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Ya'll are okay.
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The alt right is a specific white nationalist movement, it started that way and it continues to primarily mean that, it isn't just "anything that isn't traditionally right wing"
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Ayy I'm finally employed, lessgooo
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A P A R T M E N T 3 0 2

Noon | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York City


"Oh, thank you so very much, Superman!" The old woman's voice pitched and shook, her lips spread out into a wide grin. She stood before her apartment door, her old, scratch-ridden key clutched between her fragile fingers as she looked back over her shoulder at 'Superman.' He was shorter than he looked on TV. And that red and blue suit he always wore was absent, replaced by some white, capeless variant; truthfully it looked like a downgrade, but who was she to tell Superman that after he helped her carry her groceries all the way up here?

"Let me give you something for your trouble," She grunted, struggling to poke the key into the lock. Her hand was shaking too much to focus. It was hard not to be nervous with the Man of Tomorrow standing just behind her, after all. "some cookies, maybe? My grandchildren say they're the best they've ever-"

"No." Kon-El interrupted, his voice more forceful than he intended. He didn't notice the affect his words had until he saw the look of absolute shock on the elderly lady's face, and he felt his own quickly heat up. "I...I mean, er, I appreciate the offer, ma'am. But I have to go. And I'm not-"

"The world can wait a few minutes!" She insisted, still fighting to even open her front door while Kon-El bounced impatiently behind her; she either paid him no mind or was too oblivious to see how eager he was to move on with his day. "You deserve a break, sweetheart."

When he ran away from the Fortress and came to the New York City his sort-of cousin had told him so much about, he'd been expecting...more. Where were all the villains Kal was always fighting? Where were the disasters he and Kara insisted they had to stop when they left Kon-El alone in that frozen castle? He didn't think they'd lie to him, yet...

"Oh, I hate this dumb thing sometimes. Always has to jam on me." The grandma huffed, slapping her palm up against the wooden frame.

She'd said something after that, too, but Kon-El missed it. It was too far away for the aging human to hear, yet to Kon it was as loud and thunderous as if it'd happened just outside. A clap like thunder rolled in the distance, followed shortly by the sound of screeching wheels, honking horns and the screams of the wounded and the dying. By the time the woman had turned around, 'Superman' was gone, her groceries scattered across the hallway and the nearby window shattered into a thousand pieces.

"How rude!"

C I T Y S T R E E T S

Noon | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


Superboy crossed the city toward the source of the explosion as quickly as he could, leaving behind broken concrete and a collapsed- thankfully empty- taxi. Each leap dragged him through the air and right back down to the earth with a crash, shaking the streets with a thunderous smack before he took off once more. It didn't take long to arrive at his destination, though how he'd handle what he found there was another matter entirely.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. CADMUS's simulations of smell were far less...visceral. He could pick out the individual stenches, differentiating each crushed body and every burning car from all the rest. Smoke choked his nostrils, thick and black thanks to the tires caught in the explosion; it was like a punch straight to his nervous system.

His ears, too, suffered. Screams of the frightened and the hurt, punctuated by the clamor of rending metal and the screeching of unearthly tongues. The flickering flames were a constant, quiet thumping in the back of his head as he rose to his feet and shook off the sensory overload as best he could.

Once Kon wrestled back control, he looked out over the street, and found it occupied by monsters. Giant, lipless lizards with bodies like gorillas and eyes burning with otherworldly hate. It didn't take a genius to know they were aliens, but it was the flying girl that gave him pause. Her skin was orange, and her eyes glowed green. Her heart didn't beat like a human's. She wasn't a meta, and the language she yelled in didn't sound like any he had ever heard.

'Another alien.' He decided with a wordless grunt, rising to his full height. He was no Superman, but Kon was still rather tall and broad for someone his age; the skin tight, white solar suit that he wore showed the contours of his lab-built body well. Strong yet thus far untested hands clenched tight into fists brought level beside the bright red crest he wore. Alien as it felt on him, Kon knew it meant something- to more than just the people of earth.

Kon took in a deep breath, empowering his lungs as he shouted at the top of his voice. "HEY!" He roared until he'd gotten the aliens' collective attention. "I'LL SAY THIS ONCE: Get down on your knees and put your hands on your heads." Superboy let power flow up into his eyes, lighting them a bright, dangerous red. "Or you're not gonna like what happens next."
A P A R T M E N T 3 0 2

Noon | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York City


"Oh, thank you so very much, Superman!" The old woman's voice pitched and shook, her lips spread out into a wide grin. She stood before her apartment door, her old, scratch-ridden key clutched between her fragile fingers as she looked back over her shoulder at 'Superman.' He was shorter than he looked on TV. And that red and blue suit he always wore was absent, replaced by some white, capeless variant; truthfully it looked like a downgrade, but who was she to tell Superman that after he helped her carry her groceries all the way up here?

