It was a stormy, tumultuous night in which Ernest Shackleton's ship, 'Endurance', was lost at sea. Greatly distressed, certain governments fretted over the disappearance of the ship, which had been sent to search for traces of the rare and valuable metal - vibranium. It was with promises to a dying friend that Captain Leonard McKenzie departed on his vessel - the 'Oracle' - accompanied by a small crew including one Paul Destine. They were bound for Antartica, towards the last known location of Shackleton's ship and the vibranium rumoured to reside close by. However, Destine had his own motives. The beginning of a violent barrage upon the icy expanses awoke the Captain and his crew on one winter morning in 1920. The mysterious Paul Destine had fired upon a large tower of ice, and the water around it - causing huge slides of ice to barrel into the sea, and onto the Oracle, and loud echoes to careen all around. In the ensuing chaos, some of the crew were knocked unconscious and others were killed by the avalanche. Destine vanished, and it was then that a mysterious woman - straying too far from her home - heard the explosions and rushed to investigate. Leonard McKenzie would have drowned in the freezing depths if not for her powerful swimming and caring personality. The two spent the next three days in a small cave system protruding from a rocky outcrop out of the sea, and consequentially fell in love through her healing of him and his teaching of English, among other things, to her. She was Princess Fen, daughter of the ruler of Atlantis - Thakorr. It would not be revealed until later, but a human and Atlantean hybrid had been conceived over those fateful days - and he was more besides. The Oracle's crew had recuperated, and had been searching frantically for McKenzie and Paul Destine. They found Leonard, well rested and healthy, on the outcrop and subsequently rescued him. The Captain did not share his experience with his crew, thinking that they would not believe him - even ridicule him, and he could be passed off as mentally unstable therefore endangering his career. It was always a mystery to everyone, however, how Leonard had survived in the empty caves, and where Destine's unrecovered corpse had ended up, if indeed there was a corpse...

Prince Namor was born to Princess Fen in late 1920, and his birth was a matter of much debate. His skin's hue, that of the distrusted and disliked humans, designated him as a half-breed - a phenomena that was rarely if ever seen among the Atlanteans. It is undoubtable that Namor and his mother would have been exiled if not for their royal station, yet Thakorr was a proud man and he deeply loved his daughter, meaning Fen was forgiven her escapade with the human Captain upon confession, and Namor was still looked upon as next in line for the throne of Atlantis. This development in the royal family meant that the intended ruler before Namor's emergence, the son of Thakorr by his second wife - Byrrah - was overtaken by the white-skinned Namor. The two cousins grew up together, and Byrrah acquiesced to learn to live in Namor's shadow, though his relation with Namor darkened as Byrrah grew cold and vengeful at being ousted to the throne by a half-breed, and an arrogant young man who constantly proved his superiority.

Namor was raised as a future monarch, enjoying splendour and sumptuous quality in everything from an early age. The constant praising and attention moulded Namor's personality, making him contemptuous of others and verging on narcissistic. These were qualities that often prevented the young Prince from gaining friends, meaning he often had to command others to be around him. On the other hand, Namor was a naturally good man - he always did what he thought best for his home and its people, and he was not inimical in any way to Atlantis.

As he matured, Namor found himself developing abilities further than those common to the Homo mermanus race - a decreased rate of ageing, for one, even more so than that which gave Atlanteans an extended lifespan in comparison to the human race. Namor's half-breed heritage allotted him a strange quality - he was able to breathe both within and outside of water. The physical qualities of the Atlanteans that included augmented strength, speed, stamina and more besides were only enhanced at the cusp of adulthood. And, strangest of all, he developed vestigial wings on his ankles that allowed him to reach much greater speeds than normal while swimming and even to sustain flight for periods provided enough momentum was supplied. Namor was seen in a new, more respectful light by the commonfolk of Atlantis - and it seemed more than ever that the Prince would become a most efficient monarch.

