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Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

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Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

I dab on all of you

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

A B A N D ON E D S T E E L W O R K S

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^{Night | Unknown, Somewhere in Connecticut}

The sound of crunching metal caused Clayton Burr to jolt awake. Dark splotches filled his vision for the first few disorientating seconds of consciousness. Blinking them away, Burr still couldn't quite tell where he was- shadows fell over most of his surroundings. A few overhead lights flickered a distance away, each flash revealing more of the room. The concrete floor was covered in broken glass, dirt, and discarded trash. The room itself was massive, taking up quite a few stories up and extending for at least hundreds of feet in every direction. All that distance was broken up by rows and rows of gargantuan, complex machinery whose purpose was entirely unknown to Clay.

He tried to bring his hands up to rub his eyes, only to find them bound together by something cold, hard, and sharp. His feet were dangling underneath him and he couldn't seem to find the floor no matter how far he stretched down. Something was suspending him in the air, though try as he might, he couldn't find a chain or rope attached to his person, and there didn't appear to be anything solid hoisting him up.

"What the hell is this?" Burr breathed, trying to make sense of it all. Last he could remember he was enjoying a late dinner with his wife, Marilyn. The cook had prepared an especially delicious main course of truffle tagliolini, and they'd even broken out the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti to celebrate the company's record-breaking earnings for that year. He...he remembered the power going out, too, right before they'd gotten to dessert. They'd just sent Mr. Brackett and the security team to investigate when someone broke down the front door and-

Well, he couldn't remember anything after that.

"This-" A voice suddenly called out from the darkness, just loud enough to be heard over the constant, methodical clanging of metal against metal. "This is a reckoning, Mr. Burr." A man, not young but not quite old, and with a hard to place accent. He was speaking from somewhere in the room beyond Clayton's vision, but it didn't take more than a couple of seconds of thought for it to dawn on Burr.

"You're him." Clayton rasped.

"There are many hims out in the world. You'll have to be more specific than that."

"You killed my son." Burr suddenly snapped, the rage overtaking any fear he'd felt before. "I've spent a lot of money trying to find you, n' you come right to me? You're real fucking stupid, pal, I'll tell ya that much."

His threatening words were met only with a laugh. A surprisingly light and mirthful one, lacking the harshness one would expect from an unrepent murderer. The bashing, metallic ringing came to a close, and silence fell over the rundown factory for several seconds. Then came the footsteps, and a pair of dirt-caked work boots appeared in the low light. They moved forward across the floor, bringing with them a similarly dusty pair of Levis, an old maroon shirt and the unassuming man that wore them. "That's funny. I've spent a great deal of time and effort trying to find you, too. Your son told me that you'd have the names I was looking for."

"What names?"

"Of your co-conspirators, of course," His captor spoke casually, pacing forward with his hands resting behind his back. Dressed as a working man though he was, his stride was almost regal. His diction that of an educated, well-read man. "You sold Roxxon's excess oil to the tyrants, yet those ships carried so much more on them. Weapons. Mercenaries. Lab equipment and construction materials. And those...curious little collars they use to keep my people under their heel. Does any of this sound familiar?"

Burr shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Genosha. Despite the sanctions, Roxxon's been doing business with Genosha's oligarchs under the table."

"I don't know anything about that!" He protested. "Roxxon- it's a big company, lotta moving parts-"

"If you intended to keep this a secret then keeping a ledger was quite the oversight." The stranger interrupted, bringing his hands around from behind his back. Clutched within them was a black book bound with leather. Unlabeled though it was, Burr recognized it immediately. This guy was serious- whoever he was.

Clayton's mouth went dry as he struggled against the strange binds that kept him suspended in the air. "Alright, f-fine. Ya caught me. But I'on't have any names for you. These ain't the type of guys that hand you a business card. They, y'know, they know how to cover their tracks."

"A trait you unfortunately lacked the foresight to mimic." His captor chuckled. "Despite that lapse in judgement, though, I know you're not stupid. This isn't the sort of operation a stupid man can run and get away with for so long. You wouldn't be working with strangers you knew nothing about. That's far, far too risky, no." He said with a finger pointed up toward Clayton. "You did your research into them, didn't you? You may not have gone far enough to get names, but...you have information I can use."