"Let me give you something for your trouble," She grunted, struggling to poke the key into the lock. Her hand was shaking too much to focus. It was hard not to be nervous with the Man of Tomorrow standing just behind her, after all. "some cookies, maybe? My grandchildren say they're the best they've ever-"

"No." Kon-El interrupted, his voice more forceful than he intended. He didn't notice the affect his words had until he saw the look of absolute shock on the elderly lady's face, and he felt his own quickly heat up. "I...I mean, er, I appreciate the offer, ma'am. But I have to go. And I'm not-"

"The world can wait a few minutes!" She insisted, still fighting to even open her front door while Kon-El bounced impatiently behind her; she either paid him no mind or was too oblivious to see how eager he was to move on with his day. "You deserve a break, sweetheart."

When he ran away from the Fortress and came to the New York City his sort-of cousin had told him so much about, he'd been expecting...more. Where were all the villains Kal was always fighting? Where were the disasters he and Kara insisted they had to stop when they left Kon-El alone in that frozen castle? He didn't think they'd lie to him, yet...

"Oh, I hate this dumb thing sometimes. Always has to jam on me." The grandma huffed, slapping her palm up against the wooden frame.

She'd said something after that, too, but Kon-El missed it. It was too far away for the aging human to hear, yet to Kon it was as loud and thunderous as if it'd happened just outside. A clap like thunder rolled in the distance, followed shortly by the sound of screeching wheels, honking horns and the screams of the wounded and the dying. By the time the woman had turned around, 'Superman' was gone, her groceries scattered across the hallway and the nearby window shattered into a thousand pieces.

"How rude!"

C I T Y S T R E E T S

Noon | Midtown, Manhattan, New York City


Superboy crossed the city toward the source of the explosion as quickly as he could, leaving behind broken concrete and a collapsed- thankfully empty- taxi. Each leap dragged him through the air and right back down to the earth with a crash, shaking the streets with a thunderous smack before he took off once more. It didn't take long to arrive at his destination, though how he'd handle what he found there was another matter entirely.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. CADMUS's simulations of smell were far less...visceral. He could pick out the individual stenches, differentiating each crushed body and every burning car from all the rest. Smoke choked his nostrils, thick and black thanks to the tires caught in the explosion; it was like a punch straight to his nervous system.

His ears, too, suffered. Screams of the frightened and the hurt, punctuated by the clamor of rending metal and the screeching of unearthly tongues. The flickering flames were a constant, quiet thumping in the back of his head as he rose to his feet and shook off the sensory overload as best he could.

Once Kon wrestled back control, he looked out over the street, and found it occupied by monsters. Giant, lipless lizards with bodies like gorillas and eyes burning with otherworldly hate. It didn't take a genius to know they were aliens, but it was the flying girl that gave him pause. Her skin was orange, and her eyes glowed green. Her heart didn't beat like a human's. She wasn't a meta, and the language she yelled in didn't sound like any he had ever heard.

'Another alien.' He decided with a wordless grunt, rising to his full height. He was no Superman, but Kon was still rather tall and broad for someone his age; the skin tight, white solar suit that he wore showed the contours of his lab-built body well. Strong yet thus far untested hands clenched tight into fists brought level beside the bright red crest he wore. Alien as it felt on him, Kon knew it meant something- to more than just the people of earth.

Kon took in a deep breath, empowering his lungs as he shouted at the top of his voice. "HEY!" He roared until he'd gotten the aliens' collective attention. "I'LL SAY THIS ONCE: Get down on your knees and put your hands on your heads." Superboy let power flow up into his eyes, lighting them a bright, dangerous red. "Or you're not gonna like what happens next."
House Greyjoy


"We Do Not Sow"
House Information

Synopsis
House Greyjoy of Pyke is one of the Great Houses of Westeros, whether the rest of the six kingdoms acknowledge it or not. The Krakens have lorded over the Iron Islands for generations despite the best efforts of their numerous enemies, and they've only grown stronger in recent years with the efforts of their Lord Paramounts. The head of the family, who bears the name Harren The Cursed at the moment, is traditionally known as the Lord Reaper of Pyke- a reference to their House Words, and the reaping they do at the cost of the iron price. Though the Old Way waned under the reign of Asha Greyjoy, her grandson, seeing the deteriorating health of the queen and her lack of a proper heir, stokes the Ironborn's violent nature to fuel his own twisted ambition. He sees this as the perfect opportunity to finally see the dream he and his father shared come to pass: that the Greyjoys would once again rule as conquerors and kings, and that all the world would tremble at the sight of their sails and the sound of their name.