Namor had not experienced a great deal of contact with the human race throughout his childhood, despite his partial heritage. Namor was indeed aware of his father's identity and the race he belonged to, yet due to the widespread outlook on the humans as subservients to the Atlanteans, and the evidence of their primal hostile nature he likely maintained a mental disassociation separating himself from the bulk of the humans. He was technically only physically related to them in terms of his hue and his father, meaning Namor could look on them as lesser beings, and the few humans he met throughout his early life did not change that statement. However, with the eminence of the Second World War constantly rising, Namor eventually found himself with a fist to a Nazi war plane and his precious waters being infiltrated by Axis soldiers. He temporarily put aside his utter disdain of the Americans he was positioned close to in order to combat their mutual enemies that held potentially violent intentions towards Namor and his homeland. Namor fought for years against the Axis forces, often alone but occasionally he would find himself fighting in the vicinity of the famed Captain America or an enigma named the Human Torch. This laid the precedent for Namor's involvement in a team with several other 'golden age', as there were to be known, heroes. The end of World War II in 1945 did not completely end Namor's dedicated plight against the enemies - an elite division named HYDRA had occupied his attention on multiple occasions, and there was often a force that needed to be taken down. HYDRA was the primary reason for Namor's joining of the so-called 'Invaders' , led by a soldier named Jeffrey Mace. They were a covert-ops team dedicated to fighting the remnants of HYDRA and countless other villains from the Orient and elsewhere. Namor became a vital part of the team, taking part in missions a lot of the time in the ten years of his involvement. Alas, a task given in the midst of the year 1958 developed into a catastrophic situation, that left Thakorr dead upon his throne and Princess Fen bleeding at his feet. Namor had returned to Atlantis to find a crazed old man - an enigmatic crown upon his head which sported curling and twisted serpents that seemed preternaturally alive - destroying his city and its people. The man, whom appeared impossibly powerful, was none other than the long lost Paul Destine, from the 'Oracle's' journey almost four decades earlier. He had murdered Namor's mother and grandfather, devastated his home and killed many of the Atlanteans.

The powerful Prince of Atlantis had thrown himself at Destine, as the man levitated metres above the ocean, laughing with an inhuman mentality. The holder of the serpentine crown, however, was well aware of Namor's expansive strength and speed and had prepared for such an eventuality. Namor was never to discover the basis behind Destine's ruthless attack upon Atlantis, for the power bestowed upon the old man was thrust at the Atlantean, permeating his brain and then his very being. Namor collapsed into the sea, with Destine retreating soon after. Hours later, Namor had washed up on the shore beside an old New York port, bedraggled and weak. Namor's signature underwear garb, supposedly adorned with scales from the Lemurian's god - Set - was discarded and replaced by the garments of a derelict tramp, for Namor had lost his memory due to Destine's attack, and not one man would heed or help him to discover who he was.

The lost Atlantean fell into an irrevocable situation of obscurity and poverty. Scraping through only by the serendipity of the various flophouses that decorated the district of New York named the Bowery, and the unclear reasoning for his augmented well-being, Namor lived homeless for decades, accompanied by personas such as the codependent alcoholic John Mahoney and the old rambler Sunshine Mary.

Namor was quiet and cold in those days, choosing to fret silently over his own problems instead of consult others with them. He was afflicted, with no previous knowledge of anything different, with the otherworldly wings fused to his ankles, and the queer pointed tips of his ears. Namor heard throughout the last decades of the 20th Century of the 'mutants' that lived among and around them. They were popularly looked on with disgust and fear, emotions that Namor did not entice having awarded to him if he spoke out. Yet, he was not so dim-witted even with his erased memory that he could not come to the conclusion that he himself was a mutant. It was a viable explanation for Namor to discount his mysterious physiology, and the fact that he sometimes craved water - no matter how dirty - in order to achieve sufficient sustenance. On one occasion, when one of the many vandal societies decided to set a cramped flophouse alight, Namor was caught in the path of Sunshine Mary's salvation bucket full of water and thus was drenched him thoroughly. Quickly, the laconic and meek-looking man grew in size and stature temporarily, with the then sober Mahoney as a witness. John had known of the once nicknamed 'Sub-Mariner' throughout his service in the War, and the man made the connections within his head that day on a late October evening in 1984, that Namor and the then nicknamed 'Old Man' were one and the same. He had lived for decades in the area, and John himself had known him for at least a couple of them - yet the man had never seemed to drastically age, not as he should have. The nickname of the 'Old Man' was given more as a mental jibe than a physical one, as Namor spoke little and acted as bent and broken in most of his actions. John had thought about revealing the truth to the Atlantean as he had figured out about the half-breed's amnesia, but John's sobriety was only ever maintained by Namor - who would talk with Mahoney and throw his alcohol away in the fear that John would drink himself past the point of return. John needed Namor, and though reluctantly, he decided to obfuscate the truth from the 'Old Man' that huddled himself in the flophouse's corners and pondered for hours on end.

