two to find Rogar, if he’s going to make it out alive he’ll have used our distraction to separate from his captors.”

“And if he hasn’t?”

“Then we hope that whoever is in charge doesn’t try to cut their loses.” Davos’ tone kept the grim reality of what that could mean from being spoken. In truth, after the news of the loss of his brother, he had little thoughts for optimism. He’d be damned, however, if he’d let these rebels get away with the body of his nephew. He’d be damned if he let a single of them live, if they had done their worse.

“Alright then.” Kyle spoke with a sigh of held breath, before adding. “Lets kill the bastards.”




As the rising sun brought the shining charge of the Reach knights into view, the town was engulfed in chaos. The clatter of hooves from afar echoed through the narrow streets as knights thundered through, their armor gleaming in the dim light. The air was thick with the smell of fear and smoke as the suddenly fearful Poor fellows fled in every direction, their makeshift barricades crumbling under the relentless onslaught.

The ruse was a simple one, the knights of the assault had fanned out in a far more disperesed manner than they would normally ride into battle, hunting horns bellowing from many angles. A more disciplined foe would have little difficulty responding to such, but the attackers counted on the sort of rumors that had been circulating among the warriors of the faith, that the lords of the Southern Reach were raising banners to bring retribution to them. For many of the Poor Fellows, unused to the war they had found themselves in, the riding party may as well have been the full might of Highgarden.

That still left the men at arms and knights that had joined up with the cause, as well as the die had radicals more prepared to sell their lives in the name of the cause, and to fight even armoured foes tooth and nail for every inch of cobbled street. Many didn’t meet the riders head on, but instead clung to the shadows, ready to strike with bow rather than blade.
The knights charged forward with unwavering determination, their swords raised high, ready to strike down any who dared to stand in their way. Arrows whistled through the air, finding their marks with deadly precision, but the knights pressed on, their shields deflecting the deadly rain. The clash of steel continued to rebound down cobbled streets, the screams of dying men growing more desperate as the picturesque town was drenched in the stench of hot blood.

Davos was among them. The first foe he brought down was with the thundering crash of a green and gold lance lent from the Tyrells, punching clean through the first rider of the enemy he had met, not caring to mark the heraldry of the traitor before he ended whatever crusade of faith he believed he was on. Then, with the long weapon embedded and twisted, he relied on his blade. He struck with violence and fury. There was no small pang of pain and grief in his actions, but there was purpose too. The greater the scene of calamity the riders created, the more likely the ruse would continue to work, driving away more and more of the Poor Fellows rabble even as their knightly leaders attempted to rally them to hold Ashford.

He was determined not to give them the chance, to drive them to the dirt and keep them there with armoured boot until they had realised their mistake in taunting the wrath of the storm.

The rapid and brutal force of the assault was working, for the moment. Even the unusually triangular shape of the town castle didn’t seem to have responded properly to the incursion, the drawbridge was still down, as men scrambled back and forth, fleeing to or from the security, or prison, of the fortifications.

“On me.” Davos called to the rider beside him, one of the Tyrell riders bearing a horn as well as their blade, who gave a quick nod through their half-helm, and drawing said horn to their lips, blowing two quick blasts, then calling out;

“To the Stag! To Ser Davos!” It was full of the excessive chivalry of the Reach, but it worked all the same to draw the nearest riders up alongside Davos as he charged, pushing his destrier to further heights of speed and power as they barreled towards the gateway, closing in on it before it in turn could be closed on them. The original plan had been to be to strike then pull out of the town, before the numbers of the enemy could be brought to bear. With the castle not yet secure, and its main contingent either in the town or fleeing further, they had the opportunity to secure the town in one strike, rather than the harrying attempt they had planned. It was a risk, but given the events of the last week, Davos felt he had little left to lose.

Besides, if his wife to be could keep riding herself into certain danger, he’d hardly let her get away without the same worry.

The resistance in the keep itself was, as expected, fiercer, not just in attitude but in equipment and training. The storming of the courtyard was swift enough, the attackers still had the advantage of their steeds, and no matter that they now knights, properly equipped and emblazoned on in the colours of the seven, they had yet to reach their own steeds. There wasn’t much plate did to preserve ribs from the crunching force of a destrier’s charge, or kick, and for all their nobility, the Reach knights were still not above slipping from the saddle to finish off a stricken foe, particularly a rebel.