Seat
Castle Pyke

Demesne
House Blacktyde of Blacktyde
House Botley of Lordsport
House Drumm of Old Wyk
House Goodbrother of Hammerhorn
House Harlaw of Ten Towers
House Merlyn of Pebbleton
House Stonehouse of Old Wyk
House Sunderly of Saltcliffe
House Tawney of Orkmont
House Wynch of Iron Holt

Recent History
What has occured in your house's history in recent years?

Realm Relations
What are the established perceptions and alliances between your house and others in the realm?
Conceptualization & Premise

Head of House
Characterization
Describe said character's reputation and values.

Immediate Family
List his immediate family.

Storyline Premise
What is the story you are wishing to tell with this character and his house?
T H E S K Y ( S O R T O F ? )

11:35 a.m. | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York City


The summer sun beat down on a bustling urban hub built of wrought iron and glass. Millions of fragile primates weaved in-between streets of smooth stone, where beasts of steel and rubber raced bumper-to-rear to cross the expansive city. High above it all and maneuvering between the towers of glass were flocks of birds and fluffy masses of condensed water vapor- 'clouds,' the locals called them. Kon-El passed his palm through the billowing sheet, feeling each individual drop pass through the crevices in his fingertips; they slipped down his palm like a thousand, tiny tendrils reaching out to greet his touch.

Though it felt like an eternity to him, Kon-El didn't linger there for long before gravity took hold of his weight and dragged him down. It was like an anchor tied around his ankles, keeping him from staying up where he belonged for more than seconds at a time. It was painfully frustrating, but he couldn't stew in his irritations at the moment.

He was more concerned with making sure he landed.

Despite hours upon hours of practice with Kal, Kon was...nervous, embarrassingly enough. Not of being hurt in the fall, obviously- nothing could hurt a Kryptonian- but of screwing up his landing and accidentally destroying something he shouldn't. Everything around him was just so fragile. The humans, their homes, their cars. His genetic template had once referred to the world as 'cardboard.' As Kon understood it, that material was as fragile to humans as humans were to people like Kon.

The air bent around his sleek form as he descended from the air like a rock, his arms held out to give him balance and his feet pointed in such a way that he hoped to direct his landing. He could feel the minute changes in the air pressure and wind direction down to the millisecond. It was a lot of information, and all of it useless given how little control he had over his gravitational field. For a moment, he thought he could feel himself slowing- that perhaps he was starting to get a handle on the whole 'flying' thing-

Just before he tasted concrete.

"Damn it-" Kon snarled in a flash of red hot anger, his fingers digging into the street and shattering the asphalt like it was made of glass. In a huff he dragged himself back to his feet using a nearby street lamp, his grip just harsh enough to snap off a piece of its metal exterior. Enraged by his own clumsiness, he chucked the debris into the sky, watching as the steel disappeared above the cloud layer and soared toward the New York Harbor.

His little superpowered-tantrum drew the attention of more than a few nearby humans. The Kryptonian clone's cheeks flushed a bright red at the sight of their pointed cameras and the sound of their panicked whispers. He hadn't intended to make a scene, or to break anything, or to look like such an angry oaf while doing all of it.

"Show's over." He snapped, taking off into the air with a leap that shook the street. The Superboy carried himself with an awkward glide toward a nearby brick building, landing atop its roof in a stumble that turned into an even more awkward roll. He couldn't understand why he was such a klutz. CADMUS had run him through simulation after simulation while he was trapped in their breeding chambers- flying hadn't been nearly so hard then. Kon assumed flying in the real world was just harder, but then Kara and Kal had both mastered it when they were years younger than he was.

A puddle left behind by last night's rain caught the clone's eye, drawing him toward it. He knelt down, watching his reflection match him in the still water. The face he saw didn't feel like it was his own; it looked too much like Kal's. Like a distorted, imperfect copy of the original. The crest he wore on his chest was much the same. It lacked the correct angles. The lines were too rounded out and soft- not as strong and uncompromising as the real symbol of the House of El.