A cool night in the late nineties finally approached, with Namor partially content with his life as a grunt worker for a drug running operation. The money from the job allowed him to rent a room in the same dim lit street that the shop resided on, with a broken-springed bed and a gutter view out into the red light district of a part of New York City. Namor had worked hard to evict himself from the homeless lifestyle, skulking on street corners and barely surviving on the meagre food provided. Through countless small operations and tasked he had managed to take part in throughout his flophouse years, Namor had eventually worked up a list of contacts - a couple of which that required his ubiquitous presence in a different district. He had moved to a more profitable, albeit more dangerous neighbourhood. The gang crime ran far and fast, with petty groups working under more sinister operations such as the powerful 'Kingpin Syndicate' and occasionally a skirmish perpetrated by 'The Foot'. With Namor's unexplained combat prowess, he found himself capable of living under these circumstances. For a time, he even put some attention into combating the gangs of the night, though this ended on the mentioned night in 1999 where a ranking member of the 'Kingpin Syndicate' targeted the decrepit man who had been inexplicably defeating entire groups of criminals throughout the nights. Namor had been captured by many powerful men, knocked unconscious and thrown over the fence on one of the inconspicuous docks - possibly even the same one he had washed in on decades earlier. Namor had awoke to a burlap sack over his head and several cinderblocks tying him down to the ocean floor. Yet he was alive. And, miraculously, he could remember certain things from before his arrival in the New York Bowery - and more memories were reaching him every minute. Perhaps it was the power restored to him by the exposed time in the water, or the wearing off of the Serpent Crown's influence over time, but Namor had become himself again. After decades wasted on a pitiful and meaningless life, Namor had rediscovered himself as an Atlantean - and the homecoming Prince of Atlantis.

Namor was overrun with emotions and memories from the first moments of his recollection. His mother and grandfather were dead, murdered at the hands of an unfamiliar yet powerful face. Who had acceded to the throne? Had Atlantis even survived the serpent crowned man's attack? What had become of the Invaders, John Mahoney, the rest of his Atlantean family? He had memories of two lives, one of a brash and supreme Prince of the Sea, and the other of a broken yet strong crime-fighting criminal. The revelation and conclusion of Namor's mutant state was both true and untrue in his mind. The instant mixing and conflict of his memories hurt him mentally, and Namor had to spend a few days recuperating and puzzling his life over the last few decades out. As he waited, however, Namor grew more restless and angry. A human had killed his people and destroyed his home. Humans had spat on the weak and homeless for years upon years with no change. Humans had stabbed people and killed innocents right in front of him. Humans had ruined the world that they had inherited. Namor had swam far as his patience and pondering climaxed, swimming ceaselessly towards the site where beauteous Atlantis, his home, hopefully still lay. Instead he found a graveyard, with countless commemorations littering the seabed. At the forefront were two large crosses, the names 'Thakorr' and 'Fen' carefully inscribed into the stone.