"And who the fuck are you?" Clayton let out a dogged laugh. "This ain't the kinda place the Feds would use. You a cape, like ol' Wonder Bra?"

The other man went silent and still. Stopped his pacing to stare up at Burr, a cool, indifferent sort of hate leaking from his steelish eyes. Clayton thought his blood mind flash freeze if he held his captor's gaze for a second too long and was forced to avert his own. Then, without his captor so much as twitching a finger, Burr felt a great pressure clamp down on both of his wrists, like some gargantuan thing had taken hold of each and was planning to snap them in two like twigs. Burr let out a agonized scream, the pain so monumental he hadn't even noticed that he was descending toward the ground.

"You took that luxury away from me." He spoke in a low tone, calm, yet with something terrible bubbling just underneath the surface. Something begging to be let out. "She and others like her had the luxury to be born in a place like this, where their gifts are seen as just that. Somewhere men like you haven't gotten your claws in yet. No, no. I can't afford heroism. My name is Erik, and I...I am fruit of your labor. And you're going to tell me everything I want to know."

Superboy's Shitty Characters

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

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^{_{KENT NELSON ♦ AGENT OF ORDER ♦ THE TOWER OF FATE ♦ NABU}}

♦ C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T ♦

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^{"I'm old, son. I've lived more lifetimes than most. Seen things you wouldn't believe- that nobody in their right mind would, really. Felt so much joy, love and hate that my heart can scarcely take anymore. Known pain beyond your wildest imagination. And power. Oh, what power I had. But that's all over now, isn't it? Because of my mistake. And now...now I've a choice to make. Not a hard one, though. What is one life compared to the fate of everything?"}

Kent Nelson has served as Doctor Fate since 1920, yet he's seen more than centuries of duty. Travelling across time and space alike he has done battle in the ancient past and in worlds far from our own. He has dueled Elder Things and Old Gods, walked among countless pantheons and struggled against terrors that could wipe humanity from all memory. As an Agent of Order he has served as a sentinel against the forces of Chaos- holding fast at the gates that guard all living things and never swaying from his post. In those hundred upon hundreds of years of service, time and power have slowly chipped away at Kent's humanity. Each foray into the darkest corners of the universe forces him to leave behind another piece of himself so that he might better serve Order. In his bid to protect us, Dr. Fate becomes less and less human everyday.

But it was arrogance, not humanity, that was his downfall. For as he built up his power, Dr. Fate believed he had discovered a means by which he might defeat Chaos once and for all. He attempted to confront a Lord of Chaos, the one called Mordru, and hoped to kill an aspect of Chaos. It was a foolhardy notion from the start, for the Lords of Order and Chaos are but vessels for abstract powers that have existed beyond existence, and shall continue to existence even after the death of our tiny, insignificant universe. The battle was short-lived, and Nelson's arrogance made his master, the Lord of Order known as Nabu, vulnerable. Mordru struck a mortal blow against Nabu, wounding his opposite through his connection to Dr. Fate and tipping the scales in the cosmic struggle between Order and Chaos in a way previously thought impossible.

Nabu's injury has left all agents of Order, Kent most of all, weaker and more vulnerable than ever. Even when wielding the Helmet of Fate, he is nothing compared to what he once was, and for the first time in centuries has found himself no match for old enemies like Klarion and Wotan. He finds himself in a desperate race to heal Nabu's wound and repair the balance of the cosmic scales before Chaos can consume Order in it's entirety. The fate of the universe has oft been at stake when Dr. Fate intervenes, but things have never felt so dire for Order's greatest champion.

♦ C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S ♦

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There's always been something fascinating to be about the higher concepts in comic books. One concept in particular that's always caught my imagination is the idea of godhood, and how access to unimaginable power might shape a person and their character. How having knowledge of the fundamental makeup of existence might change someone's entire perspective on existence, and whether or not such knowledge is even desirable. Dr. Fate presents a unique opportunity to explore godhood, and power, as he's both simultaneously a man and something...more.