Kon-El would’ve had trouble tearing his eyes away, if not for some distant cry for help. He immediately felt his mood shift as his attention focused fully on the far away voice; sound so quiet and so intermingled with other noise that no human could’ve heard, yet for him it was crystal clear all the same. “Finally.” He muttered to himself, rising back up to his feet. He bounded across the rooftop and leaped from it, taking to the air to soar again. Another precious few seconds spent among the clouds. Superboy savored them, even as he descended back down to earth. He didn’t feel the same nervous energy in his veins as he aimed for a clearing in an alley beneath him. The purpose he felt didn’t allow for it.
T H E S K Y ( S O R T O F ? )

11:35 a.m. | Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York City


The Summer sun beat down on a bustling urban hub built of wrought iron and glass. Millions of fragile primates weaved in-between streets of smooth stone, where beasts of steel and rubber raced bumper-to-rear to cross the expansive city. High above it all and maneuvering between the towers of glass were flocks of birds and fluffy masses of condensed water vapor- 'clouds,' the locals called them. Kon-El passed his palm through the billowing sheet, feeling each individual drop pass through the crevices in his fingertips; they slipped down his palm like a thousand, tiny tendrils reaching out to great his touch.

Though it felt like an eternity to him, Kon-El didn't linger there for long before gravity took hold of his weight and dragged him down. It was like an anchor tied around his ankles, keeping him from staying up where he belonged for more than seconds at a time. It was painfully frustrating, but he couldn't stew in his irritations at the moment.

He was more concerned with making sure he landed.

Despite hours upon hours of practice with Kal, Kon was...nervous, embarrassingly enough. Not of being hurt in the fall, obviously- nothing could hurt a Kryptonian- but of screwing up his landing and accidentally destroying something he shouldn't. Everything around him was just so fragile. The humans, their homes, their cars. His genetic baseplate had once referred to the world as 'cardboard.' As Kon understood it, that material was as fragile to humans as humans were to people like Kon.

The air bent around his sleek form as he descended from the air like a rock, his arms held out to give him balance and his feet pointed in such a way that he hoped to direct his landing. He could feel the minute changes in the air pressure and wind direction down to the millisecond. It was a lot of information, and all of it useless given how little control he had over his gravitational field. For a moment, he thought he could feel himself slowing- that perhaps he was starting to get a handle on the whole 'flying' thing-

Just before he tasted concrete.

"God damn it-" Kon snarled in a flash of red hot anger, his fingers digging into the street and shattering the asphalt like it was made of glass. In a huff he dragged himself back to his feet using a nearby street lamp, his grip just harsh enough to snap off a piece of its metal exterior. Enraged by his own clumsiness, he chucked the debris into the sky, watching as the steel disappeared above the cloud layer and soared toward the New York Harbor.

His little superpowered-tantrum drew the attention of more than a few nearby humans. The Kryptonian clone's cheeks flushed a bright red at the sight of their pointed cameras and the sound of their panicked whispers. He hadn't intended to make a scene, or to break anything, or to look like such an angry oaf while doing all of it.

"Show's over." He snapped, taking off into the air with a leap that shook the street. The Superboy carried himself with an awkward glide toward a nearby brick building, landing atop its roof in a stumble that turned into an even awkwarder roll. He couldn't understand why he was such a klutz. CADMUS had run him through simulation after simulation while he was trapped in their breeding chambers- flying hadn't been nearly so hard then. Kon assumed flying in reality was just inherently harder, but then Kara and Kal had both mastered it when they were years younger than he was.

Open Road, Colorado
Night

The Five Fraternities

Tyhrien:

The Tyhrien Fraternity was the first among its peers to be founded and it wears that fact with pride. The Pathos Fraternities were a concept first imagined by Ser Tyhrien Toraendel, a nobleman of great honor and esteem even before he created the hero guilds. He brought together people from all across the Kingdoms to fight against the hordes of darkspawn that had plagued Serna since the dawn of life. United in common purpose, they were able to beat back the monstrosities and set their blood-soaked dens ablaze- it was easily the most effective military campaign against the monsters in Serna's history, and its success etched Ser Tyhrien's legend into the annuals of history forevermore. Thus began the Age of Heroes, and from it spawned the Pathos Fraternities as we know them today.

Tyhrien's place as the first of the guilds and the one that led Serna into an unprecedented era of triumph has earned it a great deal of honor and respect across the Kingdoms. It has maintained a reputation as an order of honorable, noble knights that fight for the good of the realm over anything else.

The arrival of the wayfarers changed Tyhrien. At first, the Fraternity was more than happy to accept the influx of impossibly powerful warriors that suffered not from the kiss of death; they proved to be the most effective fighting force that Serna had ever seen, even stronger than the armies of the Age of Heroes. Yet it did not take long for Tyhrien's knights to see that these warriors from another realm were...different. They did not treat their fellow man like human beings. They stuck their noses up at Serna's people, even its nobility, and only ever seemed to care about the joy they gained from slaughtering the monsters rather than the good they did for the realm.