Something within Namor snapped at that, seeing the devastation he did not prevent. Because he was too busy helping the humans, their accursed polluting primitive race that could not walk on their own two legs without the help of greater beings. He surged out of the water at inhuman speeds, barrelling furiously through the air towards the city - any city - in the distance.
"Namor!" Came the cries of the bewildered yet excited throngs as they noticed the figure speeding towards them. "Sub-Mariner!"
They cried not in enthusiasm, but in terror, as he plummeted through the first building. Hours later, and decades worth of pent up rage spent, Namor stood still by the sea, blood on his hands and smoke and fire filling the air behind him. Any positive relation or reputation he had attained with humanity was almost certainly now revoked. He was looked at as a terrorist, a conquering fish-man jealous of the heights humanity had reached. Namor had never hated them so much. He retreated to the ocean, intent only on finding any sign or remnant of his precious people. He swam past oil spills, crude industrial fortresses in the sea, marine life murdered to be served on human palettes. Namor vowed to himself then to never work alongside them again, as well as to discover any information of the man who had destroyed Atlantis. Revenge was chief of all his goals, and he had gained one true enemy for his cause - humanity itself. But first he wished to find his people. Namor spent years, hunting scraps of Atlantean garb and chasing delusions of blue-skinned creatures. The Atlanteans were an oasis in the watery desert that he just could not find - no matter how hard he looked. Then, unbelievably, as he travelled through the midst of the Atlantic Ocean, a heavily armed party of Atlanteans stumbled upon him - as recognition and a flurry of emotions overwhelmed them. The men were overjoyed but anxious at seeing Namor, and as they immediately began to return to the new Atlantis with the Prince in tow, they told him all of the recent histories of the Atlanteans and their plight. Many had escaped after the destruction of Atlantis, and their sudden loss of refuge had prompted a response of leadership. Lady Dorma, Namor's distant cousin, and Warlord Seth had risen to the occasion - though the plotting Byrrah opposed their authority. Byrrah exploited his royal position to take control of the throngs of homeless Atlanteans, though it was still Dorma and Seth whom led them in spirit. They had wandered beneath the sea for an uncharted time, hiding fearfully from nearby humans and the various dangers of the deep. It was a sudden surprise when Byrrah suddenly stopped and announced that they had arrived at the foundations of New Atlantis - a city that was to be twice as ornate and beauteous as the original Sunken City. Based on the fortuitous geography and biology of a location a few miles further north, Warlord Seth had advised against choosing the first random place that seemed fit, but Byrrah blatantly ignored him - proving his stubborn nature that Namor remembered as one of his foremost flaws. Byrrah had put the Atlanteans to work on the structures without delay, acting in all aspects as the new monarch of the people. Many said that he was even happy that Namor had been lost, meaning he could usurp the position that had been denied to him his entire life. Following the long while of labouring away building the lavish Kingdom and the accession of King by Byrrah, the Atlanteans returned to their old customs and settled into a calmer way of living. Byrrah became more reserved and untrusting than he had ever been - consumed with the fact that anyone and everyone were willing to take the throne that he had been told would never be offered to him. His intentions for the Atlanteans were well-founded, but he lacked the strength and the talent at diplomacy - much less the ability to rule a complex Kingdom. It had been Namor who had been prepared for these tasks, and Byrrah found himself losing control of the people and sections of New Atlantis as quickly as he had gained them. Angered at his inability, he restored to force - striking those who hesitated even for a second at his actions and doing far worse to those that disobeyed him. If anything, this tactic only increased the amount of opposers to his reign. Yet, the people did nothing to overthrow the failed King - instead acknowledging the ancient and sacred tradition of royal lineage. Even Dorma and Seth, whom had positions of management over their respective fields, could do little to sway or even advise the King. Thus, the inimical Byrrah remained King to the present, slowly eroding the sanctity of the fabled Kingdom and twisting the Atlanteans into weak and impoverished versions of themselves.

Namor shook his head at the news with disbelief. He could not comprehend that his own blood would discard and usurp his long-awaited position so quickly, as well as disgrace Thakorr's glorious reign. True enough, a leader had been needed - but not a self-proclaimed King. Also, from what he had heard it sounded as if Dorma and Seth had led in truth and Byrrah had claimed all the credit. He may have had been next in line for the throne, but Namor had returned - and if his step-brother did not willingly relinquish his undeserved position as King, then Namor would have to take it from him.

New Atlantis is an expansive Kingdom in the form of a singular city that has been continuously expanded and developed for close to four decades. The Atlantean style of architecture is varied from that of human buildings, as the pressure on the seabed requires more sturdy and thick foundations to properly secure the structures built on them. New Atlantis makes use of many large open areas as anything from communal spaces to combat arenas. The utilisation of smaller compact buildings is rarer, though they are used for service related facilities such as housing. To retain the integrity and usability of items such as books and various foods, operational breathing devices used for Atlanteans to survive in water free locations - devised by members of Thakorr's research division - are required. The most common materials applied for building are reinforced smooth stone, marble and wood - though other substances such as glass and metal are also recommended. The overall size of New Atlantis is around one hundred square kilometres of wide, flat buildings and ostentatious structures. It resides on the northern segment of the Hatteras Abyssal Plain in the Atlantic Ocean, with the northernmost edge visible in the distance by onlookers from New York City.

Allies

Lady Dorma - A prestigious noble and distant cousin of Namor. She has dusky blue skin as permits her race, piercing blue eyes and soft, flowing auburn hair reaching down to her upper breast. She is lean and shapely, reaching a height of five feet and ten inches. Patient and caring, she tries to treat all creatures as equals. Comely and often coquettish, she pursues romance with enthusiasm and has little fondness for combat.

Warlord Seth - A devoted loyalist once to Thakorr, and now sworn to support Namor. He sports unruly black hair, and dull blue-green eyes. His face is rugged and is often caked with stubble. He is physically strong and prefers static, defensive combat over speed and positioning. He is secretly enamoured with the Lady Dorma, though his station forbids any serious relationship between the two.

Much of the general Atlantean population.

Enemies

King Byrrah the Second - A stubborn, jealous type, and Namor's childhood companion. He towers at almost seven feet tall, with long blond locks curling down to his neck. He maintains a neat goatee, and often wears garments that reveal his chest and legs to show off his muscular prowess. He is the first son of Thakorr by his second wife, and thoroughly detests Namor who arrived out of the blue and as a half-breed, yet still stole the position of next in line to the throne from under Byrrah's large nose. He feels that it is his destiny to be King of Atlantis, and he cannot stand critics of his performance or rivals to the throne.

Paul Destine - Despite the yet unknown reason for Destine's destruction of the original Atlantis, Namor has vowed to murder the mysterious figure if they ever meet again. As the possessor of the ancient Serpent Crown, Paul exercises unbelievable abilities from mind control to ruthless bolts of energy. Kept alive for decades through the power of the mystifying Crown, Destine nevertheless looks as old as a man of nearly a hundred years old would look. His long grey beard grows untempered and his hair remains as pitiful wisps of white. He is half crazed and his eyes emit a vibrant luminous green aura. His current position is unknown.

Vast populations of Northern Americans and governments of countries that used to be part of Axis. Basically humanity in general without any precedent exceptions Namor has made.

Others

Warlord Krang - A hulking brute of a man, and one of very few fiercely loyal to Byrrah. Krang was a simple military guard throughout Thakorr's reign, but showing his devotion and subservience to the usurper Byrrah, he has been promoted to the commander of the Atlantean military. He is bald and a believer in the lesser known Elder God, Cyttorak. He is ambitious and short tempered, and entertains no act of offence unto his King, resorting sometimes unnecessarily to brute force.

John Mahoney - Now an old man but as yet still alive, and completely sober for fifteen years. John lives in a retirement community on the outskirts of the Bowery, often thinking of Namor and the years they shared together. He will always be grateful to the Atlantean for helping him with his alcoholic tendencies, and to Sunshine Mary - deceased as of the millennium - for being a ubiquitous friend to him.

Unknown descendants of the McKenzie family.

Vashti, an elderly Atlantean worker.

Namor's solemn cousin, Namora, working as a teacher to the young of New Atlantis.

The barbaric undersea pirate Attuma.

The condensed community of Lemurians, led by the High Priest Naga.

Footsteps. Killgrave melded into the wall at his back, the first signs of sweat glistening on his forehead and smooth-shaven face. Melvin Potter stood at the other side of an intersection in the facility, a T-junction connecting the outer corridors and a passage into the receiving bay for deliveries. Coincidence had been married to opportunity when the Shadow Conquerors were formulating this plan - Potter was stationed as a security guard for the side entrance on the west side of the facility, and beyond those doors was the position of the new guard - the late Sokovian that Potter had viciously murdered - and the hallways he was assigned to monitor. Killgrave was garbed in an identical copy of an official government uniform. It had been one of the foremost issues, as the man chosen for the new guard position was much smaller than Zebediah, and they had no other opportunity to acquire another official outfit. However, Potter had stepped up then, stating with an unperturbed hubris that he was 'pretty skilled at costume designing'.
The approaching footsteps belonged to, as far as Killgrave could guess, the supervisor of the new guard - and as it was among his first nights of duty there would be some routine inspections to undertake. Potter had mused upon this in one of the preparation lectures, and so each of the operatives were outfitted with silencers for their pistols. Killgrave now gripped the weapon firmly in his hands as the footsteps neared the turning point. He glanced over at Potter, whom indicated with some curt hand gestures that he would distract the oncoming guard. Killgrave nodded in response, just as the body of the government man moved into sight.

"Hey." Melvin rasped quietly and harshly, causing the guard to jump in shock and fumble for the sub machine gun strapped into a holster about his waist. Killgrave rapidly moved in behind him while the guard was focused on Potter, and he thrust his hand over the man's mouth to stop him from crying out for help. Zebediah precisely jolted the man in the underside of his knee, bringing him down to the rough, white-washed ground beneath them. Potter wasted no time, butting the end of the pistol in the middle of the guard's forehead. The man lay dazed, Killgrave's hand still preventing him from shouting. Melvin Potter shot Zebediah a quick, fairly disturbing look of enjoyment, and then sent a bullet tunnelling through the guard's skull. The two men watched as the corpse's eyes slowly rolled up into the back of his head.
Killgrave stood up and moved on without a word. He pondered to himself, however, why Melvin could not have simply explained himself being in the hallway to the guard and diverted him back towards the warehouse. I suppose it's one less hostile to deal with, and it was the most efficient way. Government scum deserve to die anyway. The doubts faded as fast as they had come to him - though he obviously took less pleasure in the act than Potter did. The 'Gladiator' relished killing itself, whereas Killgrave relished only the killings of the ones who had pissed him off: the heads of the Government. Those that had subjected someone directly related to Zebediah to prostitution, the once acquaintances of Killgrave - when he was growing up - to endless labour and meagre reward.