Their momentum for a moment was haltered by a similar rain of arrows to before, and in the more confined space this took a greater toll. Some of the precious steeds of the knights were lost, before Davos could have them ordered to abandone them in full, allowing the thunderous beasts to storm back the way they came and out of the keep, while the knights hunkered down behind their shields.
“Push for the Hall,” Davos behind the curtain of defence. In many sieges, the defenders might retreat to a Sept, they were usually defended and offered at least the chance the attackers would respect the rights of sanctuary. Davos didn’t expect the Knights of the Faith to offer such a clear surrender of imagery to these particular attackers. Secondly, although he’d be loathe to admit it infront of the pious Reachmen he fought alongside, he doubte his own restraint in that matter.

While the arrows could be lethal to their steeds, once afoot, and with shield raised, there was little the guerilla fighters could do to harm the fully plated attackers, who moved as a mass of metal and blade towards the main hall. The Warrior’s Sons, if there were any of particularly martial note among them, were not in great enough numbers to press back against the simple weight of momentum, the knights had put too much faith in their Poor Fellow’s ability to rally, and had been preparing to sally rather than hold the castle.
When they finally broke into the hall, Davos expected to find some sort of final resistance, but instead he saw, at the end of the hallway, the startled face of the burly Ayden Darklyn slowly turn to face the oncomers, a look of shock on his features. He seemed to move to speak, to address those who had assailed the Keep he had only recently taken, but only a spurt of blood issued forth from his lips, before he collapsed forwards.

Behind him, the pale, shaking, but steadfast shape of Lord Ashford young adolescent daughter stood, her dress torn, clutching in her quivering hands the hilt of Darklyn’s own blade, the length slick with the owner’s blood.

“Brave girl.” Davos spoke, before rushing forwards to catch the collapsing maiden.

Sorry I've not written anything IC so far, I was writing my first post as a collab that's stalled a bit. Promise I am still here.
Banner art image by Krysdecker




Location: Stark Tower, Manhattan, NYC



"Not sure why your're complaining." Laura spat blood, and a fragment of tooth, free from her mouth as she spoke, the pain of the already regrown backup pushing through her gums enough to sharpen her tone through the slight lisp momentarily created. "Isn't trying and failing to beat up on teenagers something of a family speciality?" In truth, Laura wasn't usually one for the cutting remarks some New York heroes were well known for, but for now it served a purpose. While she healed, she could at least still be a distraction. Laura's senses had already picked up the presence of her ally, and the creeping earthy smell of the tide of ants.

She didn't wait entirely for the spear wound to heal, although it had mostly knit closed by the time she lunged. The twin claws of both hands extended in a forward strike, almost a repeat of her previous attack, without the lunging benefit of the vehicle to propel her. She banked on that small amount of underestimation she had already noticed, acting the inexperienced combatant she truly wasn't. Not all knew quite how long she had fought alongside Logan in the shadows against their creators.

At the last moment, she sweapt low, brining into use the main difference she had from her gene-father, the pronged tip of her foot claws aimed first for the Kraven woman's leg, the tip of the claw working to extend the sweep of her leg. She could have done so without the claw at all, but after the spear injury she wasn't particularly inclined to save her foe the cutting pain, as she looked to sprawl her distracted foe to the ground.

Collab with @Vanq and @Runic

The Queen, her hand clutched to her belly, stood staring out into the area where her husband lay. That the swordsmen who had come against them was a mercy for had they survived? By her command they would have died. Alys felt sick at the sight of her husband, the horror of it even as she felt a sick fear that Maegor had fallen. There was no cry that came from her lips though they moved in silent prayer. Let him live, she begged whatever gods existed. For if he died here and now? The children of Aenys would surely seize the throne that by rights should go to the child in her belly. She would be deposed as Queen. Set aside for all the realm to mock, the Queen of a Day. The Whore Queen. Oh, she could hear the mockery already!

“Send the Maester to the King.” She snapped out and gave Tyanna an imperious gaze, “Go. You know herbs, perhaps something from Essos could be of use.” A command, not a request. Even as she looked across the scene of victory, a scene of nightmare, she spied that bastard child of her House. A slight shadow against the Dragonlord of Volantis. That was more oil to the fire of her rage. Did she think to rise above her station? To rise to stand as if she was Alys’s equal? She, a base-born bastard of some dragon seed? Gesturing to a serving woman, she leaned to the side, “Have word sent after this to Lord Balaerys that I wish to thank him for his support on this day.” It would do to nurture that relation, though she would also use it to perhaps secure the future of her kin or the lack thereof. There were better options than a servant for such a Lord.