Tyhrien soured to the wayfarers, and began to refuse all but the most noble among the travelers into their ranks. They refused to work with the outsiders, grew more self-righteous in their judgment and indignation toward the other guilds that accepted the wayfarers with open arms, and in turn weakened themselves severely by refusing to bring the immortal warriors into their number. This unshakable dedication to a strict code of morality has put them at odds with their brothers and sisters in the Sikth and Draethir Fraternities especially.

Sikth:

Misplaced idealism has no place among the Sikth, who see the world for how it really is, rather than how one wishes it to be. Its founder, a shrewd spymaster by the name of Sieana Kthar, knew this fact well; back during the Age of Heroes, she often found herself fighting tooth and nail to protect Ser Toreaendel from those among their ranks that would wish to take advantage of his naivety. Though the two disagreed vehemently on many things, it could never be said that they weren't the staunchest of allies, for both knew that their movement required they stand side by side no matter how they felt about one another personally.

These same ideals of maintaining unity at any cost have been imbued into the very lifeblood of the Sikth Fraternity, though they have...faltered somewhat with the arrival of the wayfarers. The ruthless and vile among the travelers found their home in Sikth, yet many did not concern themselves with unification as the founder did, rather believing that they should do whatever they must to advance themselves instead of the group. This toxic, selfish ideology has infected the Sikth in the modern age, damaging their image across Serna and among the other guilds severely; Tyhrien especially has taken offense to the savagery in the Sikth ranks, sparking a much more volatile rivalry than the one that existed between the two previously.

Draethir:

The Draethir are the strongest of the Pathos Fraternities, wielding their manpower with brutal efficiency. Founded by a dirt-caked mercenary of the same name, the Draethir were primarily made up of sellswords, mercenaries and men who sought out coin over any sort of greater ideal. Greed, as it turned out, was an effective motivator for the common soldier; it brought in peasant-levies by the hundreds, all of them willing to lay down their lives for the chance at a better life. Their founder instilled in them the need to accomplish the job, convincing them that it was better to fall on one's own sword than to return home a failure. This extreme dedication brought Draethir a great deal of success, and their name was sang across the land.

Such integrity was not easily passed on to the wayfarers. Though they still pursued coin over all else, they cared little about accomplishing a task or completing a quest if it proved too much for them. Without that reliability and dedication to finishing what they'd started, the Fraternity became a caricature of itself; it became little more than an mob of apathetic hired muscle that appeared to be little more than a swarm of bandits that might as easily rob you as complete whatever job you had for them.

Drox:

Drox is the smallest of the five Fraternities, and arguably the weakest, though it was not always this way. During the Age of Heroes their founder, Kieamiera Drox, stood as Ser Toraendel's second in command- he saw her compassion as necessary to temper the rage and indignation of the heroes, and as a way to turn their conviction into something that could positively affect the commoners outside of simply slaughtering their enemies. Kieamiera was given plenty of resources and tasked with helping those most harshly affected by the darkspawn's invasion, and she took to this task like a fish to water. Her dedication brought her a great deal of renown, and many flocked to the banner of her Fraternity when it was first founded.

Service, compassion and humility did not prove to be attractive virtues during an age of strife and conflict, and the Drox Fraternity quickly found itself outpaced by the other guilds. They continued to grow in size while the Drox shrunk, and somewhere along the way a twisted sort of bitterness weeded its way into their ranks. The Drox look down on the other Fraternities, seeing their in-fighting and politicking as a waste of time; the Drox turn themselves away from the other guilds, looking fully to helping the Smallfolk rather than their own bickering sibling-guilds.

Queon:

Progress is the heart of every civilization, and the Queon Fraternity leads that movement with frenzied vigor. It was built during the Age of Heroes by Queon Toraendel, the eldest of the wizards and the first to explore the applications of magic in every day life. He brought together every curious mind he could find across the realm and set them to task finding a means to defeat the enemy through magic and knowledge, for the sword was beginning to fail them. It was only through Queon's genius that they discovered the means to shut down the portals that allowed the monstrosities to leak into the realm, and it was by the engineers at his side that they developed that discovery into useable technology- the same technology still employed by wayfarers so many years later.

Though curiosity remains at the center of everything the Fraternity does, a schism has broken out through their ranks with the introduction of the wayfarers. There are those who stick rigorously to the ethics Queon set out for them at the time of their founding, and those who see Queon's rules as unnecessary shackles to mankind's progress into the future. This schism is often seen as a battleground between the Sikth and Tyhrien, who both wish to see the Queons fall onto their side of the ideological 'debate.'
How many people do we have coming back from hiatus? Do we think many people just dropped completely?





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