At the end of the long hallway loomed a battered grey door. Melvin was to go no further than it, leaving Killgrave to pass into the expansive receiving bay alone. The experienced Shadow preferred it that way, as stealth only became harder when more bodies inhibited him. The shipment of weapons and the experimental gas were positioned fifty paces away from their entrance door, by a large blue collection of crates, according to Potter's recent intel. The two men stopped by the grey door, turning to each other.

"I won't have to degrade myself by doing this lackey work anymore, Gladiator." Killgrave stated, partially as a farewell, but also as a patronising insult.

"Good luck." Potter only chuckled in reply, fondling his silenced pistol as he began to stride back down the hallway, "You'll need it."
Zebediah narrowed his eyes at that, but he knew he didn't have a great deal of time in which to operate, so he dismissed it and deftly pushed open the door.


Three men and a woman stood conversing, twenty paces to Killgrave's right as he knelt beside a six-foot high stack of boxes. They were the only ones who would be able to see Zebediah in his journey from the cover that the boxes provided him to the small complex of crates and containers that was the weapons shipment. He scanned the warehouse for a few moments to try and ascertain if there were any other viable routes. He could move to the left thirty paces and progress along a shipping canister, but Killgrave had no idea who or what stood on the other side of the container or how much longer it would take him. Ivan Jankovic had instructed him profoundly that it was to be a fast job, in and out, with as little conflict as possible. The resulting explosions would be enough to kill the entire personnel of the facility, anyway, so neither Killgrave or Potter had too many gripes. He decided, with this in mind, to take a risk and to walk calmly and furtively towards the shipment and as far away from any staff as possible. He had an infallible disguise in the uniform, and the guard's face was surely not known by many of the workers yet. Also, not many in the warehouse would be armed guards, and there was only so much common workers could do to oppose a well-trained operative.
Taking a deep breath, Killgrave rose and strode out from behind the cover.
The new guard's hair was blonde and mine is a deep black.
He began to retrieve the compact timed explosives from his left outside pocket.
Nobody but the supervisors are permitted near the shipment.
He subtly increased his pace as he approached the outskirts of the containers.
They will undoubtedly notice me sooner or later.
Zebediah reached the cover of a large crate and he instantly crouched down to the floor. He had three timed detonators to plant - silent, devastating variants of a common explosive that the Shadow Conquerors had developed. The expanse of the shipment was only ten metres wide, so Killgrave carefully lay down an explosive at an interval of two paces. His breath ran ragged like a devoted smoker's wheeze - this was one of the hardest jobs Zebediah had been assigned. Most were in larger groups with simpler tasks, however this was what he needed to receive the prominence he deserved. Reinforced suction devices attached themselves to the ground, and Zebediah's controlled fingers designated the countdown of two minutes to begin.

"Hey!" A woman's shout from close by in the warehouse rang out. The woman from the quartet near the door. Shit. The Shadow clung to the floor, slowing his breathing and rapidly forming a plan in his head. He reached for his pistol. Before any confrontation could be made, alas, the muffled whizzing of a bullet cut short the woman's audible approach. Zebediah spun around to see the grey door wide open, Melvin Potter putting bullets into the staff's brains, Ivan Jankovic - Killgrave's superior - standing smugly by the opening, and several heavily armed Shadows filling the corridor behind him. The staff were dead or dying, and the men's attention turned to Killgrave. The young Sokovian knelt, frozen, completely bemused by the events unfolding before him.
He quickly puzzled it out as Potter raised the silenced pistol to him, a twisted smirk on his face.

"Guess I'll be the one getting the promotion, Killgrave." He snarled, his smirk growing into a grin. A bullet ripped towards Zebediah, and he barely had time to react. It was aimed directly at his heart, though he managed to twist and dive against the targeted point. The pelt tore through his leg, the middle of his left thigh, giving Killgrave the necessary pain to prompt a shriek of agony. Anger at Potter and the men behind him consumed Zebediah as he riled about by the containers. Melvin grunted, dissatisfied with his missed shot, and he took another step forward to aim again.

"No, Gladiator." It was Jankovic's voice that permeated the thin air. "Leave him to die." Zebediah's eyes darted to match the grizzled commander's. The same look of concern and fear that Killgrave had observed in the past few meetings dilated his pupils, revealing the truth to the master of stealth. More concerned about me than I thought. He needed to dispose of me. Pain still racked his body, the blood oozing out of his thigh with surprising amounts.

"I'll... k-kill..." Zebediah hissed, though another shot from Potter's gun stopped him short. His right arm snapped back with the impact, bone and cartilage dying with the bullet now lodged in his elbow. His scream again filled the room. The sounds of oncoming guards echoed.

"Gladiator! We're leaving!" Jankovic moved with curious speed for his age and bulk, dragging Potter back with him towards the door. The Shadows behind them aimed machine guns towards the south-east side of the warehouse, where a frantic susurration emanated. Potter turned a final time, however, a mad look filled with death in his eye. He broke from Jankovic's grip for a second and fired a shot blindly at the shipment. Killgrave did not know what he had done to earn such hate from the Gladiator, or perhaps it was just the thug's apparent obsession with murder. The careening bullet thankfully missed him, and Jankovic threw the large operative back down the hallway before he could cause any more destruction.
Zebediah groaned in agony and tried to drag himself along the ground, but he slipped in the puddle of his own blood.
Then a large canister fell from above and landed heavily onto his chest. A bullet-hole breached the outside of the container. There were so many warning and hazard signs on the outside that Killgrave could barely concentrate on one of them. A strange, preternatural - purple - gas was gushing out of the hole, and the substance was even dissolving the container's material now that it was on the outside. More and more of the gas emerged from the canister, like the tendrils of a demon coming out of it's lair. It did not raise into the air as it should have done. It seemed to locate and focus on Killgrave, with the throngs of purple gas suddenly converging and moving to cover Zebediah's entire body.
The pain of the gunshot wounds was nothing compared to the torment that now afflicted him.
It was if his skin was being ripped away, and replaced by new, foreign material.
It covered his face, his nose, his mouth. His eyes were blinded as the substance went inside his body, into his bloodstream, into his brain.
He thrashed about wildly, tears and blood streaming down his face as his life pooled out from his wounds around him. He noticed his left arm through the corner of his vision. A deep, encompassing hue spreading across the muscled skin. Horrifying. Alien.

Purple.

King Elessar Telcontar stood in his imposing chambers, the soft glare of sunset refracting slightly off the glass. The ornate window was the definition of antique, dating back to days when the fabled Valar walked freely and gladly upon Endor - Manwë, Lord of the Breath of Arda. Nienna, Lady of Tears. Oromë, Huntsman of the Valar, and more besides. The sleek glass could have been handled by the first of the Elves, the Sindar of the Teleri, before the Silvan Elves left the Great Journey. The focal point of the window held on three visceral and piercing jewels, that were almost preternatural in their simplicity.
The great King looked upon the detailed jewels with a content longing, thinking of the Númenoreans he directly descended from. He had acquired the opulent craft-work from a sparsely crewed Corsair ship out of Umbar, among various other notable pieces of loot. Elessar's Reunited Kingdom had been looking toward Umbar during their voracious reclaiming of Harondor and the lands stolen from Gondor since the Kin-strife. The valiant veterans of the War of the Ring had not lost pace after Sauron's defeat, nay, in fact they were more determined than ever. The upper hand of Man would not slip as it had after the War of the Last Alliance, allowing Sauron to rise again and come so close to complete devastation. The men occupying Minas Tirith could barely stay behind the walls if an opportunity to crush a dark force arose. They had swarmed southern Ithilien and had set up pseudo camps of war, pushing further every month to the south.
Elessar turned his head away from the roving expanse of Ithilien, focusing instead on the looming Ephel Dúath beyond the Anduin. He silently prayed for the fellowship of men that had departed with the intent of braving Mordor's ever-threatening population of Orcs. Though, there could not have been a more formidable group assembled. Elessar trusted in Vísesinda and his men to strike irrevocable blows against the corrupted Orcs.
Elessar then stared south-east, at the currently unreachable lands of Harad, Khand and Rhûn. He was often plagued with concerns regarding the remaining resistance that dwelt in those lands. Sauron had amassed an insurmountable force, and it lived on in those untouchable lands, and in the chaotic regions of Mordor. He knew there was a lapse in the power of Mordor, and that if enough time was provided - it would be filled. The unknown Easterlings, and the Haradrim, and the Khandish undoubtedly had noticed the succulent opportunity that the Black Lands advertised.
As much as he hated to admit it, the western King had little power over this imminent contention of Mordor. He could only bide his time and gather his strength for what the coming conflict would produce.
Aragorn's grip tightened on the smooth-fashioned wood that comprised his windowsill.
The war for Middle-earth was far from over.

Stefano awoke to sweat and must and the steady careening of the galleon as it swept over water. He was confused to a great extent because he had proceeded through the events of the past twenty four hours with an all-encompassing yearn to start chasing the dragon - or whatever it was. Stefano, in the sea-smelling corner of the gun deck in which he lay, only now looked back over the day with a sane outlook. A man looking at his life from the outside must have seen an eccentric artist and nobleman, calmly travelling around the world fuelled by his wealth and spokesmanship. Then a firestorm ravages a coastal town in Portugal and the nobleman abandons everything with great impulsiveness and secures a place on a pirate-led ship destined for Africa.
Then again, one had not seen what Stefano had seen - and some stories of Ancient Greece stated that mythical and magical intrusions into often dull and melancholy lives could easily cause drastic actions to be taken.
Stefano did now regret some of his wild actions, and there was still a possibility that the trip to Morocco might simply be just a relief trip, but if there was any chance to see the majestic beast again, Stefano had to take it. He had found after the speech in the courtyard a large sack full of the Portuguese real that he had hidden underneath other baggage in the partially destroyed penthouse. Stefano had not seen the owner of the building that he had persuaded to rent the upper floor of his house to him, and one of the only explanations would be that the owner had met his demise in the onslaught - along with many other residents of Sintra.

The painting lay in plain sight of Stefano as he tried to sleep. He did not know how long he had lay in the corner of the deck, but three extractions out of his sack of money had been made by his makeshift guards, and the sun had indubitably dipped below the horizon. However, Stefano found the painting too intriguing to be simply turned away from and it was blocking his passage to slumber. He did not feel very tired, in truth, and some time he had spent asleep already during the day, yet he did not know what else to do.
Perhaps befriend some of my fellow passengers? He thought, turning over on his furnished cot. Stefano was rarely without a conversational partner on land, so why should it be different on water? And now that he had retreated from his state of mythical encapsulation he had several stories to tell of boat journeys around the coast of Candia and all around Europe.
Stefano propelled himself up, though he did fall back down on the sheets the first couple of times due to the lengthy time spent there and his not-so-ideal weight, and walked over to the sack of money just as one of the 'guards' sought to approach and presumably make another extraction.

"Senhor, you are up!" The Sintra native exclaimed in surprise. "Como está?"

"Bom, friend. Obrigado." Stefano could see plainly the 'guard' only wanted to take more money than he was promised for the job, and he cursed himself for foolishly leaving a sack full of money out for anyone to use. A dent had already been created in the top of the pile and Stefano did not know how he could prevent a strong-arm coming in and taking everything. He needed a trustworthy watchman like he had in most cities, a strong man of his own to look after his wealth and personal safety. Stefano might have considered the hired guard in front of him if he had not been stealing. He chose to get rid of him for the moment and begin to seek out a more appropriate source of aid.

"Desculpe, friend, but I have no further need of your services. You are dismissed, but I may require your help in the future." Stefano smiled as politely as he could, prompting a hard stare followed by a series of grumbles by the Portuguese man who trudged off into the inner area of the room.
Stefano looked at the sack and the half-destroyed canvas and hurriedly piled them on top of each other in his hands. There was nothing else of much value he thought a man so inclined might steal, so he patted down his slightly burnt waistcoat and breeches and left the obscured corner.



Stefano hopped up the access stairs to the main deck, his sack re-tied and the painting turned into his chest as to not arouse any of the staff's suspicions if they glimpsed the dragon mural inscribed upon it. He reached the main deck as a couple of sailors barraged past him - outright fear on their faces. Stefano began to ask them what the problem is but they were gone before he could even begin. Stefano continued up the stairwell towards the bow end of the galleon, a new-found curiosity egging him on.
He creased the floor of the main deck and turned towards a tumultuous outbreak of shouting, shooting and the loud deflections of armour. Stefano was shocked that this event had not woken him before, but perhaps the action had not been long occurring. He saw the disembodied armour as it collapsed into one of the lower quarters below.
"Me tous Theoús!" Stefano yelled in Greek. By the Gods, indeed, as it seemed between the dragon and the impossibly resilient suit of armour - Gods in one form or another had finally graced the world.