Her brown eyes caught the body and head of her youngest brother and the Queen felt a pang of loss. Horas had been too young, but how could anyone deny him the honor? He had fought for her and her husband. She would light a candle for him even as she watched the scene of her king’s fall. “He will survive. A dragon does not die easily and not from such petty wounds.” She assured herself. Hoping she could believe it.

Tyanna erupted with a rageful growl as she watched Maegor rip a man’s face apart only to fall muttering seconds later. Men and their impetuous need for violence. She smothered the feeling and formed it into something more suited to her position, something more suited to the rumors of relationship she had encouraged to spread and smolder. She accepted Alys’s instructions, action she would have taken regardless. It wasn’t his time, not yet. She would not let him end himself this way, before she could make use of it.

She put a hand to the queen, softly, on her shoulder, her face twisted but in what appeared as shared anguish. “You must get yourself to safety. Surround yourself with men you trust and have a room prepared for your husband. Fuck the Maesters, do not trust them. Visenya and I will see to him, return him to you and his kingdom.”

She did not wait to see if the queen heeded instructions thrown back at her. Tyanna had had foresight enough to dress for easy movement and not for show. Already the crowd began to separate - those who wanted to flee for one reason or another, those who sought to rush the field, and those who were intent on taking advantage of the chaos. The Pentoshi woman sneered at them all, shoving men, women, and children alike out of her path. She’d one goal and it was to the killing field, to the massacre these barbarians had unleashed.

“MOVE.” The common tongue was harsh from her mouth, rumors of her had easily spread in her short time in King’s Landing, a boon for her as few would want to touch the severe woman said to dabble in dark arts. One did not care to listen to her commands and blocked her path down a set of stairs with his ineptitude at moving his bulk out of her way. A slim knife found its way between his ribs, he sputtered, tripped, and was summarily trampled under foot by everyone else pushing behind Tyanna. She didn’t give it a second thought but to follow the flow of the crowd down and out. Where most others sought freedom out of the stands, she turned and followed a tunnel that gave way at last to the field.

It stank. Blood and torn flesh, a metallic and pungent scent that caked in the dry earth and clung to her. Knights and men-at-arms in Targaryen colors were converging on the king’s body. “CAREFUL,” her voice carried, “you fools.” If they harmed him in attempting to move him, she’d gut every last one of them before her return to Pentos.

“VHAGAR”

The first words the Dowager Queen spoke were both name and command, the Valyrian word casting out impossibly loud from the frame of an older woman, and met immediately by an ancient scream which almost seemed to sunder the air itself.

Then the dragon, second only to the Dread himself in scope, was perched atop the grand rim of the stone arena, masonry crackling with strain beneath her claws

“Ȳdragon.” Visenya spoke again, and Vhagar roared once more, this time sweeping her head low over the crowd beneath her, coming nobleman and peasant alike, and ceasing the untimely riot of movement that prevented easy access down to the sands of battle itself. Then she was moving, swiftly down and through the cowed crowd, vaulting over the side of the arena with an athleticism no woman her natural age should of been able to handle. Still, the bones of her legs and knees ached when she landed, but such pain did not mar the face of Visneya, only a scowl of focus and rage.

She quietly spoke further words of Valyrian, words of power, as she closed on the already crowded form of her son. The darkest of magics stirred around her, willing the King into a form of stability, if only so that he could be moved, and even then to that she trusted only her closest guards, the men clad in plate so dark it was as to obsidian among those who had reached him.

“To the Keep.” Her voice was quieter, not entirely able to hide the strain of her use of power, as her eyes settled on Tyanna. “You as well.”