In this re-imagining of Fate, Nelson has lost himself in the mantle of Dr. Fate. His connection to his own mortality has been severed by a hundred years of impossible power and a personal relationship with literal deities. Knowing the answers to our greatest mysteries has soured Kent to mankind. He's seen the worst of us over and over and over again, and his constant duty to protect them has made him very tired. The near-death of a Lord of Order and the loss of much of his power will tear him down from on-high and force him to confront how power has changed him, and how being Fate for so long has caused Kent to lose his way. This is the harshest wake-up call he's ever going to get, and he's going to get the chance to decide just how important his humanity is to him.

♦ C H A R A C T E R N O T E S ♦

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_{▼ S E A S O N O N E S U P P O R T I N G C A S T
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

♦ Jim Corrigan
^{Detective and (occasional) Host of the Spectre}

♦ Mitchell Shelly
^{AKA Resurrection Man, Superhero}

♦ Amy Winston
^{Exiled Princess of House Amethyst, teenager}

♦ Linda Strauss
^{Nurse, single mother}

♦ Eric Strauss
^{Student, 10 year old}

♦ Nabu
^{Lord of Order}

_{▼ S E A S O N O N E A N T A G O N I S T S
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}

♦ Klarion
^{Witchboy, mischievous and occasionally cruel}

♦ Fin Fang Foom
^Dragon

♦ Etrigan
^{Rhyming demon whose dreams drive men mad}

♦ Wotan
^{Immortal sorcerer and nemesis of Dr. Fate}

♦ Mordru
^{Lord of Chaos}

♦ S A M P L E P O S T ♦

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_{THE BOOK OF FATE}

Issue #1: HUMBLED

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_{Salem Willows Park ♦ Salem, Massachusetts}

The Price of Failure

Kent Nelson had sat on that bench many a time before. Sometimes with Inza. Sometimes alone. It'd been there for quite awhile in one form or another. His favorite was the wooden one, made from the same Willows planted all 'round him, that they'd put up way back in the 18th century. This one wasn't great, he had to admit. It's deep black, wrought iron frame was sturdy, sure, but it was so uncomfortable. He hated what it did to his back.

Hell of a view, though. Hell of a view. Especially now when the sun was starting to dip underneath the water of the Ram Horn, almost like the channel was swallowing Earth's star whole. It's light cascaded across the open water like God throwing stones across a pond. They shot out in a spray of a thousand, individual tendrils of fire that reached from the horizon all the way to the stony shore. Every time Kent saw it it took his breath away. He thought he'd caught lightning in a bottle, and the next time he sat on this bench, the majesty of it would disappear. It kept, somehow. And that made it all the more special.

It'd been far too long since the last time, he realized. He couldn't even remember when the last time was. Kent felt a tinge of guilt in his chest. The only reason he'd come back was because he had nowhere else to go now that the Tower of Fate was locked to him. And he had the audacity to stain this poor bench crimson. Terrible as it might be, it didn't deserve to be bled on.

"I've lost my way, haven't I?" He muttered, followed shortly by a sigh. A painful one. That last blow he'd taken to his side must've done more damage than he initially thought. Reaching down he pulled at the dark blue material of his costume, lifting it up to reveal the mangled flesh that still clung to his side. Blood, pus and dark magic dripped down it- all of it flowing from the big, ugly mark in the center.

Arrogant. Stupid. Reckless. He should've known challenging Mordru in his own domain was folly from the start, and yet the mighty Doctor Fate did it anyway. Threw himself into the fires of Hell and expected not to get burned. Even an amateur would've had the forethought to know it was a bad idea.

"But not you, right, Kent?" Nelson laughed, only for it to transition into thundering coughing fit. "Kent Nelson, biggest moron in the Nine Realms, at your service."

The helmet was sitting in his lap, those empty eye sockets glaring up at him. 'I told you so!' They seemed to scream. 'I told you how it'd end, but you went anyway, and now look what you've done to me!' The Helmet of Fate was older than anything Nelson had ever encountered. Though he'd found it in an Egyptian Tomb, even then he'd known it was far more ancient than the Pharaoh it'd been buried with. It'd spent the vast majority of its existence spotless. Shining, like polished gold. Now Kent looked down at it and saw that polish fading. He could see small cracks along the faceplate and the crown. He used think the thing was indestructible.

Just like him.

But Nobu was dying. The Lord of Order had gone silent. If it wasn't for his uneven breathing in the back of Nelson's soul, Dr. Fate would've thought him dead. But his time was running out, and when he went so too would Kent. And there was no telling when existence would join them. Could be tomorrow. Could be in a hundred thousand years. But without Nabu...Without all of the Lords of Order...

Time was going to run out eventually.

"Stupid, Nelson. Stupid, stupid, STUPID!" Dr. Fate roared as he leapt up from the bench where he sat. With a great heave of his arm he chucked the Helmet of Fate, watching it sail through the air until it landed like a stone in the Ram Horn channel. Despite it's weight it didn't sink. Instead, the helm floated atop the water, refusing to flow with the current. Just sat there, staring up at the rapidly darkening sky.

"I killed us." He breathed, falling back down on that uncomfortable seat. "I killed us all."

"Death's not so bad once ya get used to it." A gruff voice, corrupted by one too many cigars over the years, called from behind Kent.

"I need your help, old friend, n' it sounds like you need mine."

♦ P O S T C A T L O G ♦

---

THE BOOK OF FATE

♦ Issue #1 - Humbled

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

L O N G I S L A N D

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^{Night | Queens Borough, New York City}
Scott had never seen anyone move like that before. The masked man bent through the air like a leaf in the wind, sliding past two of the three projectiles with a disturbing ease, almost too quick for Summers to really register. Not quick enough, fortunately, to get out of the way of the third. The nail box nailed him and brought their prey to the ground. Scott slapped the steering wheel and let out a victorious whoop. "Nice shot, Jean!"

His celebration was cut short when he felt a sudden and violent lurch from underneath him.

The mutant they were after used something to gunk up the front axle of the car, halting all forward momentum of the wheels. The back two didn't get the memo that they were coming to a stop, and kept on pushing, sending the convertible careening out of control. Scott wrestled with the steering wheel to keep them upright while he jammed the brake as far down as he possibly could. The sound of his and Jean's screams filled the night sky as they started to spin.

"Shitshitshitshitshit-" Jean Grey spewed a string of panicked curses. She could feel the wheels underneath the car leaving the pavement, and they had all of a few seconds before they'd likely be squished into the concrete like a pair of jelly-filled donuts. It took half of that time to realize she actually had superpowers and could do something about it.

'Oh. Right!'

an invisible hand unclicked both Jean and Scott's seat belts, disconnecting themselves from the twisting metal shell that was moments from doing a cartwheel into some poor soul's front lawn. That same hand wrapped itself around both of the X-Men, dragging them together into a bundle and surrounding them with an unseen, protective bubble. It absorbed the impact of them slamming against the asphalt of the road, though when it popped it didn't top either of them from going into a painful roll that dragged them several feet across the street, ending in them both being a considerable distance apart...with one, particular masked man lying on the ground between them.

"You...asshole!" Jean screamed between rugged, pained breaths. She rolled over onto her belly, doing her best to get her bearings after doing one too many loopty-loops. I swear to God your face is gonna be a hamburger after I'm done with you!"

"...Not the car..." Scott managed to squeak, still squarely on his back and with a noticeable lack of glasses over his eyes. He was smart enough to keep them glued shut for the time being, but he was left rather handicapped without them.

Grey brought a fist down against the ground, forcing herself up. Unsteady feet didn't respond well to the command, yet she stood nonetheless, whether her legs felt like doing their job at the moment or not. She brushed her fiery locks out of her eyes and threw a hand back behind her, holding it toward the white, picket fence their foe had recently tumbled over. One of the pickets broke away from the horizontal rails. And then another. And another. They began to leap from the ground like they had a mind of their own, floating through the air in a congo line until they found their way around Jean's head where they began to form something of an orbit. "Y'got one chance to give it up, pal. Or you're in for a world of hurt."

Pariah Online III

can you make me one

Pariah Online III

_{:: the laughing worg tavern // thorinn ::}

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The plate of food set before Graves remained untouched, save for the occasional poke with a fork to give the impression that he was trying to eat. But he wasn't hungry. Not in the slightest.

Only a handful of days had passed since he and the rest of his party managed to escape that dungeon with their lives. He'd taken a rather nasty blow to the head that he could still feel the effects of ringing in the back of his skull like a phantom's bell. 'Course it wasn't the only thing from that fight that was bouncing around in his head, refusing to go away. Death was a strange thing. Graves had seen it a hundred times in Pariah, yet...something about that last one felt so much more real. The desperation on the other man's face as he tried to cling to life,to his last, precious few seconds in the world. It was nauseating just remembering it.

He wasn't the only one thinking about it. Rael said it aloud first. Brought all their fears and worries out into the open air to stew in that stinking tavern. "I'on't know, Red." He said with a heavy sigh. "Maybe everything."

Graves had shed his armor and other combat gear, leaving it behind in a pile in the room he'd rented out for the last couple of days. Most of it was in dire need of repair after Arnaakus nearly tore him in two. Part of him didn't want to even bother. With all the new bullshit they were learning about the game, he was becoming less and less comfortable running around in that suit. He felt naked in something so lightly armored. It might be worth it to just scrap his current gear and invest in a suit of half-plate for the time being. While they hid away in Thorinn he was comfortable enough in his normal attire, at least for now. A simple, hooded tunic of gray linen and a black jerkin pulled over it did more than enough to keep him warm.

Keeping warm. In a video game. 'God, nothin' makes much sense anymore, does it?'

He was torn from his thoughts at the sound of chair legs being dragged against wood. He looked up just in time to see Rael stand from the table and make her way to the door. "Where're you go-" He started to ask, only for her to interrupt with a non-answer and leave without another word. "...Or don't tell me. Fuckin' bitch." He snarled under his breath, letting his head fall into his hands so he could massage his temples. The headache was getting worse. They'd lost a man in the dungeons and a few more had abandoned the party the moment they'd gotten back to Thorinn- off to panic on their lonesome, Graves assumed. God knows why he hadn't walked away, too. Babysitting had never been his strong suit, and keeping some, unnamed members of that party together was like herding cats.

Sighing, he did his best to reset himself and looked out over the rest of the party. "Alright guys," he started, sitting up. "It's been a couple'a days and we haven't gotten any word on when we can get outta here. We can't sit around drinkin' our troubles away forever, so...what'do we do next?"

---

Superboy's Shitty Characters

_{:: the laughing worg tavern // thorinn ::}

---

The plate of food set before Graves remained untouched, save for the occasional poke with a fork to give the impression that he was trying to eat. But he wasn't hungry. Not in the slightest.

Only a handful of days had passed since he and the rest of his party managed to escape that dungeon with their lives. He'd taken a rather nasty blow to the head that he could still feel the effects of ringing in the back of his skull like a phantom's bell. 'Course it wasn't the only thing from that fight that was bouncing around in his head, refusing to go away. Death was a strange thing. Graves had seen it a hundred times in Pariah, yet...something about that last one felt so much more real. The desperation on the other man's face as he tried to cling to life,to his last, precious few seconds in the world. It was nauseating just remembering it.

He wasn't the only one thinking about it. Rael said it aloud first. Brought all their fears and worries out into the open air to stew in that stinking tavern. "I'on't know, Red." He said with a heavy sigh. "Maybe everything."

Graves had shed his armor and other combat gear, leaving it behind in a pile in the room he'd rented out for the last couple of days. Most of it was in dire need of repair after Arnaakus nearly tore him in two. Part of him didn't want to even bother. With all the new bullshit they were learning about the game, he was becoming less and less comfortable running around in that suit. He felt naked in something so lightly armored. It might be worth it to just scrap his current gear and invest in a suit of half-plate for the time being. While they hid away in Thorinn he was comfortable enough in his normal attire, at least for now. A simple, hooded tunic of gray linen and a black jerkin pulled over it did more than enough to keep him warm.

Keeping warm. In a video game. 'God, nothin' makes much sense anymore, does it?'

He was torn from his thoughts at the sound of chair legs being dragged against wood. He looked up just in time to see Rael stand from the table and make her way to the door. "Where're yo-" But she was already gone before he could so much as finish asking the question. "Fuckin' bitch." He snarled under his breath, letting his head fall into his hands so he could massage his temples. The headache was getting worse. They'd lost a man in the dungeons and a few more had abandoned the party the moment they'd gotten back to Thorinn- off to panic on their lonesome, Graves assumed. God knows why he hadn't walked away, too. Babysitting had never been his strong suit, and keeping some, unnamed members of that party together was like herding cats.

Sighing, he did his best to reset himself and looked out over the rest of the party. "Alright guys," he started, sitting up. "It's been a couple'a days and we haven't gotten any word on when we can get outta here. We can't sit around drinkin' our troubles away forever, so...what'do we do next?"

---

Blood Reigns Over Westeros: A Song of Ice & Fire Story (Accepting Player Proposals)

the absolute madlad actually did it

Superboy's Shitty Characters

House Information

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My Hider

Synopsis

Founded in the Age of Heroes by Brandon the Builder, the Starks have ruled in the North for thousands of years- first as the Kings of Winter and now the Wardens of the North. Having narrowly survived the War of the Five Kings and the Long Night, the Starks have spent the last eighty years in relative isolation from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, attempting to deal with their own internal squabbles. They've invested a great deal of resources into shoring up the Neck and rebuilding their fleet at White Harbor, and have begun securing alliances with other Great Houses to ensure the North never falls again.

Head of House

Lord Theon Stark

Seat

Winterfell

Demesne

House Manderly of White Harbor
House Glover of Deepwood Motte
House Umber of Last Hearth
House Dustin of Barrow Hall
House Karstark of Karhold
House Reed of Greywater Watch
House Ryswell of The Rills
House Flint of Flint’s Fingers
House Mormont of Bear Isle
House Thenn of Dreadfort
House Redbeard of Sea Dragon Point

Recent History

Rickon Stark 306 - 340 AC

After the ascension of Queen Daenerys Targaryen to the Iron Throne and the death of Jon Snow, House Stark was left to lick its wounds and pick up the pieces of what remained. Many of its surviving members left Winterfell to pursue their own ends: Sansa to the Vale to live out her life as an Arryn, Brann traveled Beyond the Wall to continue his mysterious duties as the Three-Eyed Raven, and Arya vanished in the night, never to be heard from again. Only Rickon Stark, barely more than a boy, was left to rebuild.

And there was much rebuilding to be done. The Long Night had ravaged the North, all the way from the Last Hearth down to the tip of the Neck. Even Winterfell had fallen to the armies of the dead, forcing the Northmen to ride south of the Trident until the Night King was eventually defeated. Returning home brought no shortage of monumental challenges, and without the support of the other kingdoms and the Iron Throne, the North might never have returned to its former glory.

Men helped for as long as the memory of winter remained. Compassion and unity rebuilt many of the fortresses, towns, and villages that the dead had torn apart, but it couldn't last forever. As time ran on and the years passed away, the apocalypse became a distant recollection, and aid came in smaller and smaller supply until it eventually ran wholly dry. Rickon, now an old man with graying hair and a litter of children to call his own, begged Daenerys for further gold dragons to complete reconstruction- his requests were denied, and he was sent home with a hardened heart.

Jon Stark 340 - 378 AC

Rickon took ill not long after returning home from King's Landing, and though he fought the disease for weeks, eventually succumbed. Jon, thirty-one at the time of his father's passing, took poorly to the news that the Iron Throne had abandoned them. He set to work finding the necessary resources elsewhere: new, harsh taxation on his vassals brought in the dragons he needed, but also a sleuth of consequences. The newly christened houses of Thenn and Redbeard, unused to such burdens, pushed back hard against their new lord's legislation. Jon attempted to persuade them with diplomacy but found such methods inadequate with the former Wildings. Rather than concede to them, however, he chose force. He personally rode to Sea Dragon Point and the Dreadfort with a small company of veteran warriors to see the collection done at the tip of lance and sword. Both Houses complied, but they wouldn't soon forget how their Lord responded to disagreement.

Reconstruction continued briskly with the newly acquired coinage. Every fief and holdfast was returned to its former glory over the decade's long project, and a number of new villages were built up with some of the excess to make room for the new Freefolk immigrants. The worst of the afflicted noble Houses, the Umbers, were ecstatic to see their land refurbished and their halls ring with the joy of feasting once again, and their relationship with House Stark quickly flourished. A betrothal between the young heir Dorren Umber and Jon's sister, Jocelyn, was set up, and they were wed in the spring of 354 AC.

That wedding was not without incident, unfortunately. Lords from all across the North had ridden to Last Hearth to attend, including the hot-blooded Lord of the Redbeards, Bael, son of Gerrick Kingsblood. Bael got considerably drunk during the feast that followed the wedding and went on a long and angry tirade about the Battle at Long Lake that had claimed the life of his ancestor, Raymund Redbeard, and many other members of his family. His words were met by the ill-placed goading of one similarly young and drunk Lord Osric Umber. The two came to blows in short order, and soon enough their retinues joined into the brawl.

No one knows who drew the first blade, but blood was drawn between the Redbeards and the Umbers. The melee was quick, chaotic and brutal; Osric was heavily wounded and succumbed to his injuries later that night, while Bael was able to escape back to Sea Dragon Point with what few of his surviving men remained. Jon took his brother, Willam, and a collection of bannermen and warriors to drag Osric from his keep to see justice for the murder of Lord Umber. They were ambushed before they'd even arrived at the holdfast, and a series of violent skirmishes ensued as Jon and his men pressed toward the keep. There they found Bael and his men held up with the gates barred and ready for a fight.

Rather than risk more bloodshed in either storming the keep or besieging it, however, Jon attempts to negotiate with Bael. It took several days of back-and-forth, but the Lord Paramount and his vassal eventually reached an accord. In exchange for relaxed taxation and forgiveness for his murderous and treasonous acts, Bael must swear that neither he nor any of his descendants would ever again take up arms against House Stark, on pain of death. The decision was...controversial, to say the least, and Jon continued to receive criticisms for the way he handled the situation until the day he died.

Theon Stark 378 - 379 AC

And die he did in 378 when the front axle of his carriage came loose and he was sent careening off the side of the road. Theon was among the riders that pulled Jon's body from the wreckage. He returned his father's body to the crypt under Winterfell, and was crowned Warden of the North shortly after. His untimely death has left the North in equal parts mourning and chaos as unruly vassals look to challenge Theon's authority now that his father has passed. Whispers of Theon's ill temperament travel across the North, and more than a few wonder if he'll be able to hold the region together.

Realm Relations

House Tyrell
The Reach is a distant land full of strange, southron men, and House Tyrell is no different. The Starks hold no ill-will toward the flower lords, but find little reason to care for their troubles. Jon Stark put what effort he could in delivering relief supplies to the starving Reachmen, for what it's worth, though such a policy has yet to be put in place by his successor.

House Martell
TBD

House Tully
TBD

House Baratheon
There is only one Great House in all of Westeros that boasts the trust of the Starks, and that's House Baratheon. Ever since Lyonel warded under Jon the two families have grown inseparably close, with the Baratheons often going to painful lengths to visit Winterfell as often as they can. Theon looks to Lyonel as something of an older brother and a pseudo mentor, and someone he can trust to have his back no matter the circumstance. Though the two don't always see eye to eye, Theon's loyalty to his family remains steadfast and unshakable, and he considers Lyonel as much a part of that family as anyone with Stark for a surname.

House Targaryen
Though Jon and Daenerys's love was strong, for a time, the loss of the last King in the North during the Long Night brought a swift end to their alliance. Rickon served the queen as best he could yet found himself scorned all the same, and no Stark since him has bothered to ask anything of the Iron Throne. Isolationist tendencies continue to go on strong under Theon with no end in sight.

House Lannister
The hate between the Lannisters and the Starks runs deep. Even with the deaths of Twyin and the whole of his line, the Red Wedding is not easily forgotten, and never forgiven. Their relationship is tense in the best of circumstances, and near-violent at it's worst. Attempts were made to stem previous hatreds under Jon Stark, but his son, Theon, doesn't plan to continue down that path.

House Arryn
TBD

House Greyjoy

The Ironborn and the Northmen are traditional enemies and rivals with a long and storied history of conflict between them. Though the sacking of Winterfell has effectively been scrubbed from the history books thanks to Rickon, there's little left good will between the two Houses, even if the bloodshed came to an end when Daenerys rose to power.

House Velaryon

TBD

Storyline Premise

Duty, honor, loyalty and family have all been central themes of House Stark's story. I intend to continue each of these threads in my own way, testing them all against one another. The conflict created by these themes contradicting one another will be critical to Theon's progression and development as a character, and in the end he'll be forced to abandon some of them so that he may pursue others to their logical end.

Character Information

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My Hider

Identity

Lord Theon Stark

Age

32

Role

Warden of the North
Lord of Winterfell

Characterization

Theon Stark has only recently taken his father's place as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. As such, he remains untested, though he's eager to prove himself. He had plenty of time to study the ways of lordship under Jon- he's well-read, particularly in matters of statecraft, warfare and history. He's taken an interest in his family history in particular, ranging all the way back to Brandon the Builder, the Kings of Winter and everything before and after them. Even at a young age he seemed taken by the legends of the mighty heroes and conquerors that built his House. He looks at the sorry state of his family now and yearns to see it brought back into glory- to see that it's name is as feared and respected as it was in the days of old.

His ambition and zealousness are not tempered by patience as they should be. Theon never quite lost the fire of youth, and it's carried with him in the form of both great passion as well as ill-temperament. Quick to anger and reveling in loathing, he's known to bear grudges for great lengths of time, and his forgiveness is a rare and precious thing. The only thing that's ever proven to keep him in line is the wisdom and advice of those few people he truly respects.

The things he chooses to respect in others are informed, primarily, by what his family's best known for: honor, duty, and loyalty.

True men of loyalty, who stick by their brothers no matter the personal cost, are seen as a precious commodity by Theon. He feels quite strongly that many of his bannermen are only loyal when it suits them, and that they would turn on the Starks the moment things became difficult: as proven by the betrayal of the Boltons and those that bent the knee to them so long ago.

Duty is loyalty of a different form. It is loyalty to an ideal rather than any individual, and for that reason Theon holds it quite highly too. Holding to one's cause even in the face of death is the truest test of a man's character, and more often than not men fail that test. Those that don't, however, must be men of great character and quality.

Honor is the one value of Theon's family he is unsure of. To hold to a personal code of conduct is, in a way, a form of loyalty or duty; but it entails with it a number of traits that Theon believes led to the downfall of many of his ancestors, namely Robb and Eddard. Aspects of honor- such as compassion, honesty, and chivalry- created a weakness in his family that was exploited by honorless men and traitors alike. Honor nearly wiped his family off of the map. And yet, at the same time, it could be argued that honor was the reason the Starks rose to prominence in the first place. It's a confusing and often contradictory thing that Theon continues to wrestle with, and likely will do for a long time to come.

Attributes & Talents

Theon Stark is well-trained in every aspect of lordship. From riding to swordfighting and statecraft to diplomacy, he spent the first two and a half decades of his life preparing to eventually become the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. He's became quite proficient in most of those areas, taking well especially to those skills that gave him an outlet for his anger- swordsmanship in particular. Though not a master at much at all, he's a well-rounded man, capable of acting with competency in almost any situation, bar those where delicate diplomacy is required.

Immediate Family

Theon is the only child of Jon Stark and Leona Manderly. He has three children through his wife, Lyanna Baratheon:

Harlon Stark, the eldest at 10 and heir of Winterfell
Edrick Stark, middle child at 8
Sara Stark, lone daughter and youngest at 6

Other, less immediate family includes Willam Stark, Theon's uncle, and Cregan Umber, his cousin, as well as Cregan's children Robyn and Eyron.

Personal Relations

Lyonel Baratheon

TBD

Axel Baratheon

TBD

Brus Baratheon

TBD

Garth Tyrell

TBD

Randyl Tyrell

TBD