There was a relief, even a cringing one, as Visenya called in a battlefield shout for her dragon. The great beast quelled the crowds. A panic here would spread across the Realm. Alys could hear it now, ‘The King is dead, long live the new King.’ Maegor had done nothing to earn their ire, except defy their petty minds to marry her and conceive a son. A necessity in a king that they thought to deny. Turning to the servants behind her, the Queen felt her chin rise in refusal to fall to such lowly panic. To refuse to think of the terror that would await a former king and rival prince if Rhaenys’s descendants took the throne. “Prepare the Keep for the King’s arrival. Water, clean bandages, and whatever herbs might be needed. See that the way is clear for the Dowager Queen and her son.” Looking at two cringing maids in particular, she snapped her fan closed. “One of you, go to the Harroways and tell them of the Royal family’s thanks and sorrow for the death of my brother. That he fought well in defense of his King and brother-in-law. The other, the same to the Baratheons.” She could not indebt the Targaryens to such houses, but there were appearances to be maintained. Reviewing her thoughts, she stared at the frozen maids and snapped her hand out. “GO.” They fled. Her own hands gathered the hem of her gown as she moved quickly to the stairway that would lead to the field. Beckoning a few of the wenches that remained with her. Her breath came in slight gasps as she felt the impossible sun beat down on the arena. That Maegor fought in this in armor? Her King would survive through fire and this was just another test for him to overcome. There was no doubt that he would live.

He had to live.
T H E F A N T A S T I C F O U R
T H E F A N T A S T I C F O U R

"I worry about whose legacy I should be aspiring to follow... in these very dark and trouble times. Or whose I should be running far away from."
M I S S F A N T A S T I C
M I S S F A N T A S T I C
_________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________
T E A M S U M M A R Y
T E A M S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________
Valeria Cynthia Mary Richards, Miss Fantastic, The Smartest Woman Alive, Daughter of Doom
Jason Rusch and Ronnie Raymond, Firestorm
Benjamin Jacob "Ben" Grimm, The Thing
Jaime Reyes, The Blue Beetle

_________________________________________________________
The Fantastic Four
_________________________________________________________
Multiverse 668 - Prime | Open

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
_________________________________________________________
P O S T C A T A L O G
P O S T C A T A L O G
_________________________________________________________
W H A T I F...?
W H A T I F...?
________________________________________________________________________________________
What if the original Fantastic Four had been heroes a generation before, but disappeared in a cataclysm that left deep scars on New York City?

The young woman who has spent most of her life in exile, Valeria Richards has returned to the land of her birth, reclaiming the rubble that was the Baxter Building and uncovering the abandoned and shattered form of her father's closest friend, Ben Grimm, has steadily reformed one of the world's first public superhero teams. They are joined by those who have looked for help from the world's smartest woman in controlling gifts forced on them by fate. The hybrid form of Firestorm, consisting of Jason Rusch and Ronnie Raymond arrived at the new Baxter estate with little explanation known to them about the God Particle that had forged them together. Jaime Reyes' induction into the Fantastic Four was more proactive, with Valeria tracking down and offering the young man assistance in learning to control the power of the Scarab following rumor and hearsay. The both of the newer additions to the team there is a chance to do good with the fate thrust upon them, and to Valeria and Ben they in turn could provide the means to finally discover what happened on the fateful day that robbed the world of the previous Fantastic Four and many innocent lives beside.

Few seem able to trust that Valeria is entirely altruistic, however. At best, she has a domineering and ambitious streak that makes the line her father often walked seem the height of humble virtue, at worst, she is considered a Latverian spy at the heart of both the United States and the wider network of Earth's heroes. Valeria has been seen with Doom on multiple occasions since moving to the United States, and the Latverian state itself has made little effort to suggest she should no longer be considered the heir apparent to the nation and household. Indeed, in Latverian State broadcasts she is still known by the name she has born most of her life, Valeria Von Doom.

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
________________________________________________________________________________________
Investigate the Baxter Disaster

I've left the actual cause of the disaster vague to hopefully fit in with events that may occur through other characters and their arcs. In general the most pressing goal, particularly for Ben, is to discover what happened all those decades prior and to prove if the Richards, as well as Ben's wife Alicia Masters, are truly gone or where they might now be.

Caged Potential

While Valeria may have an intelligence far outstripping the norm and a penchant for magic and science, what she could be, or could have been, is far more than this. The cosmic radiation that caused her parents to develop metahuman powers had originally worked its effects on her, creating what would have been a being of great psionic power (similar to Franklin Richards in canon). Doom's work in saving Sue and Valeria at birth prevented this, locking away Valeria's potential as well as the cosmic radiation she was emitting. This is a gift and a curse that might be revealed, especially as Valeria spends more time away from Doom.

Lets Be Heroes

The Fantastic Four were some of the first true heroes and all four members of the current team have a desire to reclaim this heritage, for a wide variety of reasons. While Valeria, Jason, Ronnie and Jaime are all very new to this, they have Ben to guide them. Perhaps some time soon, their claim to the name of the first family may be tested.

© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet