Falling in the Black

Falling in the Black was a story set on the Southern Continent in the Fractures Universe. It was written by User:Matoro1 and User:Abc8920.

Chapter 1
Written by Matoro1

''Screams in the dark. '' The yell of a Matoran sentinel pierced the silence of the night. The village exploded into life. Fully awake warriors were already racing towards the guard by the time Sarnii managed to whirl around from her watching post near the main gate. Torches were flung into the shadows, causing fiery trails of orange light to burn through the darkness, revealing the scene. Sarnii could just about make out the shape of Rakui, a Le-Matoran sentry who was new to watch duty… ''and a brutish Rahkshi of Fragmentation. '' The Matoran of Lightning’s heat-light skipped a blink at the sight of the monstrous creature, at how it was clutching the almost certainly-doomed Matoran of Air in its claws – as if it was closer to a Toa than a terrifying creature that had been spat out of some Makuta’s backside. Goll – the village’s brutal, battle-hardened leader – was the first on the scene. The Po-Matoran snarled before advancing on the monster, swinging his weapons and hacking wildly, burying one of his axes deep into the Rahkshi’s thick, muscular legs. It screeched in pain but didn’t release its grip on Rakui. Instead, the Rahkshi lashed out at Goll with a clawed, slimy fist, knocking the warrior down. Before the Pakari Nuva-wearer could return to his feet the creature hissed and clamped its nightmarish jaws around Rakui’s neck. The Le-Matoran’s eyes bulged as his throat was crushed. ''His dying screams were a sickening choking sound. '' Sarnii looked away, not wanting to see the pained expression on the Le-Matoran’s Kanohi Garai. Instead she found her eyes resting upon a trio of warriors as they charged towards the Rahkshi, a Le-Matoran named Torlo at the lead. The Panrahk didn’t hesitate to swing its staff at the closest of the advancing villagers, a Po-Matoran. The Matoran was slow. The tip of the weapon struck him directly in the eye as he charged forwards, sending a spray of broken circuits and shattered metal splinters to the ground. The warrior crumpled to his knees, screaming in agony at the loss of his eye. A burst of blue energy surged from one of Torlo’s weapons, striking the Rahkshi square in the head. The creature grunted as the Le-Matoran’s Mental Bolt Launcher’s effects kicked in. Almost instantly the Rahkshi’s mind went into overload. Its memory became a scramble of images and shapes flashing across the creature’s fractured mind. Soon enough, the Panrahk fell into a vegetative trance and toppled backwards, its Kraata crippled beyond recovery. Nobody took any chances. Goll, who had returned to his feet, pushed his way to the front of the mob of warriors and produced a knife from a sheath strapped to his back. With a single, infuriated roar, he drove the blade deep into the Rahkshi’s spine. Making a hole in the casing, the Po-Matoran wrenched the metal apart with his bare hands then tore the paralyzed Kraata out. He grunted in disgust then threw the creature to the ground. It squirmed around for a moment before another warrior’s armored heel stamped down on it, crushing the organic slug into pulp. “More!” came a call from near the gate. It was late – later than the village was usually attacked. Most of the villagers on the main watch had long since retired for the night, replaced by some of the less experienced warriors. Their eyes and audio receptors were usually sharp, but this close to dawn, most of them were tired and sluggish. They’d been caught off guard. The Rahkshi had the advantage. Matoran spilled out of huts. Hands locked around spears, swords, axes, and knives as groggy fighters leapt from of their beds and joined their fellow villagers in the unorganized gaggle of fighters. At least a half-dozen Rahkshi began to pound the high wooden barriers that encircled the village, tearing planks of rotten wood apart in sprays of splinters as they climbed over. The wooden barrier was only remotely effective against Visorak: Rahkshi were a different matter. The Panrahk must have been a diversion. Or at least it just had a terrible sense of direction, as most walking slugs in suits of armor tended to have. Goll finally put his embarrassment at the hands of the Rahkshi of shattering behind him and began barking out orders. He bellowed at those on watch who had drifted away from their posts. “Stay the hell where you are!” he roared ferociously. “Call if clear!” The trembling guards looked at each other – debating whether or not a scolding from Goll was worse than almost certain death at their posts. In the end, they decided to do as they were told, hoping that somebody else got mauled by Rahkshi. Sarnii turned back to her post and watched the guards return to their positions, waving torches over their heads as they peered into the darkness. “Clear” yelled one of them, a Po-Matoran named Turas. Like usual, his Kanohi Rode was stricken with a peculiar mix of doubt and fear, unusual traits in a Po-Matoran but not something Sarnii had ever lost too much sleep over. “Clear” echoed Fiancha. The Onu-Matoran was a lot more relaxed than his fellow guards but there was still a trace of dread in his voice. Although his Akaku Nuva twisted his face into a natural squint, his eyes were open wide enough to give him away – even in the little light that the torches created. In turn, the other guards yelled out similar warnings. “Clear.” “''Clear. ''” A conceited Ko-Matoran named Kyros snorted then glanced at his area. He was clearly irritated about being posted as a guard. The power hungry Matoran of Ice had been seeking to overthrow Goll as the village’s leader for years. But still, for public appearance, he bore his tremendous burden and began to shout “Clea-” only to flinch and curse halfway through. “NO!” he wailed. “There’s one of them over here.” Sarnii watched as Goll turned to the warriors surrounding him. “With me” he ordered Torlo and the others who though the first Rahkshi, plucking up one of his axes from the Panrahk’s leg as he spoke. The Matoran of Lightning could see rage in his face. He wasn’t fuming about the Rahkshi though, but himself. He made a mistake with the first one and let it knock him down. ''That wouldn’t happen again. '' As the warriors engaged the invading Rahkshi, Sarnii moved to the centre of the fortified village. Normally she threw herself into fights without thinking, but the first attack had given her reason to be cautious. Although living on the Southern Continent was dangerous, deaths were rare enough. Rakui’s brutal murder had been one of the first that month. Sarnii had almost forgotten the number one rule of surviving on Voya-Nui these days: “''Stick to a group and let someone else die first. ''” The Matoran of Lightning was surprised to see Connla – the village’s healer – charging into battle. That was strange. The Ga-Matoran was considered too valuable to risk. Her knowledge of both plant life and medicine were unrivalled by any of the other inhabitants of the dying breed of resistance fighters. Although Sarnii doubted the shy Pakari-wearer could deal much damage to even the weakest of Rahkshi, the others in the fortress liked to think otherwise. Everybody had their doubts of the Ga-Matoran, but they just pretended she was some great healer – mistress of all things magic and supernatural. The lie seemed to comfort them, giving them a faint glimmer of hope, but not Sarnii. She was too old for fairy tales like that. Any story that ended “and they all lived happily ever after” had never been anything other than trash to the Matoran of Lightning. If experience had taught her anything it was that there were no happy endings in life, full stop. That was Sarnii’s life. She could overcome great obstacles, face great dangers, look evil in the eye and live to tell the tale – but that was never the end. Her life was controlled by a cruel, omnipotent child high up in the heavens. It swept her up, swung her around, bruised and battered her, then seemed to drop her in some new drama or tragedy. ''As long as you’re still breathing, your story’s still going. '' A blue and silver armored Rahkshi managed to make it over the wooden barrier of the fortress – a Rahkshi of Gravity. It had demonic red eyes and a large, monstrous jaw that was filled with a mixture of needle and fang-like teeth, Sarnii wasn’t sure which. There didn’t seem to be much of a different from where she was standing. The creature screeched and leapt from the barrier to the earth below it. The ground seemed to shake as the Rahkshi landed on a wooden crate, reducing it to wood chips. Goll barked an order, raising his axe in a battle cry as the majority of the village’s warriors charged towards the Rahkshi of Gravity. ''The fools.  Sarnii was suddenly alerted to an abrupt CRACK'' behind her. The female Matoran tensed then spun around. A Visorak Keelerak crawled out of the guard-hut and into the light. The beast must have found the emergency escape tunnel that ran under the village and tunneled its way up to the trapdoor in the hut, then broke through the planks covering the entrance. The piercing crimson eyes of the creature scanned the area then widened as it hissed. It had found prey. Sarnii ducked for cover behind a stack of wooden crates as a Rhotuku Spinner soared through the air. There was a scream to her left as a Ce-Matoran named Kentran hit the ground, struck by the spinner. She shrieked and toppled backwards, the armor on her chest bubbling as if on fire. Two glaring facts flashed through Sarnii’s mind in that moment. The first problem was that Kentran was lying in the mud, her chest corroding away and clearly in pain. She needed medical attention quickly if she was going to survive. The second problem was that the Keelerak was still at large. The green spider-like creature seemed to spit a triumphant victory-cry. Sarnii was in luck. Goll heard the scream too and began looking for warriors to send to their aid. However, before he could bark out orders, two volunteers presented themselves, charging towards the Visorak and blocking it from Kentran. Torlo and Iolan, two of the village’s finest warriors, and both armed with a pair of blades each. Goll grunted to himself then refocused on the Rahkshi at the main gate. He didn’t bother sending other warriors to deal with the spider. He trusted the dynamic duo. Although they both came from dramatically different backgrounds, the pair had grown to be just about inseparable these days. They hung around together, ate together, and killed Visorak together. Sending reinforcements would be unnecessary. Iolan was a strong and noble Ta-Matoran. He was likeable but wasn’t all too bright. He had travelled to the realm of Karzahni from Vacca-Nui in search of repairs after a mining accident had paralyzed him from the waist down. As a result, his legs had been extensively rebuild, more so than the rest of his body. What had once been a tall, lean, proud Ta-Matoran was now a small, bulky, disproportionate warrior who had clear trouble walking – which had clearly impacted on his confidence. Iolan barely spoke in village meetings and relied on Torlo to do the talking for him – something that Sarnii could not understand. He faced all manner of hellish Rahkshi and Visorak every night. It was almost ironic that he’d be afraid of public speaking. Torlo, the taller of the pair, was almost the complete opposite. He had come to the village as a free-lancing crafter many years ago. When he had arrived, he had everything the average, respectable Matoran could want: a stable job, the best tools and materials in the area, and a goodly partner with whom he could make a home. Torlo was a stand-up type of guy who tended to speak his mind around the village. His word and his craftsmanship were synonymous with honor and integrity. He took pleasure from his belief in justice and exposing hypocrisy, which he was widely respected for. But that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. By the time Sarnii had joined the village community Torlo had been married – something she had not known at first. She had fallen in love with the Le-Matoran. She would break spears and weapons just for him to repair them for her. However, the craftsman had become corrupted by his lust for her. Before either of them knew it, Torlo’s goodly life had become irreversibly tainted. When Sarnii learnt that he was married she had reacted shamefully and blamed him for being disloyal to his partner. Torlo had begun to feel he had lost his most prized possession: his self-respect. He had become the very thing he had hated: a hypocrite. As a result, his wife had left him and committed suicide, leaving him caged by guilt. Watching him now, Sarnii realized that she was watching an empty shell of a Matoran, like he had been left behind in Karzahni all those years ago. She had destroyed him. Trying to push thoughts of Torlo out of her mind, Sarnii turned to Kentran. The armor on Ce-Matoran’s chest was burnt an ugly scarlet color. Bubbles of flesh burst. The acid sizzled. The Matoran screamed. Sarnii didn’t know what she was doing. She had no knowledge of acid wounds or medicine – that was Connla’s department. Desperately, the Matoran of Lightning began trying to calm the pained Visorak victim. Kentran had been her friend some time ago but the two had grown apart when the war started 3,000 years ago, back when the attacks had first started. But that didn’t matter. Her duty to the welfare of the village came first. Always. A thick shadow suddenly cast itself over the two female Matoran. Confident that Torlo and Iolan were taking care of the Visorak, Sarnii calmly raised her head to see Krennato – the village elder standing above them. Again, similarly to Connla, Krennato was considered far too valuable to be out in the open at night. Her appearance was unnerving. This particular Ga-Matoran was the pillar of the entire community. If something bad ever happened to Goll then she would probably be the next in line for leadership, much to Kyros’ annoyance. Krennato’s knowledge and expertise in Rahi and ancient legends made her the village’s Turaga figure. She was a symbol of strength and resolve for all who lived behind the curved wooden walls of the village. Krennato was nothing short of a living legend for most of the misguided villagers. After all, they’d lost faith in “Mata-Nui” and his “Toa” long ago. ''Who else could they look up to? '' Without a word, the village elder tugged a small bag from her pouch, opened it, and poured the contents of it into her left hand. Sarnii wasn’t sure why the Ga-Matoran had gone to Karzahni in the first place. She had heard that Krennato had developed a blood clot in her core processor, which could possibly be the cause of the creepy village elder's poor working. She watched as coarse green grains spilled into Krennato’s palm. Dropping the bag back into her satchel, the Ga-Matoran spat over the grains and mixed them together with a finger of her right hand, forming a paste. She then proceeded to rub the mixture into Kentran’s disturbed flesh and it stopped dissolving. “Will she live?” asked Sarnii, her voice sounding a little more desperate than she had wanted. “She will be scarred horribly” sighed Krennato as she returned to her feet. “But, essentially, yes, she will live. There are other pastes and lotions that I can use to help her wounds clean properly. But not now. There are Rahkshi to deal with.” Sarnii stole a glance at Kentran as the effects of the thick paste began to sink in, causing her to sigh and relax, her eyes closing behind her Kanohi Arthron. Moving Krennato out of her mind, Sarnii sprung to her feet and leapt into battle. Torlo and Iolan had made little progress with the Visorak Keelerak. Iolan seemed to be drawing its fire of Rhotuku Spinners while Toro flung himself at the creature, latching onto its back and trying to find hand holes among the scaly, slimy ridges of the Visorak’s hind. She could always call Goll for assistance, but Sarnii wanted to handle this on her own. She could help, leaving Torlo and Iolan to concentrate on some of the Rahkshi with the other warriors. Taking a firm stance, the Matoran of Lightning her hands out and gripped her Shock-Thumpers. As Sarnii activated the weapons a low pitched hum filled the air. As she strode forwards the weapons began to charge, emitting a static buzzing. “Move!” she snapped. Torlo and Iolan glanced back at her, surprised, then took cover. Iolan ducked back a few steps while Torlo simply let go of the Visorak’s rear, letting it throw him backwards – clear of the danger zone. The Shock-Thumpers burst into life as a crackle of electricity blasted the Keelerak. The creature screeched as thousands of volts of electrical energy surged through its scaly moist body. The wailing continued as the spider lost interest in everything other than Sarnii as her beam of electricity. Iolan and Torlo returned to their feet, one on either side of the creature. Four blades glinted in the light of the torches – and four slimy legs went flying into the darkness. The Keelerak collapsed uselessly onto the ground. It squirmed around, completely immobile. After watching it wriggle and whine for a moment long, Torlo boldly stepped forwards, making sure to press his foot down on the creature’s head to keep it down, then buried his one of his Mental Bolt Launchers into the Visorak’s heat, staking its brain. The Keelerak stiffened, whined one final time, then died. The Le-Matoran withdrew his blade and leaned down to wipe it clean on the dry, water-starved grass. He looked up at Sarnii through hollow, empty eyes. He wasn’t going to thank her, not after what she had done to him. He probably would have preferred to have been mauled by the Visorak than have accepted Sarnii’s help. “Nice work!” grinned Iolan, answering on behalf of the resentful Le-Matoran. Snorting, Torlo turned to leave, breaking into a run to return to the action – much to Iolan’s disadvantage. The unbalanced Ta-Matoran Calix-wearer whined and waddled off after his friend. The Matoran of Lightning turned to follow, ready to lend a hand when she realized there was no point any longer. The efforts of Goll and his warriors had ensured that the main gate stayed secure. The creatures were retreating. The Rahkshi of Gravity had been slaughtered, along with a couple of its other unfortunate brethren. There was, however, a single Rahkshi of Plasma trying to scale the wooden fence in desperate hopes of escape. It was clinging to the top of the barrier, its staff abandoned and with nothing for it to stand on – leaving it unsupported. When it finally lost its grip, the Rahkshi plummeted back to the ground, where the warriors began hacking, stabbing, and slicing at it. There was a screech as the tan and red armored Rahkshi leapt back to its feet and began its retreat. Half the warriors hadn’t even realized it was escaping until it was too late: it was Kyros’ moment to shine. As the Rahkshi of Plasma launched itself out the gate and into the open, Kyros ran after it and hurled a spear in its direction. Although Sarnii’s view was blocked by the arch of the gate she could see the Ko-Matoran yell triumphantly – it must have been a hit. Laughing cruelly, Kyros turned to grab another spear off a nearby Matoran. Aimed it. Then lowered the weapon. It had finally dawned on him that the Rahkshi were retreating. ''They'd survived. '' Not a word was spoken until the gate was firmly closed, and even then silence hung over the fortified village. ''The battle may have been won, but the war was far from over. ''

Chapter 2
Written by Matoro1

No clouds. The clearest day in a long time. That was supposedly good for healing. Connla had worked through the night, applying all manner of potions, pastes, and medicine where they were needed, though there was little the coy Ga-Matoran could do for those with serious injuries. The warriors were tired, their sleep disturbed. They would probably rest later but many were too edgy to return to their huts straightaway. It had taken an hour or two for the battle lust to pass. After that the villagers had relaxed and put away their weapons, setting about their normal daily routines – pretending nothing had happened. Connla herself felt fine. She had managed to grab a full night’s sleep having only woken up a short while before the attack. That seemed to be her regular pattern on nights where there was an early assault. Having tended to Kentran and the Po-Matoran who had lost an eye to the Panrahk, the Ga-Matoran began to wander around the village, just in case she’d missed anybody. She used to think the ring fortress was huge back when she had first settled in the community. Back then there had only been around ten huts contained behind the circular wall, providing plenty of space for the desolate village’s inhabitants. But things had changed in recent years. More huts had been built since the Rahkshi started appearing in order to shelter the refugees, who had come flooding through the gates, desperately seeking refuge. At first the residents had feared that the village would run dry of resources under the wave of newcomers. But when the Rahkshi started attacking villages in groups the wandering Matoran seemed to stop coming. ''Strange coincidence. '' The shape of the entire Southern Continent had been altered by the war. Rahkshi and Visorak had besieged entire villages. Many of the neighboring settlements had been burnt to the ground and left in destruction. There were now twenty-two huts in the village, and, although the walls of the fortress had been extended outwards many decades ago, the surrounding forests and perilous year-wide mudslides on this part of the island prevented them from growing much. ''It was as tight as a noose. '' Spending all morning healing had tired Connla, leaving her hungry. Setting off in search of something to eat, the anxious Ga-Matoran found Goll sitting alone near the village’s abandoned shrine. He looked downhearted. Many centuries ago, Goll had been the leader of the whole west side of the Southern Continent, the most powerful Matoran in the region, with command over every local village. There was even talk that he may have gone on to rule the entire landmass, something no Matoran from the western district of the continent had ever done. It had been an exciting prospect. Goll had once had the support of every other village in the neighboring regions. But then it had gotten out of hand. The Po-Matoran had been stabbed in the back by another would-be-king and forced to step down due to his injury. He wasn’t bitter though. He never spoke of what might have been. This was his fate and he had long since accepted that. But the Pakari Nuva-wearer was in a gloomy mood that morning. He hated making mistakes. Feeling sorry for the former ruler, Connla decided to sit down next to him. The Po-Matoran looked up at her and smiled weakly, his eyes ghostly. “It wasn’t your fault” reassured the Ga-Matoran softly. “It was a lucky strike by the Rahkshi.” Goll grunted lightly and turned towards the shrine. The villagers had all but deserted Mata Nui when they had been shipped off to Voya Nui centuries ago. Connla wondered why anyone had even bothered to build the shrine in the first place. All she was sure of about the miniature temple was that it had long since been left derelict. It was neglected. Nobody knew any of the old legends of Toa and Rahi anymore. His grunt should have marked the end of Goll’s temper. However, Kyros chose that moment to stride past the forsaken shrine with his posse of warriors, boasting of the Rahkshi he hit with his spear. The Ko-Matoran had heard Connla’s comment and laughed out loud. “Ha!” he snorted cruelly. “That wasn’t luck! Goll’s just a rusty old Mahi!” The Po-Matoran stiffened and glared at Kyros. Having come from Metru-Nui, the Ko-Matoran seemed to think he was automatically smarter than everyone around him. Due to his greedy, materialistic nature, Kyros seemed to switch his weapons every so often, his attempt to stay both fashionable and as the center of attention. At the present, he seemed to be carrying a pair of short swords and, unlike most of the other males in the village, Kyros had taken to wearing a Gukko-hair sash. Although Connla personally saw no point in the questionable strip of peculiar cloth, several of the Ko-Matoran’s followers had taken to wearing similar attire. The armor he wore was of the finest quality in the village and was shined to perfection. He looked more like a king than Goll ever had and when the Po-Matoran died, Kyros would – unfortunately – be one of the probably contenders to take his place as the village’s leader. But he was no warrior. Everyone knew the self-centered Matoran of Ice was a distinctively average fighter at best. And far from the bravest. “Well at least I was there to make a mistake” grunted Goll darkly, menace in his tone. “Where were you, Kyros – polishing your mask perhaps?” “I was in the thick of the fighting!” insisted the Ko-Matoran. “I struck a Rahkshi. I think I killed it.” “Aye” sneered the Matoran of Stone coldly. “You hit it with a spear. In the back. While it was running away.” The Pakari Nuva-wearer clapped his firm hands together in a sarcastic applause. “A most courageous deed.” Kyros’ face twisted into a warped snarl of utter disgust as he raised his swords. Goll snatched for an axe. Enough!” barked Torlo. The Le-Matoran had been tending to one of the village’s Gafna nearby and had been keeping a watchful eye over the scene. He always seemed to be at hand when Goll and Kyros argued – which happened all too often. The weaponsmith stepped forwards, his Kanohi Zatth dark. “Isn’t it bad enough that we have to fight Rahkshi every night, without battling amongst ourselves too?” “He questioned my courage!” declared Kyros, pointing an accusing finger at the village’s leader. “And you called him an old Mahi” retorted the Le-Matoran. “Now shake hands, and forget it. We don’t have time for quarrels.” A moment of silence hung in the air as the three Matoran glared at each other. After leaving the awkward silence open for as long as he could stand, Goll finally caved. He sighed and extended a hand, realizing that Torlo was right. Kyros took it, but his mask was twisted into a repulsed expression. After on stale, unwelcoming handshake, the Ko-Matoran shook Goll’s hand away then turned to return to his group of warriors – who always seemed to be huddled close to him. As they left, the Matoran of Ice continued bragging about the Rahkshi he had speared and how he was certain the blow had been fatal, boasting of his skill and courage. Connla watched after him as he disappeared from sight, wondering how so much hatred could exist inside a single Ko-Matoran.

After leaving Goll to brood to himself, Connla decided to go for a walk. The village’s gate was open in the daytime because Rahi had to be let out to graze at some point. It was just as well that the attacks only happened at night. If Rahkshi swarmed the settlement in the daylight the villagers wouldn’t be able to tend to their Rahi or crop to their plantations. They’d be dead within a week. The blue armored Matoran left the outskirts of the village behind and continued her aimless wander. She liked to get out of the ring fort when her duties allowed her, to stretch her legs, to breathe in fresh air. Lost in her carefree hike, the Ga-Matoran strolled towards a small hill. From the top of the earth mound she had a fantastic view of the valley below. She could see the rural sprawl of burnt black trees. It had been one of her favorite spots before the war. Back then it had been alive with all forms of plant life and flora. She used to pick up spices and seeds to use for medicines, but there was little vegetation left in the area and ingredients for her mixtures were scarce. The fortress was located on top of the hill and surrounded by charred woodland – a strategic advantage against invaders. That was probably why only a dozen or so of the creatures attacked the fortress every night. The Ga-Matoran found no comfort in that information. From the dull grey rock she was sitting on, she could see all the way across the Tren Krom river to the steeper hills on the other side. Many of the warriors had travelled to those hills, to hunt or fight. Sometimes Connla dreamt of climbing along the peaks and seeing what the world looked like from the top of the almost mountainous terrain – though, in reality, it would be a journey of many days and nights. There was no chance of doing that while the Rahkshi and Visorak were attacking. And for all Connla knew, the creatures of the night were never going to stop. “When will it end?” muttered the worried healer, her eyes fixed on the distant hills. “Will these monsters keep coming until they kill us all?” Silence. A breeze stirred the scorched, blistered branches of the nearby trees. Connla studied the moving limbs, almost praying for something out of the ordinary. But it just seemed to be a regular gust of wind – not some otherworldly voice to guide her. After a while, the Ga-Matoran sighed heavily and bid farewell to the hills and returned to the path behind her. There was still work to be done. Her world may be going up in flames, but the village had to carry on as normal. The villagers couldn’t afford to let the Rahkshi think they were winning. They didn’t dare let them know how close they were to collapse.

Having had a quick bite to eat and after refilling her water canteen, Connla returned to her daily chores. Weaving should have come first on her agenda for that day. She was a skilled weaver. Her small, capable fingers were able to dart across cloth like lava eels. She wasn’t the fastest in the fortress, nor was she the best, but she was still good enough to be of use. Arriving at her hut, Connla noticed several of the male villagers returning from their morning hunt. Emerging from the gaggle of Matoran, she spotted Fiancha and Iolan, carrying a grand total of four Ruki fish between them. The two had obviously spent the morning on a fishing trip, struggling in a small handmade raft against the dangerous rapids of the Tren Krom river. Because the Visorak and Rahkshi swarms had difficulty getting up the hill to attack the village they would usually lurk around the flood plain of the river, the large valley that Connla had been admiring mere minutes ago. That meant that the creatures would destroy any boat the Matoran left in the river or on the shore overnight. The fishermen had to rebuild rafts every morning if they wanted to catch anything other than a sand fly. Connla smiled as she watched the two Matoran deposit their catches on wooden stakes outside her hut. She enjoyed cleaning the Ruki fish. Everybody else seemed to hate the whole ordeal because of the smell, but not Connla. She liked to observe the fish guts for signs and omens. She hadn’t deduced anything from a Ruki’s innards yet, but she lived in hope. The Pakari-wearer stole a glance up at the cloudless sky and decided in the blink of a heart-light that it was far too bright a morning to be weaving inside. Instead the Ga-Matoran picked up her utensils and set up a crate to sit on outside her hut. The village was buzzing with activity. Most of the residents of the ring-fort were either hunting or helping to rebuild damage caused in the night. The latter was Connla’s favorite. She enjoyed watching her friends walking along the roofs of the nearby huts, thatching and mending holes. It was fun. But the miniature town was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic CLANK of metal coming from Torlo’s forgery on the opposite side of the street. Even as late as noon, a couple of the Matoran were still sleeping. Several were cleaning blades and discussing the night’s battle. It had been one of the earliest attacks, despite it being short-lived and the fact there were only seven attackers. Some of the villagers reckoned that was a sign that the swarms of the Brotherhood’s foot soldiers were dying out. But they were dreamers. As far as they knew, in their isolated region of Voya-Nui, the war against the Makuta was far from over. ''Connla didn’t need Ruki guts to tell her that! '' Sitting down on her crate, the Matoran realized that she had a decent view of Torlo in his dwelling. The Le-Matoran was working away, straightening crooked swords, fixing new handles to axes, sharpening knives. This was the only village in the whole region with its own personal weaponsmith. That had been Goll’s doing when he was king. Most of the crafters had wandered around from settlement to settlement in the early days, picking up work where they could find it. Goll had figured that if they paid one to settle then Matoran from nearby villages would come to them if they wanted weapons and tools fixing instead of waiting for a drifter. He had been right. The fortress-village had become the focal point of the entire region until the attacks began. The Rahkshi had put a brutal end to the good-spirited scheme. Nobody travelled now, unless they wanted to flee the monsters in the night. Growing bored, Connla decided to wander over to where Torlo was hammering away at a particularly stubborn blade. She watched him silently, smiling shyly when he glanced at her. She liked Torlo. He was a lot thinner than most of the other villagers, but he was far stronger than he looked – an unusual trait for a weaponsmith. The Le-Matoran was very skilled too. He could swing heavy hammers and weapons with ease, bringing them down on both warped blades and on the heads of Rahkshi. But it wasn’t just his appearance. He was noble and kind with distinctive morals and an unwavering sense of justice. The Ga-Matoran recalled how Torlo had stood up to separate Goll and Kyros from their argument earlier. Most other Matoran would have ducked back, not wanting to anger such powerful figures. But Torlo had boldly stepped forward and scolded both of them. In Torlo’s presence, a fool felt their foolishness instantly. The Zatth-wearer had made it more that clear in the past that he did not care much for authority. He said what he thought, disregarding the rank of whomever he was talking to – something that he made look attractive. The Le-Matoran paused to catch his breath between swings and looked up, catching Connla staring. He glanced at the weapons, then back at the Ga-Matoran. He smiled, but not in a teasing way, not like Kyros would smirk if he had seen Connla gazing at him. “You did well last night” he grunted, after cooling off from his toiling. His voice stayed strangely calm and fluent. “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you fight, but getting involved was very brave of you.” The Pakari-wearer could feel her cheeks going red. “I didn’t do much” she murmured, sticking the tip of her foot into the sand and drawing a circle. “Nonsense” grinned the Le-Matoran, his warm grin broadening. “You’re getting bolder. You’ll be fending off Rahkshi by the tenfold soon enough.” They both knew that was a lie but Connla loved him for saying it. She flashed him a smile at the praise. “Can I give you a hand with anything?” she asked gawkily, hoping for an excuse to stay with him and not have to return to her weaving. The Le-Matoran’s smile dwindled as he shook his head. “There’s no need” he responded. “I’m almost finished, and I’ve volunteered to go off hunting this afternoon.” “Oh.” The blue armored Matoran tried to suppress her disappointment. “Well, if you need me, call.” Torlo nodded, a smile returning to his face. “Sure. Thank you, Connla. I will.” Simple words, but as the Ga-Matoran began weaving strands of yarn into a half-finished fabric, they rung inside her head for ages, making her smile. At that moment in time her life was content. She was not ill. She was not scared. She was not fleeing. Instead, she was working away, assembling the textile with careful precision, inebriated by her own fantasies and ambitions, hoping to one day achieve them. She had her whole life ahead of her. ''And best of all, she was happy. ''

Chapter 3
Written by Abc8920

A Toa lay on the beach, eyes shut, relaxed and calm. The sand was warm and soft, inviting him to continue resting in his position. He could imagine what the scenery was like – a Toa Canister next to him, half-buried in the white sand, the sun setting in the distance and an endless ocean that extended beyond his range of vision, everything unstressed, listening to the bird Rahi flying above the sea…

But then he made a big mistake. The Toa of Fire opened his eyes and what he saw could only be described as anticlimactic. The sand wasn’t white. It wasn’t even sand, but rather water soaked soil. There was no gentle, cooling breeze. No waves hitting the shore. No beautiful landscape for him to admire. When the Toa had enough courage to raise his head and sit on the mud, he noticed that he was in fact next to a puddle of water. No canister around, which meant no shelter as the final whisps of sunlight began to seep away from the impossible sky.

But none of that seemed to bother him. His head was his biggest concern. He simply couldn’t remember anything. There were traces of something – jumping between energy rings, some sort of a metal robot – but he just couldn’t make sense out of it.

And his name… It eluded him for a brief moment until a thought burst into his head abruptly. The word “Santis” echoed for a moment then disappeared. It was far too short, too ephemeral, for him to retain it. Perhaps that was who he was. He didn’t seem to have any other identity. Although the passing thought had already long-since escaped the Toa’s mind, he decided that it must be his name.

The Toa could only tell for sure that he was in the middle of some pestilent swamp and that, if he stayed there too long, chances were that he would die anyway from either inanition or just plain boredom.

And he felt an urge to make up a plan, a scheme, whatever got him out of there. Purposefully, he rose to his feet and overlooked the panorama that extended before of his eyes. The marsh region was extensive, alternating zones with puddles and reeds with patches of land, but not endless. In the far distance, he could see the outlines of a forest… nothing too strange about it, besides the fact that the trees seemed to be made out of some kind of black wood.

Taking a deep breath, the red-armored figure made his first steps into the bog. He took one stride and felt his foot slide across the muddy surface. Nearly slipping flat on his mask, the Toa managed to flail his arms out and steadied himself, like some frantic winged Rahi trying to fly. Cursing under his breath, he decided to take another route. His right foot was now encrusted in filthy brown muck.

Shuddering in disgust, Santis worked around the clammy patch of ground until he found more solid land. As he began walking, the Toa looked behind him. His keen eyes spotted something covered by a dark piece of cloth. It was synthetic, something that didn’t occur naturally in the charred wilderness. Therefore it was fairly safe to assume it had been left there for a specific purpose. Perhaps it was covering the entrance to an subterranean passageway or protecting a rotting carcass from attracting the local wildlife. Curious, he edged daringly closer and cautiously snatched up the material, revealing what concealed. His eyes widened in mild surprise as he discovered there was a sword and a dagger hidden below it. Why someone had chosen to leave them out in the open like this was beyond him.

He was lucky. Maybe his day wouldn’t be as bucolic as he had imagined, but he felt his self-confidence growing. Attaching both weapons to his scabbard, he used the cloth as an improvised cape, then started his journey into the unknown.

As he trudged onwards, the Toa was becoming increasingly aware that there were only a few more minutes left of daylight, and the swamp was starting to grow silent. Or, that is, it would be silent if it weren’t for the fact that every step that he took made a horribly loud splashing sound.

Shortly after, night fell, and the Toa of Fire decided against lighting up a torch. It would probably attract unwanted attention; he now wondered what the point of that was since the water-saturated field pretty much killed any of his chances of a stealthy saunter across this strange forest of ash and debris.

Fortunately, he was already starting to walk on drier, more coherent ground, and trees were becoming more common. Those were the ones that he had seen from distance, and a closer look confirmed that they were indeed burnt. This place was surely a crooked and twisted realm.

However, being a Toa of Fire, Santis couldn’t be bothered to find reason for the mindless destruction or to harvest firewood. He could light up his sword any time and use it as a torch, but where was the fun in walking through a well-illuminated forest?

The moonlight was enough for him, but even if there was no moon, he was sure that he would still refuse to artificially light the pitch-black night. It was a question of pride, maybe arrogance, but that was how he wanted to picture himself.

A hunter of the night.

Running – the warrior known as Torlo was fleeing for his life through the night. The expanse of charred woodland and burnt forests which surrounded him didn’t seem to have an end in sight – and even if they did, the chances of the doomed Le-Matoran reaching it would be the same as a Kikanalo bounding up and start licking him. Luck just wasn’t on his side that night. The Matoran of Air could feel his lungs burning in his chest and he could barely hear his footsteps over his heart light blinking. The ground felt damp and warm. Every step he took left a sloppy squelch in the mud. The ground was sticky, the air clung to him, and he had just about caked himself in dirt. But that was the price one had to pay when running was pretty much his only way of surviving every day. Torlo could not remember a time where that had not been the case. Living on the Southern Continent was hard work. He had to keep his blades sharp and his senses sharper still. The Matoran could still hear noises, the screeches of the twisted spiders of the night that scurried after him. Of course, over his travels, he had learnt that the creatures were called Visorak . He also knew they liked to make cocoons to wrap people inside them and that they had a fondness for firing Rhotuku Spinners. Not a group he particularly wanted to be spending time around, let alone be running away from. He missed the days when the Brotherhood of Makuta gave a broken Kanohi what became of their creations. He did a lot less running in those days. For the umpteenth time that evening, Torlo reviewed why he had gotten himself into this situation. He was supposed to be in his hut, crafting weapons and fixing swords. His role was essential. He was the only craftsman in the village, better than any Po-Matoran for sure. Rahkshi attacked his home just about every day and the metal that his people used was brittle. There were always weapons to repair. Which was probably why he had volunteered to serve the late afternoon as a hunter. Unable to ignore his primeval sense of duty, Torlo had demanded more information and gotten himself roped into doing the task himself. So far he’d gotten lost, broken his spear while trying to vault over a ditch, angered a Burnak, and at least halved his weight from running. If there was no risk of death he may have recommended the experience as a fitness program. He definitely needed the work out more. ''Mata Nui hated him. '' The Matoran of Air dove for what he thought was a cluster of wild grass. It turned out to be prickly undergrowth. He slipped and skidded into the tangle of thorns before crashing to the damp, muddy ground. Torlo winced and ignored the pain that flared through his legs. Fear engulfed all other senses. If one of the Visorak saw him he would be as dead as an Archives Mole in a Nui Kopen hive. He had to stay out of sight. Who knew, perhaps Mata Nui was looking kindly on him today. The Great Spirit certainly owed him, the least he could do was swat a couple of Visorak. He liked being the optimist. At least falling over embarrassingly had saved him having to dive into the sharp shrubbery. The fixed victim of Karzahni lay still where he’d fallen, conscious that any hint of movement might reveal his hiding place to his beastly stalker. He fought to stifle the urge to suck in lungfuls of air, each breath roaring in his audio receptors as if screaming “''Over here! ''” With the passing of each agonizing moment, he could feel the dampness of the sodden grass, soaking through his battered armor until it met his flesh. Yet the crafter remained surprisingly still, listening expectantly for any sound of pursuit. ''Silence. '' Torlo lay there a moment longer, exhausted. The pain in his leg was starting to hurt more and more, gradually increasing in intensity. Could he have twisted something as he fell? Would his ankle still take his weight? Could he still run? Then came the screech of the creature itself: a scream that ripped through the air from the depths of Hell itself, a noise not of Mata Nui’s creation. ''The Visorak were coming. '' The fixed Zatth-wearer raised his head tentatively. He could see the dark yet reassuring shape of his village’s circular wooden barriers in the distance, silhouetted against the grey clouds that marked the clearing in the burnt forest: a vision of hope. Shelter was so close. Even with his potentially injured ankle Torlo could make the short journey home, he was sure of it. All he had to do was get close enough to yell for assistance and help would come. Even in these dark times, help would come. Wouldn’t it? One thing was for sure, he couldn’t stay lying in the mud-splattered field. If the Visorak didn’t get him then he would probably pick up some incurable infection from the filth knowing his luck. Gathering his last reserves of energy, Torlo made a run for it. Pain surged through his leg instantly, but it wasn’t enough to buckle him – meaning his ankle wasn’t twisted. Trying to find motivation from that hollow thought, Torlo gritted his metallic teeth and carried on, his single thought was to reach the village’s entrance. Nothing more than his determination drove him on, running, running, resisting the urge to look back with all his inner strength. When it came the force of the impact was as powerful as it was unexpected, and for a few moments the Le-Matoran couldn’t move from shock. Shaking his head to clear it, Torlo grunted and struggled back to his feet, spinning around to search for his assailant, but there was nothing there. Confused, the Le-Matoran’s gaze fell upon his shoulder, which had borne the brunt of the attack. He couldn’t see a cut in the darkness but he could feel the wound. There was blood, and lots of it. Strangely, he felt no pain. It simply didn’t matter. He would be fine, he just had to keep moving. Drawing breath defiantly, the turned towards the village and staggered on. He had barely taken two steps when it hit him again, a weight slamming against his head, jerking his body awkwardly and hurling him through the air into a twisted heap. This time there was no choice but to stay down. His body was weak and he was stunned. More blood now, from somewhere just above his right eye. It trickled down behind his visor, clouding his vision with a crimson tint. His head spun. This was just a bad dream. I couldn’t be happening. There was no reason for this to be happening, not to him. And then his attacker looked down upon him: a Visorak Roporak. Its deep-set orange eyes glared hungrily at him, the prey. That at least explained how Torlo hadn’t been able to see anything when he turned around. Roporak had remarkable, yet surprisingly inconvenient access to a chameleon ability. The creature had been fully concealed in the darkness when the fixed Le-Matoran had looked for a follower. It was a neat trick, one that Torlo was satisfied as being the trick that would kill him. “Well go on then” he challenged the Visorak limply. “Hurry up and kill me you miserable excuse for a Visorak. I could kill ten Matoran while you’re fooling around!” The Le-Matoran snarled, daring the Roporak to continue. The creature screeched and gnashed its nightmarish teeth together. Torlo sure as hell wasn’t going to be mutated by the creature’s venom. His head was probably too delicious for that. Instead he puffed his chest up and growled menacingly as the jaws of death opened wide and moved in for the kill. Only, the bite never came. A burst of heat shot through the air and scalded one of the already-scorched trees, reducing it to dust. The fireballs startled both the Matoran and the Visorak for a brief moment before they both turned towards where the flames had come from. When he finally regained some measure of clarity in his vision Torlo was able to see the dark outline of a figure standing in the distance. The newcomer was clad in what looked like crimson and yellow armor, though it was harder to tell in the darkness. In his right hand was a magnificent sword, crafted to resemble a flame that was bigger than most people Torlo knew. The warrior’s helmet was smooth and untroubled save for three spikes, which jutted out at different angles. The fixed Zatth-wearer would have marveled at how original the abrupt appearance of the scarlet-armored giant was, but at that moment – having just looked into the very jaws of his potential killer – he was a hard guy to impress. It was undoubtedly a Toa. Torlo had only ever seen one before in his life, back on Metru-Nui – where he’d been before he had been sent to Karzahni for repairs and never come back. The name of that Toa escaped him but this towering stranger was nothing like what he imagined his hero to be. He was broad and muscular with a tatty dark cape strapped around his neck. The sword began to glow as the Visorak hissed and growled as the newcomer. The Toa tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at the creature before him. “I don’t think much of your welcoming comity” grunted the Toa in a voice as hollow and stiff as a coffin. “I was expecting a parade.” As he raised his sword a jet of flame erupted from the tip of the blade, blasting the Roporak with nothing short of pure fiery energy. The creature screamed one final time as it was torn apart by the ball of fire and engulfed by the heat. The spider-like abomination was incinerated on the spot: not even ashes were left to mark the brown creature’s passing. Torlo flinched and scrambled backwards frantically only for the Toa to turn to look at him, his blade still glowing with energy. “Fear not, Little One” grunted the Toa of Fire in a voice that was far too calm than it should have been for a person who’d just given a Visorak a free cremation. “If I wanted to harm you I could have done so already, with far less effort than it would take to raise this sword.” Speechless, Torlo turned his attention from the Toa, to the burn mark in the shrubbery, then finally to his village in the distance. “You’re a Toa?” “I was the last time I checked” replied the warrior as he tucked his weapon away into his pack and began scanning the area. “And where am I this time? Judging by the trees, I’d say safety-with-fire-day gone wrong.” “You’re on Voya-Nui” explained the Le-Matoran cagily, still cautious of the stranger. “Or at least what’s left of it.” “Ah! That’s good!” exclaimed the Toa of Fire cheerfully as he clapped his hands together. “So I take it I’m in the right giant metal robot?” Torlo grunted and shrugged, dismissing the idle comment. “What’s your name, Toa?” he asked, hoping to get some useful information out of the potential serial killer. Who knew, if he turned this guy into the Brotherhood for the murder of a Visorak it could be his ticket off the barren rock that was the Southern Continent. ''He lived in hope. '' The Toa frowned and turned away, mulling the question over in his mind. “My name?” he repeated before beginning to pace around. “My name, my name, my name. Wait!” Torlo flinched and recoiled as the Toa suddenly spun around. “Don’t tell me! I know this!” The Le-Matoran watched in confusion as the Toa of Fire continued pacing, pondering over the simplest question he could ever be asked. “I wasn’t planning to” he muttered in response, becoming increasingly aware that the Toa was probably insane. ''Just his luck to get the eight-foot warrior who didn’t even know his own name. '' “Look, that doesn’t matter” shrugged the Le-Matoran. “If you don’t want to tell me then I’m fine with that. It’s probably a name you don’t want going around.” “NO!” growled the Toa, a dangerous tremble in his tone. “I know this. My name… my name… is… Santis.” The Toa frowned then muttered something flatly, sounding deflated. There was definitely something strange about him. Torlo tilted his head questioningly. There was every possibility that could be the Toa’s actual name, just as easily as it could have been the name of a friend of his or the name of some brand of Kanoka Disk Launcher manufacturers in Metru-Nui. He had no way of telling, but the Toa’s voice gave it away. He sounded let down, as if it wasn’t what he had been expecting, and that contrasted the cocky, arrogant, egoistical attitude he had introduced himself in. “Are you sure?” asked Torlo as he took a step closer, debating whether or not a Toa who was unsure of his own name could be much of a threat. The Toa raised his head again, as if he had completely forgotten about the Le-Matoran in front of him. He quickly adopted a smug wink. “Oh, ye of little faith” he chuckled in a tone that was probably slower and more sinister than he expected it to be. “Anyway,” continued the fixed Matoran, wiping as much of his frown away as he could, “my name’s Torlo. I’m a craftsman at the village down there.” He raised his arm, extended a finger, and pointed towards the black silhouette of the fortified village in the distance, just in case the Toa was that deranged. The Toa nodded. Silence hung as the two warriors stared at each other. Torlo shrugged expectantly, as if encouraging Santis to speak, but no reply came. “Well, you know the drill” grunted Torlo. “Toa shows up, Toa helps Matoran, Matoran sleeps easy at night. Aren’t you going to help us?” “Sure I will” shrugged the Toa of Fire as he turned his attention back to the village. He seemed different now, as if he was thinking. Maybe he was still dwelling on how he had forgotten his name. Or – more likely – perhaps he was trying to find an excuse to be looking thoughtful whilst wearing a stupid black cape for a moment longer. When he glanced back at Torlo there was a faint glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “Very well. Hello, Torlo. My name is Toa Santis, Toa of Fire.” The Toa extended an armored hand to the Matoran. “Here to help.” The Le-Matoran hesitated then accepted the handshake. The Zatth-wearer smiled faintly and watched the Toa strode past, his cape rippling behind him. His eyes were fixed on the Toa, and sensing trouble of the very worst kind, though he wasn’t sure why.

There are times when one knows that a conversation is over, that there’s no point in continuing a meaningless chat, where the other’s proximity becomes uncomfortable and annoying and the silences starts being music to the ears.

In Santis’ case, his conversation with Torlo had long since died. ''Probably the fact that he’d just fallen into the unknown place, with his memory blackened. '' It didn’t help with his antisocial mood. He was acting like a fussy Ko-Matoran, but he wouldn’t take the initiative to start a conversation when the Le-Matoran next to him didn’t help at all.

He felt some sympathy for Torlo, though. Apparently Matoran of Air was a skilled craftsman in his village, and had gone hunting late in the afternoon. Santis had saved him from his unfortunate encounter with a Visorak, and in gratitude he’d offered him the chance – or begged him – to visit the Matoran settlement.

And there was something about him… he wasn’t sure but Torlo looked like he had seen better times. They were both walking uphill towards the village walls. They were still far, which meant that Santis would have to fight over the prized silence.

However, Torlo finally decided to break it up. “Have you ever been to Metru Nui?”

For a moment, Santis’ mind went off the physical place where he was, and rocketed to the City of Legends. He saw the chutes, the Matoran walking in the streets, the sun rising behind the Coliseum… and a Tryna-wearer. The Matoran was wearing grey and silver armor, and suddenly the crowd around him stopped, and started whispering something. At first, the Toa couldn’t hear it, but the whispers raised intensity to the point where the crowd of Matoran was a homogenous mass – all pronouncing the same chant over and over… kill Tollubo.

''Kill Tollubo. Kill Tollubo. Kill Tollubo''. Santis couldn’t help but keep repeating the same phrase over and over in his head. It was his objective. He was there to kill Tollubo. Confused, he decided he needed to meditate over the matter, then he should probably find out more about this Tollubo, but his Le-Matoran travelling partner interrupted his musings.

“Are you listening or not?”

“Go on.”

“I was talking about Le-Metru, with all of its innovative technology. Have you ever tried to take a ride on moto-sled over the roofs of the factories? It’s a really exciting experience. ”

“Moto-sleds are just an excuse to sell more petrol. The whole point of building tracks over the factories was to increase the income that the vehicle-companies were having in the area. And there’s nothing better than bored Po-Matoran Tourists for that purpose.”

“Are you always so cynical?”

“Only when I’m materialized in the middle of a swamp that smells like rotten Furnace Salamander dung.”

“That marsh is our most reliable source for food.”

“That explains your poor performance against the Visorak.”

“I like that.”

“You like getting kicked in the backside by a Roporak? That sounds a bit masochistic.”

“No, I like that you are so direct, so sincere. If there’s something I hate it’s hypocrisy.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

Both the Toa and Matoran stayed silent for several minutes longer. Their open silence was broken when Santis realized he needed to have some thought over the Tollubo affair, but he just couldn’t concentrate. Maybe he would once he had had some rest in the village.

“Have you ever heard of a person named Tollubo, Matoran?”

Torlo hesitated then rolled a shrug. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Why? Who is he?”

“I don’t know. A Matoran with silver and grey armor whose element I couldn’t identify.”

“A De-Matoran.”

“Couldn’t it have been an Onu-Matoran, Torlo?”

“Since when are Onu-Matoran silver? They all have black armor as far as I know.”

Santis snorted. “Believe me, Onu-Matoran can be full of surprises… Anyway, are you sure you haven’t seen any Tryna-wearing De-Matoran lately?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m more inclined to looking at Ga-Matoran.”

“Now you’re the one playing ironic, Torlo.”

“No one said that only Toa can be arrogant. Anyway, why do you want this Tollubo-guy anyway?”

“I want to… give him a big hug when I find him.”

The Zatth-wearer fell silent, as if he had expected Santis to say something more serious. The Toa of Fire just wasn’t willing to reveal the fact he wanted to kill a Matoran, at least not before he’d entered the village and had enjoyed the villagers’ hospitality for a while.

At that point, they reached the hill’s crest, and the fortified village lay a hundred meters away. However, there was something strange going on. Some of the wooden barriers were being rammed by red, four legged beings with pincers, and some dark reptilian figures where climbing them as the Matoran on the top of the wall fended them off with whatever they could get their clumsy, little hands on.

Before Santis could even think about the best line of action, Torlo had already run to one of the doors and was fighting Rahkshi and Visorak. No time for thinking. The Toa of Fire grunted something to himself then ran straight for the nearest group of Rahkshi by the wooden wall. But his dash was halted when something hit him in the back, making his armor erupt in pain. He fell to the ground and whipped out his sword from its scabbard.

In the light of the flames in the village, he could barely make out the shape of his attacker but he knew enough to tell that it had been a Vohtarak. The red Visorak lunged at him, its piercing green eyes staring in the Toa’s, as if burning through him and into his very soul.

Then something happened that Santis couldn’t understand. It was one of those situations when one made a bold deed, usually improbable in normal conditions, due to the adrenaline pumped to his mechanical brain, but it was far from that. The Toa felt a strange sensation of his face burning behind his mask, going crescendo, when the climax reached and two beams of fire sprouted from his eyes and connected with the Visorak in midair.

He was blinded at first, but as his sight returned to him slowly he admired the Vohtarak’s crisp, crinkled corpse next to him; it was the first time he’d fried a Visorak brain like that, and though it was sick, it made him proud.

But there was no time for celebration, and the death of one spider was not great achievement. That became increasingly obvious from the point a Rahkshi was thrown off the barrier and landed next to him. Tan abdomen, red limbs. That meant Plasma. The Rahkshi quickly rose to its feet, a bit dazed and didn’t notice the Toa of Fire. It started walking away slowly, exposing its back to Santis, who wasn’t willing to waste the opportunity.

So he quickly rose too and kicked the Rahkshi between its legs. He was surprised to see it slowly turning to confront him, no expression of pain – not even disgust – on its ugly face. Without a second though, he sent a vortex of flames at the beast. But again, it stood there, impassive, almost bored; like if it had no time for amnesic Toa.

The Rahkshi of Plasma sent a bolt of super-heated gas through its staff, which Santis blocked with his sword. The Toa absorbed the energy through his weapon, but soon realized he probably shouldn’t that again. Still, he grunted and dismissed the burning sensation caused by his weapon.

Knowing that his sword might as well melt before the Rahkshi started to tire, he decided to roll on the floor. He’d taken the wrong decision. The Rahkshi started toying with him, knocking him to the ground with its staff. The Toa decided to repeat the eyebeam trick that had worked with the Visorak, though the beams of fire just made a small scratch on the beast’s armor. Still, it didn’t take him long to realize he’d managed to distract his opponent.

The situation repeated again, but this time it was Santis who was sending waves of heat at the Rahkshi. The Toa raised the intensity, and to his enemy’s dismay, he reached a point in which he melted the Rahkshi’s staff. Was that plasma? The Toa was no longer sure of what his capabilities were or how far they were limited. But he liked it. Whoever said power corrupts obviously hadn’t been a Toa.

The Rahkshi, not having its staff was unable to resist the Toa. Killing the Kraata with a clean slice in his foes’ thorax, Santis entered the village as he heard war chants of victory.

And, as he crossed the main wooden door, now open, he saw the Matoran staring at him in surprise at first. But when a Matoran from the crowd, possibly Torlo, screamed his name, the whole village started cheering and greeting him warmly, repeating his name over and over as if it was a synonym for victory.

He was triumphant, he was admired, and he had glory in his hands. He had the sensation that it was the start of a startling career as a hero, and maybe, just maybe, as the village leader.

The Toa of Fire cracked a smile. This almost made everyone else in the world wanting to kill him worth it.

Chapter 4
Toa Santis ducked his head into Torlo’s crafting workshop and examined his surroundings. It was a large structure, made from bleached wood and metal, unlike the many huts that surrounded it. Excellently equipped, probably designed to be used by four crafters at the very least. Perhaps some Ta-Matoran had wanted to bring a little chunk of Ta-Metru with him.

The forge was square-shaped, situated towards the southern reaches of the cramped settlement. There were a total of four work benches lined up against three of the four walls, not that the wall on his right was anything more than a window, though it did have one of the workbenches pressed up tightly against it. The only one in obvious use. The wall was just a barrier that ran up to his knees, only a little higher than the table. Above that was a gap stretching the entire length of the forge, designed to let smoke escape and for light to spill out onto the street. Indeed, a warm, gingery glow illuminated the dirt-trodden path, as if someone had taken the time to paint the ground a different color.

Santis lost interest in his surroundings and wondered over to the center of the workshop, towards the actual foundry. There was a large, circular hearth in the middle of the room, like something taken from a Ta-Metru forge. Only there was no fuel. The hearth couldn’t be run by gas or oil, and it certainly wasn’t solar powered. The Toa took a careful glance at the flickering flames and concluded it must be running on firewood, which must heat up the metal. There was probably some chemical inside that was designed to react and increase the temperature. Whatever it was, it didn’t engage his interest, so he didn’t give the topic any more thought.

For a moment, he wondered whether or not it would burn him if he placed an armored hand on the metal. After all, being a Toa, his heat resistance capabilities could only go so far. But then again, how many Toa of Fire could shoot Lasers from their eyes?

In the end, he decided against the dangerous impulse and sat down in front of the hearth. He closed his eyes and saw the same ginger glow through his eyelids. It took him a moment to adapt to it and when he did, a deep blackness consumed his vision. He let out a deep, heavy sigh as the warmth of the foundry filled him. It had been a cold, chilly night and his feet were still muddy from walking around through the marshland for so long. But still, he ignored the dirt and crossed his legs, then placed his palms on his knees.

''Breathe in. Breathe out.'' The Toa inhaled slowly, withheld a lungful of air, then exhaled at the same rate. After about a minute or two of focusing on his breathing, he felt his tense muscles beginning to slacken. A deep tiredness rolled over him, like a warm, gentle wave from a sapphire -blue ocean. He imaged water swirling at his waist, licking at his chest and soothing his discomfort.

Sometimes he wondered if his creator – whoever the hell he was – had made a mistake when making him a Ta-Matoran. Granted, most of the time he lived up to the fiery, arrogant, violent stereo-type that existed of his kind, but Santis was sure he wasn’t always like that. Although the reaches of his memory escaped him, he knew from his conversation with Torlo that he could be erratic and calmer than most other short-tempered Toa of Fire, capable of great compassion and forgiveness. He did have some redeeming qualities.

A deep cough shattered the Toa’s concentration. Irritated, he let out a low grunt then peeled open one eye to see who it was. When he realized it was only Torlo he closed it again.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Meditating. It helps me keep calm.”

“You don’t say” muttered the Le-Matoran sarcastically.

“You should try it” grunted Santis emotionlessly. “It’ll get rid of your wrinkles, probably take the last 10,000 years off your brow.”

The Zatth-wearer exhaled. A snort. Santis guessed he must be smiling. “I’ll stick to my beauty sleep” he responded smoothly. “Besides, good looks are overrated.”

“And you’d know?”

There was a pause. Santis pictured the Le-Matoran, leaning at the door frame, arms folded, shaking his head. “Some people, no matter how old they get, never lose their beauty. They just move it from their faces to their hearts.”

The Toa of Fire chuckled to himself then opened his eyes only to see that Torlo was deadly serious. “My wife was like that.”

“Was?”

“She died” shrugged the Matoran, taking a sad step closer to the hearth. “Suicide. 12 years ago.”

The Danju-wearer snorted. “Doesn’t seem very heartfelt.”

Torlo stopped in his tracks and twisted his head up, insulted. The flames from the foundry danced in his eyes, making them wide and shiny, piercing Santis. They were ancient eyes. Old and wise, yet burning like the fire they reflected. They belonged to someone who had clearly seen his fair share of injustice. But there was something else there, hidden behind the flickering blaze. It wasn’t just offense. The Toa of Fire was pretty sure he saw traces of anger in there. An inferno. A dark, sinister side to the Le-Matoran that made even him to grow uncomfortable. Torlo’s eyes were unnerving him, making him wary.

Santis grunted to himself and broke eye contact. Torlo had gotten the better of him. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“How did it happen?”

The rage in the Zatth-wearer’s eyes blinked away and, instead, began to cloud with memory.

“It was my fault” he stated. “She fell ill one year, I neglected her and began seeing someone else.”

“I thought you hated hypocrisy” he frowned. “But that makes you a hypercritic for – ” He trailed off when he realized that probably hadn’t been the best thing to blurt out.

“I know” muttered the blacksmith. “I’ve become the very thing I hate the most, the thing I argue against in every town meeting and yell at people like Kyros for. I’m a sinner and I know.”

Santis stayed silent.

“There’s a special place back in Karzahni for people like me, the damned. If there wasn’t then I don’t know what the world’s come to. For my crimes – my sins – I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

The Toa of Fire swallowed uncomfortably and glanced at the hearth. A full minute of awkward silence followed the Le-Matoran’s words. It hung uneasily until Santis realized he couldn’t take it much longer. He groaned to himself, pulling his bulking, over-armored body into the air. Rising to his feet, the Toa turned to face Torlo. “I trust your village elders are waiting for me?”

“They should be” grunted the Matoran. “I doubt they’ll have much else to do at three in the morning.”

The Toa nodded then glanced at Torlo. He had a proposal to ask of the village’s leader, whoever the hell that was. The words “kill Tollubo” were still echoing through his head, like nails being drilled into his skull, like water dripping against his forehead – slowly driving him insane. He had to find this De-Matoran. But then what? The Matoran of Sonics had obviously been a part of his past – be it a past he couldn’t remember  – yet he was supposed to kill him? He wasn’t an expert but Toa weren’t renowned for assassinating Matoran. Besides, after torturing him, Tollubo could probably tell him something else about his past – maybe something useful this time.

The Toa of Fire took a fleeting look from the Matoran, to the empty doorway, then back to the Matoran again. He couldn’t remember anything about who he was, who he had been or what he had done and it was torture not knowing. Torlo seemed to trust him, but he doubted the village leaders would. And for all he knew, they were right not to.

“I’m going to propose an expedition” uttered Santis as the pair began walking. “I’m setting off on a mission tomorrow morning and I would like a Matoran to accompany me, to be my aide.”

“Anyone you want to travel with in particular?”

“Well, I don’t see you doing much around here.”

The Le-Matoran hesitated then frowned, his eyes trained on the ground in front of him.

“Me?” he spluttered. “You want me to put my life on the line without knowing the reason why?”

The Toa shrugged. “Yes” he answered simply.

Torlo’s frown disappeared and his shrugged. “Fair enough.” The pair shared a smile before continuing their hike to the village center.

“And this mission,” continued the Matoran, “would it take us far away from here?”

“Probably.”

“Anywhere specific?”

“Probably” he repeated.

“Let me guess” chuckled the poorly-built Zatth-wearer. “You’re heading for Metru-Nui to find this Tollubo-guy, right?”

Santis nodded.

“Have you thought about how you’re going to get there?”

“Yeah. Walking.”

“Across the Silver Sea?”

The Toa stopped in his tracks and shot the Le-Matoran with a confused look. “I thought we were on Voya Nui. Isn’t that the one above all the domes with all the underground passageways?”

Torlo smothered a snort. “Since when has Voya Nui been in the sky?”

“I’ll take that as a no” grunted the Toa. He continued walking. “All the more reason why I need someone like you as a guide, someone I don’t argue with who can show me the way off this burnt wasteland.”

The righteous Matoran took a skeptical glance at him but remained quiet, or at least until they ended their walk in the village center. Santis’ eyes widened in terror when the horrific scene was revealed to him and he saw the one thing he possibly hated more than Rahkshi: A party.

“You have some sense, Santis” muttered Torlo as the horrible sound of an overly-cheerful drumbeat deafened them both. “I hope you can leave some of it behind here before you go.”

Normally, a wanderer like Santis wouldn’t have drawn so much attention. Under ordinary circumstances he was likely to be ignored – just an over-sized mouth and another hungry appetite for the tiring village fishermen and farmers to provide for. They had enough of their own problems to cope with. But the mood in the fortress was seemingly lighter than it had been in a while. As the Toa soon discovered, one of the nearby Matoran resistance settlements had fallen to the creatures of the night and three new arrivals had turned up in the village, only a couple of hours before sunset. Though they were only refugees and would probably be more of a burden than a blessing, they’d given their fellow Matoran hope. If survivors from other villages had manage to make their way to them, perhaps they could build a great fort and a mighty army to keep the Rahkshi and Visorak out forever. It was wishful, crazy thinking, but the Matoran seemed to be thinking it anyway. The desperate and the damned could build a mountain of hope out of a Stone Rat’s droppings.

That was why Santis found himself as the focus of the banquet. Being a Toa, he literally was the army the Matoran had been praying to Mata Nui for, which – strangely – did nothing for his or Torlo’s solemn moods. He barely touched the food he was given and only ate anything out of politeness. All around him Matoran were sinking their metallic teeth into their own feasts. Huge hulking chunks of organic meat, mugs of broth and sugared Madu cubes were being passed around.

Not wanting to cause too much trouble by ruining the celebration, Santis waited until the mood had begun to dwindle until he confronted who seemed to be the village’s leader, a Po-Matoran named Goll. He’d been observing each member of the crowd for some time now, not wanting to have to ask Torlo to explain everything to him. But it hadn’t been that simple. As soon as he’d begun talking a gaggle of onlookers had crowded around him and whispers had been passed in the background, which distracted him. In the end, he’d had to pull Goll aside into one of the nearby council huts to have his discussion. After explaining his proposal to the Pakari-Nuva wearer he began to feel guilty about the Matoran’s downtrodden expression. The village needed him for protection against its attackers and he was abandoning them. But worse still, he was bringing Torlo with him too. It must be like he was selecting a single survivor then bringing him to safety whilst leaving the others to die.

“I see” muttered the Po-Matoran when the Toa had finally finished. “You will leave in the morning?”

“That’s the plan” shrugged Santis casually.

The Po-Matoran glanced from the Toa of Fire to the Le-Matoran by his side. “Very well” he grunted. “But are you sure you want Torlo to be your companion? He’s the village’s only blacksmith. If our weapons are damaged he’s irreplaceable.”

“I have to go” shrugged Torlo. “But I don’t intend to stay. No matter how dangerous it is, this is my home. Plus, I hear there are Toa in Metru-Nui. If I get there, the first thing I’ll do is send them here and bring the rest of you to safety. And failing that I could at least train in a Metru-Nui forge, learn to make weapons that are stronger and lighter. That way I could make better weapons here, when I return.” The Zatth-wearer paused then sighed. “I’ll stay if you order me to Goll – I have enough honor to obey you – but this is for the best, and deep down you know that too.”

Goll raised an eyebrow then nodded decisively. “Indeed” he grunted. “But I don’t want you two going alone. You won’t stand a chance, even with Santis.” He turned and looked up, indicating he was addressing the Danju-wearer. “Toa, I accept your offer but, in exchange for taking my village’s only craftsman, I must insist, I cannot see any pair of travelers crossing this merciless wasteland – Karzahni and Tren Krom probably couldn’t make it past Mount Valamai. No good can come of your quest if there are only two f you. My one condition is that you bring more Matoran with you, save as many as you can from this hellhole.” Santis frowned.

“I don’t want a tagalong-team of Matoran squabbling at my feet” he grunted. “Besides, my journey will be dangerous. You’ll only be putting innocent lives at risk.”

The Matoran of Stone shook his head and raised his arms, openly referencing the entire village. “Look at this place” he retorted. “Living here is dangerous enough as it is.”

“And that’s worth Matoran sacrificing themselves? Last time I checked, Metru-Nui wasn’t all that great.”

Goll sighed deeply and shook his head, like a tired Turaga. “At least in Metru-Nui they’ll have a chance. Here they’ll just wither away and fall victim to the prying pincers of a Visorak to be dragged off and torn to pieces. That is my offer. You take as many Matoran as you can, and you put your life before theirs.”

“That seems fair” grunted Santis sardonically.

The Pakari Nuva-wearer ignored him. He just stared at the duo through weary eyes then he extended a hand. “Then it is agreed. We have a deal” he announced. The Danju-wearer almost felt sorry for the village’s leader when neither he nor Torlo shook his hand. There was nothing more awkward than standing there, ready to shake hands, when the gesture is ignored. It is foolish to keep standing with your palm stretched out, yet, at the same time, it is somehow worse to retract your hand back. When he finally realized neither of them wanted to thank him, Goll nodded to himself, swallowed, and lowered his arm back to his side. Uneasily, the trio began shuffling towards the doorway and back into the party-atmosphere.

It was at that moment when a crooked-looking Ga-Matoran hobbled up to them and began glaring at Santis. He frowned and waited for one of the others to introduce him. In the end, neither of the Matoran said anything. As he watched, the Toa saw the strange, twisted Matoran raise her arm and point a bony, wrinkled finger at him. It was twitching with suspicion.

“I do not trust him” she gurgled. Obviously insane. Santis turned to Goll questioningly. Again, the Po-Matoran sighed and shifted his attention to the aged Matoran of Water.

“Krennato, my friend, that’s hardly the way to address a Toa, particularly one who has just saved our village.”

“The Makuta sent him” countered Krennato with a snarl. “They could have conquered his last village, muddled his senses and sent him here – luring us into a trap.”

“You afford those cowards too much respect” grunted Torlo, returning to defend the Toa. “The Makuta hide behind their armies. Their solution to every problem is to throw foot-soldiers at something until it breaks. Besides, the Rahkshi are mindless, clumsy and dimwitted creatures. They couldn’t mastermind whatever senseless nonsense you’re blabbering about.”

The female Matoran froze and shot the Le-Matoran with an icy stare, which barely fazed him. “Indeed” she murmured. “But our attackers are changing. They are growing more intelligent.” She paused to extend another shriveled, fragile finger in an eastern direction. “Until yesterday we had a craftily hidden subterranean passageway. Now the Visorak have discovered it they will adapt and attack it more regularly. It will become their primary target. They’ll form plans and calculate tactics, all by themselves. Soon they’ll attack at the same time as their Rahkshi allies at the gates. They are thinking and planning clearly, more like us than you could imagine, Le-Matoran.”

Goll massaged his chin thoughtfully. Santis could guess why. He imagined that the one great advantage the Matoran – besides the fact they were only attacked at night – was the fact they were smarter than their enemies. But if their midnight stalkers were getting smarter…

“It can’t be a trap” snorted Torlo, dismissing the idea with a curt wave of his hand. “If the Rahkshi were smart enough to be manipulating Santis into luring us – which is preposterous – he’d have slaughtered us all already, you first probably.”

Spurred by the Matoran of Water’s accusation, Santis bristled angrily and flexed his muscles. He raised his arms to crack his knuckles aggressively then threw a dark glare at her. She just stared blankly back at him through empty eyes. In the end he decided she wasn’t worth ruining his heroic reputation by pummeling into the ground. She was just some dusty, deranged, senile excuse for a Matoran, probably not above fortune-telling and pessimism, claiming the world was going to end in a column of brimstone and hellfire on a daily basis. Engaging her in a fight – be it one he would surely win – would come to no good. In the end, he just grunted and turned his attention away, casting her from his mind. But a small crowd of Matoran was gathering around him. While there were only a handful of villagers surrounding him it felt like the heads were tilting towards him. He was becoming something of a spectacle. A sleek, vain-looking Ko-Matoran stepped forwards, eager to get his word in on the matter. ''A wanna-be center of attention. ''

“Moving on from our protector being possessed,” he snorted, “who’s to say this quest is that important? We need help too. Out plight is just as serious as your memory loss. What do you expect us to do, Toa? Send our warriors to protect you, leaving our weak and helpless at the mercy of the Rahkshi?” He spat into the dust, which turned a few more heads and suddenly made Santis think about how fitting the Matoran’s head would look on a plaque above his bed. There were murmurs of agreement before Krennato nodded too and silence fell. By now the party mood had died down for the villagers to listen. Many of the lights had been doused and some Matoran had been set the task of tidying up. Many of the villagers who weren’t crowded around for the debate even appeared to be sitting down, conversing in hushed, orderly discussion with each other. Some were even sleeping, one of Santis’ favorite pastimes.

“He puts it harshly, but there is wisdom in what Kyros is saying” muttered the aged Ga-Matoran, as if patronizing Santis by giving him a running commentary, pretending she hadn’t said anything worse. “Protection is one thing, but appearing in the night to sweep away out people? If this quest goes ahead, our village will fall!” At the moment, the situation didn’t look too good for the Danju-wearer. Krennato and Kyros seemed to have sided and turned completely against his idea, while Torlo and Goll were of the opinion that the villagers should send a small group with him, to help him find his way north. He wasn’t sure why, but Santis had the strangest feeling that these four Matoran were inevitably going to be stuck with him for his journey, squabbling amongst themselves and doing a number on his audio receptors.

But then Torlo stepped forwards and snorted, countering the cynical Ga-Matoran. He moved fluently and smoothly – obviously used to defying people in public, just like he claimed.

“It’s no accident that he came on the same day as the other refugees” he argued, gesturing swiftly to the crowd. “Yesterday we couldn’t have let anyone go. But our ranks have been bolstered.”

“Bolstered?” The Ko-Matoran almost shrieked, casting a scornful glare at three of the crowd members, presumably the new arrivals.

“Kyros!” snapped Goll sharply, before the hot-headed villager could disgrace the settlement’s guests of honor. When he was sure of the Matoran of Ice’s silence, he leaned forward, concentrating hard. The Toa could probably guess what he was thinking. Torlo had a point. To the misguided Matoran, this was a sign. Goll wouldn’t dare ignore something like that, not in this superstitious society where people would willingly believe anything that brought them hope. ''If he said he’d once beaten at a game of Kohlii they’d probably believe him. '' But he wasn’t sure this was a sign. Santis hadn’t told them anything and they couldn’t exactly stop him from walking off on his own. They’d all seen it, he’d butchered two Visorak and a Rahkshi of Plasma and that was against his own Toa Code. If he wasn’t going to obey those morals, who was to say his arrival was a blessing? Still, he decided to wait for someone to throw in a query of their own. It was becoming clear that Goll couldn’t think of anything.

In the end it was Torlo who spoke. “We should go,” he stated, addressing the crowd, “as many of us as possible. After all, is the chance of escape from this dark, hellish wasteland not what we’ve been clinging onto all this time?” ''Silence. '' “Plus we’re stronger now” added the Zatth-wearer. “We can easily spare a few warriors and I believe it will benefit us in the long run. Once in Metru-Nui we can send supplies back: more food, better weapons, maybe even organize an evacuation.” To Santis’ surprise, Krennato leaned back on her staff and nodded. “True” she croaked. “Bad luck would befall us if we refused this opportunity.” It appeared she had switched sides, which was all that was needed to bring a slick grin to the Toa’s mask. Argument won.

Goll glanced at the Ga-Matoran then nodded slowly. “If we are decided then that is the end of this matter. But the question of who to send still remains. I don’t want to command anyone to leave. Are there any volunteers?”

“Aye.” A red-armored hand immediately shot up. It belonged to a stout Ta-Matoran wearing a Kanohi Calix. He seemed desperate. He was either stupid or felt the need to be close to the group, which struck the Toa as odd. “Anything to kill a couple of extra Rahkshi.” The starting stages of a psychopath. The Po-Matoran growled unhappily. Despite his small stature, the Matoran of Fire looked physically fit, which suggested he was a good fighter, possibly one of the best in the village and certainly the most determined from how he’d stuck his hand up to swiftly. Good reflexes, which meant Goll probably didn’t want to give him up. But, at the same time, he couldn’t exactly refuse the Calix-wearer the chance without insulting him.

After some careful thought he nodded reluctantly. “Any others?” he asked. A number of other hands rose up. To the Toa’s counting, there were four: the Ta-Matoran, a somewhat thickly-built Matoran of Lightning, a timid-looking Po-Matoran and a unperturbed Onu-Matoran. There were no objections so the four Matoran stepped forward, into the center of attention, allowing Santis a better look at them. Most of them were well-built, except for the Po-Matoran – which was somewhat strange, he had to admit. But if he didn’t want to fight then the team had their own cook, weapons carrier and firewood collector. After a careful examination, the Toa nodded his approval. Calling upon his grand mastery of the Matoran Language, he chose to say nothing. A simple grunt said more than any of his words could.

“I might as well accompany you too” grunted Goll, which was also surprising. “Since I argued the case, I have to go. Plus I used to rule these lands. I know my way around my kingdom.”

The Danju-wearer cocked a mocking eyebrow. “And who will lead the village you’re so eager to protect in your absence?” Immediately Kyros’ hand was in the air, his eyes wide with greedy, gluttonous ambition.

The Po-Matoran chuckled and shook his head. “I’m hardly going to leave this settlement in your hands. You’ll probably evict everyone and keep the fortress to yourself. You will have to come with us too.” The Ko-Matoran’s jaw dropped as he gawped at the Pakari Nuva-wearer. Others in the crowd were surprised too. The quest was going to be a perilous one. The land was full of shadowy creatures and the chances of survival were slim. Yet Goll himself was going and he was bringing his seemly only successor – or at least that was how the situation appeared to Santis. Not even the Toa of Fire saw wisdom in that. Goll just didn’t want his village to succumb to the selfish Po-Matoran.

But one person in the crowd did. The Ga-Matoran known as Connla had been listening to the debate for some time now. Despite how much the villagers hated the idea, it was becoming increasingly obvious that Kyros was going to end up as Goll’s successor. If the Po-Matoran died on the quest, there would be several challengers to replace him and Kyros might find powerful allies hard to come by, particularly as he was so untested in battle. ''Which was what Goll was hoping for. '' If the Ko-Matoran completed his task and returned to the village with a bloodied blade, desperately-needed supplied and tales of glory, that would be the making of him. But that was hardly likely. The tiring village leader was missing the obvious. If Kyros survived he was hardly going to return to Voya-Nui. He would stay in Metru-Nui and build himself up there, claiming to have faced monsters and Makuta alike. He would spread his poisonous lies anyway. This would do the Ko-Matoran more justice than the Po-Matoran realized. While the conceited Ko-Matoran blinked stupidly at Goll, Krennato took a short step forwards.

“I may as well accompany you fools” she grumbled bitterly. “You’ll need a healer because you are bound to get yourselves hurt with your aimless traipsing.” ''The thunder in Toa Santis’ eyes was unmistakable. ''

Goll nodded then grunted.

“Very well. Now, if that’s all…” he looked around, seeking any final volunteers, making it clear by the way he had asked that nine people were more than appropriate. But one last hand went up, a tiny hand. Connla’s. “I want to go too” she announced. Goll was astounded. Everyone was.

“Connla” hissed the Po-Matoran. “This quest isn’t suitable for –”

“For what?” she retorted. “Ga-Matoran?”

“It will be dangerous” added Torlo, his tone warning her. “This is a task for warriors.”

“But you’re going and you’re no warrior.” “I have to go so I can learn to make better weapons to craft and bring back here.”

“Maybe I can learn something too” argued Connla, clinging on to scraps of arguments. “Who knows, maybe I could learn how to make bandages from leaves or something.” She paused then searched the blank masks of her fellow villagers for support only to find none. “I have to do this” she continued. “I sense failure if I don’t go. I’m not sure what good I can do – maybe you’re right. Maybe none at all – but I believe I must travel with you.” Goll shook his head, troubled.

“I can’t allow this. If Krennato’s coming then you’re the village’s only healer. Who will aid to the injured every night? The village needs you.”

“It needs you too” she countered. “And what of Torlo, Fiancha and Krennato? Who will fix our broken weapons? Who will endeavor for our fish each morning? Who will give us wisdom?”

“That’s different” struggled Goll, losing the argument. Seeking help he turned to the Toa. “Please, tell her.” But the Toa of Fire only shrugged.

“She lives in this village by choice – and now she chooses to leave it” grunted Toa Santis, some of his first words since he’d emerged from the council hut mere minutes ago. “I see no reason to rob her of that right to decide.”

“You’ll accept her?”

“I’ll accept anyone with the courage to join my expedition” shrugged the cape-wearing warrior. “Besides, you’re the one arguing to get as many Matoran out of here as possible.” Brave, provocative words, which Goll couldn’t ignore. It would appear the Toa of Fire was on her side of the argument, which gave Connla at least some stance in the debate. Perhaps he recognized her as a healer and planned on getting hurt, though the Pakari-wearer knew she was no more of a medic than some of the Gafna sleeping peacefully around the huts on piles of straw. But she was closer to the ways of medicine than anyone else in the community and, deep down, that somehow seemed to give people hope. Nobody would dare cross her is she brought some spiritual, ritualistic trash into her argument. It was strange how closely her remedies could be linked to the paranormal.

Goll grunted hollowly, sighed, then seemed to grow angry.

“Very well.” he growled irately. “We’ve pledged some of our greatest warriors, our leader, our elder, the only blacksmith in these lands and a fisherman to this reckless cause – why not add our only healer too?”

And so, in a bitter, resentful fashion, the Po-Matoran finalized the decision and the Matoran were dismissed, as if it had been some motivational speech to an army about to go to war instead of a party. With a mixture of fear and excitement in the pit of her stomach – ''mostly fear – the Ga-Matoran began trudging back to her hut to enjoy one final night of sheltered sleep, before leaving the only home she’d known for the past 50,000 years to face whatever demons were lurking beyond the safety of the village and other dangers that were beheld by the world beyond. Metru-Nui had damn well better be worth it.

Chapter 5
Written by Matoro1

There were no further attacks that night – an encouraging omen. The group departed at dawn, with the first slithering stretches of sunlight spilling out over the dawn sky, bidding short farewells to their fellow villagers. Connla wanted to take one final look back at the huts and walls of the fortress as they left as she knew she might never see them again, but that would be inviting bad luck. So she kept her eyes fixed on the path ahead.

It soon became apparent that it was going to be a cloudy day. There were erratic showers and a bone-chilling gales. The climate was different lower down, something the Ga-Matoran had almost completely forgotten about having spent the past 3,000 years atop a hill, cowering at night and tending to soft, gentle Rahi. The air smelled cold and clammy, an element she was not comfortable with. They marched at a steady pace, staying close to the Tren Krom river, heading East. All the village’s boats had been destroyed by Rahkshi attacks some months back, so they could not cross the river easily. Goll seemed to have an idea that, if they headed further inland, the river would reach a point where it would be narrow enough for them to cross and head north at, which should take them all the way to the tip of the continent if all went well – which it probably wouldn’t. However, as a rare stroke of fortune, the earth was solid underfoot from the trampling of their midnight attackers. As there was no vegetation left to obstruct their way, the group found plenty of paths through the burnt trees, making good time. Torlo and Iolan were at the fore of the pack, followed closely by Goll. Then came Connla herself, along with Fiancha, Sarnii and Kyros. The Ko-Matoran was sulking and hadn’t said a word since leaving the village. Krennato and Turas seemed to be towards the rear of the group with Toa Santis strolling along slowly, bored senseless by the sluggish pace of the Matoran. The Toa was dawdling leisurely, taking slow, exaggerated steps, prompting them to hurry up. The young Pakari-wearer brooded upon her reasons for leaving the safety of her fortified home as they continued their trek, growing increasingly troubled the more she thought about it. Mostly she had chosen to leave because of the promise of a new world. But there was another reason – fear. The village seemed to be getting smaller and smaller with every passing day. She felt so confined, like it was betting harder and harder to breathe. She had nightmares where she was trapped, where the walls of the fortress closed in, even tighter, squeezing her to death. If her worst fears came true and they fell to the hordes of monsters, she didn’t want to die caged in. But, even so, no matter what way she looked at it, the Ga-Matoran began to realize she had left for purely selfish reasons. The villagers needed her and she shouldn’t have abandoned them because she was afraid or to save herself from an oncoming disaster. She should go back. Fight with them. Use her knowledge of healing to help her doomed friends back in the village as best as she could. ''But what if there was another reason? What if this is my destiny?'' Krennato’s teachings of faith always seemed to follow the guidance of spirits and the supernatural. The paranormal normally wouldn’t have anything to do with Connla’s life, but now she seemed to be torn between logic and belief. Mata Nui help me she muttered under her breathe. There were so many possibilities – her head was hurting just thinking about them. Perhaps she should stop and give herself a rest, to gather her thoughts. There was no point worrying now. They were more than half a day’s hike from the fortress, which meant they couldn’t return to safety before nightfall. ''There was no going back. ''

Everybody was quiet during the march, thinking about those they had left behind and what lay ahead. They stopped to rest and eat at midday. Torlo and Iolan managed to capture a couple of Hikaki, which they ate raw, along with some berries that Connla herself picked. After that they walked slower on their full stomachs, which annoyed their Toa guardian considerably. But it didn’t take long for conversation to pick up and talk began, low and laid-back, with Torlo asking Santis a question about his Sword and blade. Of course, his idle curiosity was followed by lots more questions after that. The Matoran of the village knew all there was to know about each other already, which left the Toa as the only mystery in the group. But the cape-wearing giant didn’t answer many of their questions and whatever answers he gave were sketchy and vague as he looked ahead, focusing on the track and not the circle of annoying Matoran. Still, after the Toa fell silent the conversation took a more philosophical turn, which came as something of a surprise to Connla, though she stayed out of it. Speaking of death and legacy didn’t seem to bode well for their expedition.

“I wouldn’t have a lot to leave other than memories” grinned Goll when the conversation reached him. “But they’d be good memories. I live in the light. I regret none of the mistakes of my past.”

“Except getting stabbed and losing your throne” snorted Kyros with a smirk, sending the Po-Matoran spiraling into a foul mood.

“You should not provoke him like that” hissed Krennato harshly as she glared at the Ko-Matoran, repulsively.

“He’s an old wreck!” retorted the egoistic Matoran of Ice. “I’ll have you know I had my own Knowledge Tower back in Ko-Metru. I’ll speak to the old Mahi any way I choose.”

“We’re not in the village now” growled Torlo as he turned to face Kyros. “We’re a small, isolated group and we need to rely on each other. Think on – Goll might hold your life in his hands one night soon. Will you compare him to a Rahi then?”

The Ko-Matoran’s jaw dropped when he realized that nobody was going to support him. He scowled but considered Torlo’s words. ''Off on another of his legendary sulks again. ''

Torlo and Iolan sparred with Santis in the evening as the group crossed bogland. The Toa threw a few knife feints with his blade which were new to the two warriors and they practiced until they’d perfected them. The two Matoran, in turn, knew a lot of moves which the Toa of Fire didn’t and they taught him a few, promising to reveal more over the coming days. Once warriors had been secretive. They had kept techniques to themselves, always wary of their neighbors, knowing that today’s friend could be tomorrow’s enemy. The Rahkshi had changed that. Now they shared because they had to –  warriors, blacksmiths, fishermen, healers. The Brotherhood’s creations had united the various Matoran of the land in a way no ruler ever had. It was devastatingly unfair that the survivors couldn’t join forces to face their attackers on a single battlefield, in fair combat – Connla was sure they would win. But, although Rahkshi and Visorak weren’t as clever as Matoran, they were sly. They spread out, taking control of paths and routes, limiting the opportunities for travel and isolating their enemies, dividing prospective allies. They shared arms, learning from others whenever possible, but they wouldn’t be able to share enough.

After they grew tired of jousting, the warriors dispersed and returned their attention to walking. Kyros approached Torlo for advice, which struck the entire group as odd considering he hadn’t spoken since his argument with Goll. He announced an idea for a new spear, topped with several sharp fins and wanted the weapons-crafter’s opinion. The Le-Matoran listened politely, then explained why the weapon wouldn’t work. Kyros was disappointed but the smith managed to cheer him up by telling him that any weapon could be forged in the furnaces of Ta-Metru and, if he met other blacksmiths, perhaps they could work together to come up with something along the lines of Kyros’ designs, which seemed to shut him up for a while. And that suddenly made everyone happy.

The group finally came to the crossing point of the Tren Krom river late in the evening. The river was shallow and narrow where they had arrived, easier to cross. The valley had once been the land of another region. A much larger fortress than the one the travelers had left behind had once stood in the marsh, the largest in the entire district. Several dirt trails still led up to where the once impressive stone fort had stood. Matoran used to travel there in masses, naturally leaving eroded footpaths in the earth. But now the fortress was little more than a pile of rubble and most of the roads in disrepair, washed away by the river. The villagers had heard that this particular pocket of resistance fighters had been overrun centuries ago but had hoped the reports were wrong. The remains of the massive stone structure would have been the ideal place to shelter that night.

“What now?” demanded Kyros impatiently, studying the untidy mound of rubble that had once been the pride of the region. “Cross the river or camp here?”

“Cross” grunted Toa Santis, though he eyed the water warily.

“He’s right” added Iolan irrelevantly. “There’s no safety here.”

“So?” snarled the Ko-Matoran. “Where Visorak attack once, they’ll sure as hell attack again.”

“True, but most Visorak can’t cross running water.”

“Well, who’s to say they’re not already there?”

“They can’t be” grunted Goll. “The fortress used to be protected by a moat. Maybe there’s something left of it that we can use.” Kyros glared at Goll then nodded hesitantly. He was still uneasy.

But, as they drew nearer, the entire group was overcome with the anticlimactic sense of disappointment. From the looks of things, they had been completely wrong. There had never been a fortress on the opposite side of the river, just some huts when Matoran of the neighboring village dwelt. They used to greet those who crossed the river and either granted them the freedom of their village or turn them back. The dwellings were still standing but they had long-since been abandoned. Matoran had lived there at one point, that was for certain, but there was no sign of them now. They might be hiding but Connla knew that to be wishful thinking. It was far more likely that they’d all been murdered with Rahkshi sheltering from the sunlight inside their dwellings.

“Come one” grunted Santis, taking the lead. “The sun is setting. Let us get across and find a hole for the night which we can defend. I expect no safety here.”

There were small wooden boats tethered to the banks of the river, bobbing up and down on the gentle evening current. Each held four Matoran at most. The group headed for the nearest then divided into smaller groups. Torlo and Iolan teamed up together with Sarnii and Fiancha whilst Goll, Krennato, Kyros and Turas took the second vessel, leaving Connla to share the third with Santis. Turas leaned forward and grabbed the rope of his group’s boat and hauled it in. He’d almost pulled the dingy up onto dry land when there was a flash of crimson and Santis’ Kanohi burst into life. A red flare sparked from the rear of the crowd, making everyone turn as the Toa’s eyes widened in shock. He was using his Kanohi.

“'''Turas! No!'''” he roared. The Po-Matoran reacted instantly. He dropped the rope and leapt backwards just in time. A huge demonic eel-like Rahi unleashed itself behind him, rising out of the boat like an arrow shot from a bow, reducing it to splinters. It’s jaws were impossibly wide, filled with teeth that would be more suited to a Fenrakk. The Rahi snapped for Turas’ head and only missed by a finger’s breadth. It landed hard on the riverbank and writhed angrily, going for the terrified Po-Matoran’s legs. Toa Santis was at the poor villager’s side in the blink of a heartbeat, his sword aflame with fiery energy, blazing like a god. He took a swing of his mighty sword and stabbed at the place where the monster’s eyes should have been but it didn’t have any. It was blind, operating by some other form of sense. There was a deafening battle-cry as Iolan threw himself forward, landing on the Rahi’s jagged, rock-like back and hacked at it with his blades. The creature bucked and twisted desperately, trying to dislodge the Ta-Matoran but he rode it like a Mahi, digging his heels in, expression twisted as he roared hatefully, his Kanohi Calix rippling with fury. Kyros snapped into action, as if he’d been waiting for a cue. He took aim with a spear and hurled it at the beast, down the maw of its gaping mouth. The spear stuck deep in its throat. The Rahi choked and slammed its head downwards, trying to spit out the spear. Goll darted forwards, a war-cry on his lips. He grabbed the shaft of the spear and drove it further into their attacker’s throat, twisting savagely. The Rahi spasmed, then weakened. Suddenly, the warriors were all over it, hacking away like Fikou trying to bring down a Spiny Stone Ape. Connla, Torlo, Krennato and Toa Santis watched them from afar.

“Do you think I should help?” grunted the Toa of Fire, fingers tapping the hilt of his sword which hung from his waist.

“They’re in control” shrugged Torlo. And, indeed, moments later the battle was over and the broken Rahi lay at their feet, covered in the crimson blood which once pumped through its veins, torn to pieces, jaws stretched wide in a final snarl. Goll grasped the handle of the spear, yanked it out and handed it to Kyros. He laughed and clapped the Ko-Matoran on the back, leaving a red handprint on his white armor.

“A master throw!”

The Ko-Matoran smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t mean for it to go down the throat” he muttered with untypical modesty. “I aimed for the top of its head. But it moved. I got lucky.”

“I’ll always take luck over skill” chuckled the Po-Matoran, clapping his back again. The pair grinned at each other like lifelong friends.

“I’ve never fought an aquatic Rahi before” grunted Iolan, wiping his blades clean on the grass.

“They’re rare” grunted Fiancha, studying the corpse then turning it over with his foot. “We’re lucky it’s not night yet or we wouldn’t have seen it coming.”

“Come on” ordered Torlo with iron in his voice. The others glanced around uneasily. “It’ll be sunset soon and the Rahkshi will be coming. And they won’t be this slow.” That silenced everyone. After a quick check to make sure the other boats were safe to use the team clambered onto the wooden vessels and crossed the river as swiftly as possible. All eyes were on the water, wary of another attack from beneath.

Nobody emerged from the huts as the group docked, which gave the whole area an eerie echo. When the group was on dry land they stared at the dwellings suspiciously. It was customary to announce oneself before entering another village. Normally a traveler had to be confronted by a villager of their own rank and guided. But times had changed and many of the old laws no longer applied.

“You in the huts!” bellowed Santis, in case anyone was alive inside. ''Silence. ''

“Should we go see if anyone’s there?”

“They’d have answered if there was.”

“Unless they’re scared or sheltering underground.” Fiancha turned sharply and pointed at a spot to the left of the settlement. Connla’s eyes weren’t as sharp as his so it took her a while to focus. Then she saw is – a small arm, scrappy white armor, lying in the dirt. Santis sighed, drew his sword and moved to the front of the group.

“Let’s go” he muttered gruffly. His long legs forced the travelers to proceed at a forced nervous jog.

There was nowhere to shelter, so the group didn’t stop when the sun set, but kept going, hoping to outpace any Visorak which caught their scent. Connla tried to persuade herself that they wouldn’t be noticed. You had to be suicidal to travel at night in these troubled times. The creatures of the night wouldn’t expect to find anyone out in the open. Maybe they didn’t even look anymore. A silly, juvenile notion though, for an hour, it seemed as though it might just be true. They didn’t sight any Visorak and hope began to grow.

But then the Ga-Matoran’s entire world was taken and hurled upside-down. There was a howl of ruthless vibrancy from far behind them, but not far enough for comfort. The entire group paused and listened as the screech was answered by others. Like a call to attention. In her mind’s eye Connla saw a group forming, Rahkshi and Visorak lurking in the darkness. They would gather around the one who found their trail, sniff the air, perhaps lick the earth if they were still unsure, then quiver with excitement. Then they would lurch forward, insanity burning in their cold, starved eyes. Pincers slicing. Feet stomping. Rhotuku charging. Mouths foaming. It was sickening. She could hear then crashing through the scorched foliage, snapping off burnt branches, knocking over small trees.

“They might be after someone else” implored Kyros unconvincingly.

Goll grunted and turned to face the path ahead. “We keep moving” he growled. “If we can make it to the – ” A fierce rumble from the left caught Connla’s attention. Instinctively, she whirled around and caught sight of a Rahkshi leaping through the air. It had been hiding behind a rock. Three others stepped out alongside it. ''An ambush. The cunning beasts. '' The first of the monsters landed on Santis, knocking away his Sword with a swing of its staff. A streak of black and gold armor. Magnetism. The Toa seemed to snarl as the creature screeched. Before anyone could blink, the Toa’s arm shot up, grabbed the creature’s head and jerked it from left to right, trying to break its neck before it touched him. After a moment’s struggle, the cloak-wearer grew tired and activated his control over Plasma to melt the creature’s throat, leaving the head to slide off and the scorched Rahkshi to slump to the ground. But the other Rahkshi chose the easier option. They stuck together as they charged toward the Toa.

“Get the Hell out of here!” he bellowed, smashing the first Rahkshi’s head with an elbow, ducking to grab the second by its waist. He whirled around and ripped it away, leaving a trail of something scarlet. Connla didn’t know if it was blood or Plasma. “Go!” he yelled furiously as his first attacker regained its feet and leapt at him again.

“Do as he says!” roared Goll. The Ga-Matoran felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder and she started running. More Rahkshi were beginning to appear behind them, cutting Santis off from sight. There didn’t seem to be anymore in view but it would only be a matter of seconds rather than minutes before the others came to investigate the screaming. The Ga-Matoran found herself moving before she could consciously make the decision, her feet one step ahead of her brain. Santis was their leader. He’d given them orders to run. They’d be fools to ignore him, and the Toa didn’t seem the type to tolerate fools gladly. Never in her life had Connla known Rahkshi to be so excited. When they attacked the fort it was hard work. It must be frustrating, the scent of prey thick in their flaring nostrils, having to fight their way through, often failing. But out here, in the open, they only had to hunt the Matoran down and they were theirs for the taking. Without their Toa they were helpless. Like Sand Lions after a Dermis Turtle. Her last glimpse of the burly Toa was of him wrestling a Rahkshi of Hunger, while keeping a Rahkshi of Weather Control away with his Blade, backing up into the shadows of the forest, conceding ground reluctantly, stubbornly. Then the air filled with ash as Rhotuku Spinners tore the trees around them to splinters. ''The dust from each individual explosion enfolded to obscure Toa Santis and his attackers, swallowing them whole. ''

Chapter 6
The Rahkshi snarled menacingly as it advanced on Toa Santis. Black and yellow armor. A Rahkshi of Limited Invulnerability. The group’s leader by the looks of things. The cloak-wearer chuckled throatily and stepped forwards with a provocative grunt, beckoning him on. Challenging him.

The Rahkshi snarled, uncertain. It was unsure if the strange Toa before it was a valiant, bold hero or a simpleton of some sort. It thought about the problem, which wasn’t exactly the speediest process the Toa had ever seen. Giving his attacker a helpful kick in the right direction, Santis let out a monstrous warrior-like roar, which seemed to clear matters up. The Rahkshi’s eyes narrowed and, with a screech of its own, it charged. His attacker was huge, with arms like tree trunks, only slightly shorter than Santis himself. The Danju-wearer planted his feet, twisted and drove his shoulder into the Rahkshi’s chest. It reeled backwards then tripped, knocked to the ground. Around it Visorak wailed and screeched, laughing and taunting him it appeared, as if it were some sick arena match.

As the Rahkshi returned to its feet the Toa landed a blow hard on the side of his head, which almost tore it right off. His attacker crumpled and fell.

''Not so Invulnerable now. ''

The Toa could sense victory, but remained focused. Many battles were lost in their last few seconds, when the one with the upper hand grew over-confident and gave his opponent the chance to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Sanits was sure he wouldn’t make that mistake.

But the other dominant pack leaders had other ideas. Seeing its chance for glory, one of them darted forward and latched onto the Toa’s arm, sinking its metallic clamp of a mouth deep into his armor. The wanderer grunted as he wrenched his arm free then swung it back to ram into the new attacker’s spine. The Rahkshi’s casing was torn off and its Kraata was ripped out in his hand. It withered and squirmed under his grip before he grew tired of it and squeezed until he heard a satisfying pop sound.

Another Rahkshi surged forwards, gibbering and screeching madly. Yellow armor. Heat Vision. The Toa didn’t waste a moment. He dove forwards immediately, wrapped one hand around the creature’s throat – making sure to jerk its head away so it couldn’t catch him with a wandering eyebeam – then grabbed its right thigh, rooted it off the ground and held it above his head. With a sharp grunt, the Toa flung the Rahkshi towards a group of Visorak. Those it landed on went wild and tore it to pieces.

A fourth Rahkshi stepped forwards from the circle of attackers, the largest yet. It had the widest, broadest shoulders of the entire pack, leveling out to Santis’ own height. But it was edgy. If it was a true leader it would have led from the beginning. Possibly the strongest Rahkshi on this side of the Continent, but it lacked courage. It was only challenging him now because it felt it had to, after he’d become tired by fighting the other dominant members of the pack. He was at his weakest. It was, tactically, the easiest opportunity for a Rahkshi to strike him down. The Toa leapt at the aggressor. It lashed out with its fist because its staff was missing. Brown armor, like mud. A Rahkshi of Fragmentation. He just let the punch connect with the side of his chest then laughed. He threw a fist of his own, striking his enemy clean in the chest. It stumbled away from him, winded and dazed. With a single beam of his Laser Vision, there was nothing left of the Rahkshi to worry about, just bits of ash gently fluttering to the ground.

Santis glared at the others. Neither the remaining Rahkshi or the Visorak advanced. He stepped forwards. When they held their ground he knew there would be no more challenges.

A sick, twisted smile crept across his Kanohi Danju as the Toa raised his hands. Jets of flame erupted from his fingertips, blazing through the air and engulfing the clearing on the outskirts of the forest. In the blink of an eye the entire village erupted in flames. The huts burned. The Visorak screeched. The Rahkshi squealed. The temperate vaulted up as the air began to burn. Entire Rahkshi simply melted away to molten metallic puddles, leaving their Kraata to topple into the liquid metal and fry away. And the Visorak seemed to soften and dissolve in the air, reduced to sludge.

But it wasn’t enough. The fire blazed around the Toa’s hands, his eyes wide with power. He was standing victorious, taking his victory in, imagining a couple of shocked faces in his head. He became filled with an overwhelming sense of pride and joy, like fresh energy.

''Was he going Nova? ''

He couldn’t tell. Fear suddenly gripped his concentration when he realized that he couldn’t stop. He was no longer emanating the heat, rather, he was beginning to absorb it. Fires were doused out, against his will. The puddles solidified. Mud hardened. Then the temperature plummeted from one extreme to the other. The river began to freeze over. Frost lined the burnt grass. The air became thick with ice. And all the time Toa Santis was helpless to stop the imminent explosion that was about to erupt from his fingertips.

''He reached for the sky. ''

Torlo let out a snarl as he stumbled over the charred flora of the burnt forest. A spray of ash trailed after him as he charged forwards. It all seemed hopeless now without Santis. He’d been so sure the Toa would be the last of them to fall, and without him they were surely lost. But the hero had gone down fighting and the rest of them owed it to him to give escape a chance. ''But, if they failed, at least they could die valiantly – like Santis. ''

“Where the hell are we going!?” demanded Kyros as he sprinted past, now directly behind Torlo.

“Somewhere open where we can make a stand from!” yelled the Le-Matoran as they ran, answering for the wheezing village leader.

“We won’t find anywhere in time. They’ll catch us first!”

A brainwave struck the Le-Matoran and he suddenly stopped, wheeled around, waiting for the other Matoran to catch up. While he did so he scanned the surrounding area. It was a suitable place to make a stand, somewhere they could easily defend. A cave would have been preferable. Once inside the group could fend off the creatures for the rest of the night then escape in the morning. But there were no caves conveniently located in the middle of this scorched forest. The clearing they were in was small but a number of trees had been felled. The wooden trunks now lay strewn across the ground. Somebody had probably intended to graze Rahi in the area, or build a hut in the days before the war.

“Not here” panted Goll as he fought for breath, his face dark from the strain. “It’s too… exposed.”

“There’s nowhere better” retorted the Zatth-wearer with a confused frown. He pointed towards the mound of logs. “We can chop down a few more trees, stake their trunks in the ground and sharpen the tops.”

“These are Rahkshi!” argued Krennato, fiercely. “They will reduce your tree trunks to dust in a second!” Goll and the Ga-Matoran looked around, searching for support only for the entire to group to be thrown by the sound of a loud explosion.

Tense, Torlo jerked his head up to search for the source. His eyes widened in shock as they settled on a blinding fireball rolling into the direction of the village, like a ball of gravity-defying tumbleweed. A gigantic concussion ring blasted outwards. The entire forest was hit by a violent shockwave, causing branches to fall, twigs to crack off, splinters to rain down. The group was tossed sideways. Torlo wobbled, his right foot stabbing into a particularly moist patch of dirt as he tried to frantically keep his balance. The terrible explosion had blasted outwards and had met absolutely nothing in its path. The Le-Matoran closed his eyes and stood in silence.

When he opened them again a moment later there was nothing to see in the night sky other than a roiling cloud of thin smoke. No debris, no metal, no broken scraps of armor. Nothing at all except microscopic invisible particles of vapor accelerating into the atmosphere.

“What happened!?” gasped Sarnii in disbelief. The flames shone off her armor, lighting her eyes a blazing orange. With a vengeful snarl, Torlo stepped forwards and draw his Mental Bolt Launchers, preparing for battle. Following suit, the majority of the other Matoran did the same and began taking positions, leaving Goll and Krennato speechless. They all knew it was hopeless, that they were going to die. ''But what choice did they have? '' They couldn’t run any further, their stubby little legs wouldn’t allow it. There was nothing left to do but charge their weapons and aim for anything that shrieked.

''Die as warriors, with pride. ''

It was almost a shame that their expedition was going to end so abruptly but Torlo hadn’t held any high hopes of survival anyway. Right from the start he’d had a gut-instinct that it was all going to end horribly. He anticipating at least four Matoran dying – hopefully Krennato or Kyros first. But he never would have expected Santis’ death. He’d expected the Toa to go on until the end, battling his way through all manner of enemies, leaving the broken bodies of Makuta to burn as he trudged onwards.

This wasn’t right. His stomach was churning and his feet were tingling. Something was wrong but he couldn’t place his finger on what it was. He’d long since gotten used to the imperfect nature of the world in which he resided in, so why something would be bothering him now, as he prepared to fight to his death, seemed strange. He frowned and turned to his right. Kyros was kneeling down beside him, praying and gibbering frantically. He felt like joining him.

He hadn’t prayed in years, not since the first days of the war. The Le-Matoran had lost all faith in this Mata Nui character from Matoran folk legend. How could this creation of fools be both benevolent, omnipotent and omniscient? What kind of all-powerful, all-seeing, all-forgiving meddler could sit back and watch as his Universe was torn apart by war? To him, Mata Nui didn’t exist – and if he did then he was one hell of a cruel, childish, irresponsible jerk.

But, nonetheless, Torlo closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. His breathing slowed and the storm of his mind calmed. His bulging muscles slackened as a wave of serenity washed over him. While he no longer believed in Mata Nui’s protection, he still made his peace with whatever Gods might be watching over him, just in case. If he was going to die, he’d want a clear conscience. He probably wouldn’t ask for forgiveness for the countless sins he had committed in his long and barbarous life, probably for the times he’d been weak instead, when he’d disgraced his proud and demanding conscience. ''Then he prayed for help. ''

You can help yourself came a reply. The Le-Matoran’s eyes snapped open in surprise, searching for whoever had chosen to play a practical joke and spoken aloud. Nobody had. It had been a thought, and one that was not his. The spark of surprise was followed by a slightly larger one of confusion. He had never heard the voice before. It was hard and weighty. There was unquestionable gravity to it.

Matoran, you are in a unique position continued the voice. ''You are at the crossroad of two possible destinies. Depending on which path you take at this precise moment in time, your fate is either to become a mighty, noble Toa of Air, or to die, falling in the black. Only you can determine your destiny but it is in my interest that you do not die… not yet at least.''

Torlo shuddered then focused, scanning the area around him, searching for whoever was plaguing his thoughts with this nonsense.

''No, don’t bother looking around for me. I am not on the Southern Continent, but someplace far away, nice and safe. You, however, are not, so I would strongly advise you to listen to me. ''

Shocked, Torlo asked the strange consciousness in his head who it was.

My name is Makuta Karabak and, right now, my voice is the only one in the universe that you can trust came the reply, a dark chuckle. There was a pause then he heard the next sentence. ''I speak to you because I know misery is your destiny and, for once, the suffering of a Matoran does not bring me pleasure. ''

“But this land is full of suffering and I don’t give a bucket of Burnak-bile about destiny. Why am I picked, out of the thousands of tortured souls, for this special attention?”

Because the Great Beings were having a bad day when they thought up your role in the Universe.

Torlo didn’t answer.

''I can guide you to safety, Matoran, and I will give you instructions when I have to. But you must act quickly when I give you the order. So pay attention because I am not in the habit of repeating myself.''

“And what’s the order?”

Get out of here. This time the tone was commanding, abrupt even.

“How?” muttered the Zatth-wearer under his breath, unsure of himself as he lowered his weapons a fraction of an inch.

''Fight the Rahkshi on their own terms. ''

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

The voice sighed contemptuously. Do I have to do everything for you? Before he could respond, it added curtly, ''Defend yourselves. There is shelter close-by, about a five-minute run from here. I can guide you but it is your responsibility to guide your friends. I have no interest in them. It is you alone who is of any value to me. Not even your precious Toa Santis. Right now, in this single instance, you are the most important Matoran in the history of creation. Whatever you do now will determine your future. You have the potential to either destroy all evil in this universe or you will die… So start running.''

Torlo felt a sharp jolt of pain, blunt and agonizing. It cut through his mind, severing the mental connection between him and his mysterious Makuta protector. In that moment, he awakened, his mind reeling. Somebody had just been talking to him – but who? What was this about him being destined to become a Toa and smite the world of evil? What had just happened?

“Goll!” he roared. The old warrior raised his head and glanced at him. “We’re leaving.”

“But –”

“Don’t argue!” The Zatth-wearer lowered his weapons, willing them to stop charging. “I was wrong. We’ll die if we fight here. But, I think, if we carry on there’s…” He stopped, unsure of what might lie beyond, but sensing in the depths of his very being that the strange Makuta was right.

Everyone was looking at him now, torn between hope and suspicion.

“This place isn’t much” grunted Iolan “but it’s defendable. If we’re caught on the run, we’re finished for sure. Are you certain…?”

“Yes” he growled icily with unexpected venom. “We have to go… now. Like Santis said, there’s no safety here. If we stay here we’re dead.”

“But we’ll live if we go?” asked Kyros dubiously.

“Perhaps.”

It wasn’t enough. The others didn’t trust his instincts. They were going to stay. He opened his mouth to argue afresh, but then Krennato lowered her staff and came to the Le-Matoran’s side, like a faithful Dermis Turtle.

“I’m with Torlo” she announced.

“Why?” Goll asked – not a challenge, just curious.

The patchy Matoran of Water shrugged. “A feeling.”

Iolan picked at a crease in his Kanohi with the tip of one of his blades. “I don’t feel like we’ll live if we go, but I’m sure we’ll die if we stay.”

Goll looked around at the others and asked the question with his eyes. They all answered with weary glances and resigned shrugs. “So be it” he grunted, attaching his axes back in their sheaths. “It was your idea to stay here anyway. Torlo – lead us.”

''They ran. ''

''Sweat. Terror. ''The sound of their pursuing stalkers crashing through the crisp foliage behind them. The explosion must have attracted some more nearby gatherings of the midnight monsters. They were almost upon them. A minute, maybe two, and they’d be forced to stop and fight – stop and die.

There was a flash of blue energy and a cry of agony. Fiancha was ahead of the group, having overtaken the others to run alongside the Le-Matoran, so he should have been the safest. But the burst of sapphire energy struck his leg in mid-sprint and he toppled forwards, falling flat on his face. He hit the ground hard, bellowing into the night. One of his Stasis Blades flew out of his hands and disappeared into the darkness, leaving nothing but a solid crunch as it hit the singed leaves and charred flora.

Help him whispered the voice once again, this time with none of its previously typical vagueness.

Without even considering his own safety, Torlo leapt forwards and stretched his arms out, selflessly using his body to protect his felled ally. The Rahkshi could strike his friends down once, but he’d be damned if he let it happen a second time.

The wound was bad, probably caused by a Rahkshi of Molecular Disruption. Most of the armor on the fisherman’s leg had been burnt off. Some of his organic parts were hanging out of a jagged hole in his knee. Torlo was no medic but he doubted that was healthy.

“Can you walk?”

“…What do you think?” responded Fiancha weakly, between fits of screaming.

With a mighty grunt, the Le-Matoran hooked an arm around the felled Onu-Matoran’s waist and hauled him up, looping his other arm around his ankles. The chances of either of them making it to the clearing through mere support would be pretty slim, about as slim as the chances of a snowman lasting more than a minute in the fires of Hell.

Carrying the wounded Onu-Matoran in his arms, he charged forwards, his muscles straining. Already panting wildly for breath, he looked up, searching for oxygen. The trees were thick around them. Impossible to see far. It was dark. Too dark. Torlo looked up and noticed extra branches, scraps of cloth, thatch torn from roofs, all sorts of bits and pieces scattered among the tree tops, linking the upper branches, keeping out the light of the moon and stars.

His heartlight skipped a blink. It was a trap. He was wrong. This Makuta Karabak had tricked him and he’d fallen for it, leading himself and his friends to their doom. When the thunderbolt of realization struck him Torlo began to shout out a warning, but it was already too late. Then…

They burst into another clearing and came to a surprised halt. There lay a clear circle around them and at the center – a ring of giant stones. Most were taller than the fleeing Matoran. Some probably would have towered over the late Toa Santis. Set in the ground at intervals. Impossibly ancient, covered in thick green moss and creeping vines. There was an aura of power radiating from the circle, but power from a time before theirs. From the time of the olden days, before even the Matoran Universe was even thought of perhaps, when some other world had been the playground of the Great Beings.

The Rahkshi and Visorak were still hot on their heels, surging up behind them, their stench foul in the air. “Come on!” bellowed Torlo. The group flew forward at his call, rushing to the stones, readying themselves for battle.

They spilled past the stones, into the center of the ring, where the Le-Matoran set the battered Matoran of Earth down and the others formed a protective ring around him. The stones wouldn’t provide much cover but they’d make it marginally harder for their attackers to get at them and would buy them a few valuable seconds. They wouldn’t make a great difference but Torlo had always believed in hope; if nothing else.

Iolan jumped onto a stone which felled on its side many centuries ago. He waved a blade over his head, screaming a challenge at their stalkers as they began to emerge from the cover of the burnt trees. Dozens of hideous and twisted monsters. ''Rattling, snake-like spines. Oozing, sickly green saliva. Darting blood-red eyes.'' Nightmares everywhere Torlo looked.

Their aggressors advanced slowly. It was probably safe to assume that they were relishing the moment, prolonging it, toying with their prey. But then they stopped and screeched with anger.

As they stared at the Rahkshi beating the ground with their fists and staffs, or Visorak trying to tear at it with the tips of their legs and pincers, all cursing at them in their own garbled language, Krennato lowered her staff and rested a hand on one of the stones, stroking it as if it were a Gafna.

“And you all thought I was a lunatic” she muttered. “I was right… Mata Nui is worth having faith in…”

Over the next few hours, one thing became apparent: whatever invisible force seemed to be protecting them – or what Krennato had insisted was magic – proved to be too strong for their attackers to withstand. None of them could even come within striking distance of the stones and any bursts of energy seemed to flicker away and dissipate into nothingness. A few of them tried to get closer over the course of the night, making darting runs, heads low, screaming with defiance. Each came crashing to a halt or was thrown back, as if they’d run into an invisible wall. One Rahkshi even tried to fly above the stones then drop down only to be swatted aside, bouncing right off an invisible dome and onto the ground, where it landed with a sharp crack and lay still. Whether it was just unconscious and its staff had split or if its neck had been broken wasn’t something Torlo was in any hurry to find out.

When they’d finished celebrating, the Matoran had examined the stone circle in greater detail and what they found dampened their elated spirits. Bones. There were organic patches of rotten decay. Some belonged to small Rahi but most were from Matoran origin, stacked carefully at the centre, arranged so the head pointed west, in the direction of the setting sun. According to some of the shadier, lesser-believed areas of Matoran mythology, the sun was supposed to guide the dead to whatever came next.

But the bones were far more recent than the stones. Many were sill dotted with flecks of dried blood and flakes of armor.

“They must have been brought here to their deaths” muttered Sarnii. “To keep the Rahkshi from stealing their bodies and animating them with Kraata.”

“Perhaps” grunted Goll. “But why not just burn them?”

“Maybe the bodies are part of the circuit” suggested Turas. If you move them then maybe the whole thing stops working. The stones might need power from the newly dead.”

Goll shook his head. “Even if they did, what purpose would it serve? Why drag bodies here just to keep Rahkshi from overrunning a stone circle?” The mystery puzzled them all night – nobody could sleep with the screams of the Rahkshi. It was like trying to close your eyes and drift away surrounded by a pack of hungry Rock Lions with no visible barriers.

“I think I remember something like this on the way to Karzahni” announced Kyros eventually, a couple of hours after midnight. “There was a tunnel that I passed through that didn’t let anything with elemental Light energy pass through. I was travelling with an Av-Matoran who got stuck on the other side. Maybe this is the opposite of that, keeping out all the bad things.”

“They how come it let you in?” grunted Iolan, kicking the Ko-Matoran as he rolled over and tried to get to sleep.

Torlo ignored the Ko-Matoran’s scowls and returned his focus to guard duty. Fiancha was moaning, in a state between consciousnesses. He, Turas and the annoying Ko-Matoran were sitting up, waiting for dawn to approach and for their attackers to recede back into the shade. Not that he thought any of the others would be asleep.

Still, he wished they could learn more about the strange stones. They could build some stone rings around their village. If they made enough they could rid the entire continent of its invaders, driving them off into the ocean or up to the crater of Mount Valmai. But there was no chance they were going to unlock any forgotten secrets anytime soon. If they chipped anything off the barrier might break. Krennato often spoke of ancient wonders but she knew relatively little factual information about them, except for legends she’d heard in the days when the world was in its infancy.

A solution to the problem of the bones didn’t arise until early the next morning, when their attackers had calmed down and stepped into the shade, only withdrawing as far as the trees which encircled the ring. There under the cover of the rough shelter, they stopped and leered viciously, pounding the earth with terrible, steady, threatening rhythm.

“They were workers from the village” grunted Torlo in the end. “You saw their settlement, they had no defenses yet they’d survived long enough for the severed arm we saw to be fresh. They must’ve sought the protection of these stones every night, which made the Rahkshi and Visorak mad, so they blocked the sunlight in the trees with scraps of equipment from the village and stuck it in the trees, so they could sit around here and wait for the villagers to come out in the day. When they’d finished they must’ve let the Matoran get into the circle then stood guard the next day, protected from the light, trapping them.” He sighed as he looked down at the dusty, battered, grey Kanohi Rau that was half-buried in the ground. “There was no way out. They died here, slowly, of starvation and thirst.” “Most of the bodies don’t have weapons” muttered Goll with a heavy sigh. “They probably got so used to coming here, they grew lazy and didn’t bother with weapons, since they were safe within the ring. They couldn’t even fight their way to freedom.”

“And now we’re trapped too” snarled Kyros bitterly, shooting Torlo a dirty look.

“Hold your Rahi” shrugged the Le-Matoran. “You’d all be dead already if it weren’t for me. If you don’t like survival, maybe you should have lagged behind when you followed me here.”

“True” admitted the Ko-Matoran acridly. “But I’d rather have died fighting in the open than of hunger and thirst, trapped like a Desert Fox in its den.”

“You can die any time you like” snarled Goll, taking an unprecedented step closer to Torlo. “The Rahkshi are waiting. Go pick a fight with them if you’ve so eager to die quickly.”

“Maybe I’ll pick a fight with you instead” snarled Kyros, his knuckles whitening around his spear – the one he’d thrown down the Aquatic Rahi’s throat and that Goll had fished out again hours before.

“You Ko-Matoran can be so juvenile and selfish” snapped Sarnii before the insults could escalate further. “Instead of being grateful of an extra day, you’re bitter and scrap with each other like Rahi.”

“What do we have to be grateful for?” retorted the white and blue-armored Matoran. “We’re surrounded! We’ll die like the others who lie here and our bones will rot slowly, unburied, ignored by the world.”

“Not necessarily” snorted Goll. “The Rahkshi haven’t built up a wide shelter and we’re not weaponless. If we break through their ranks, they won’t be able to chase after us.”

“That won’t be easy” disagreed Torlo warningly, studying the land ahead. “There’s a lot of space between this ring and the trees. We can’t surprise them. They’ll see us coming and converge at that point.”

“So we separate. We pair off and dart at them from a few directions at once. I doubt everyone’ll make it through but some of us should.”

“The strongest” noted the Le-Matoran softly. “But what about the others?” He eyed Connla and Turas.

The Ga-Matoran stepped forwards. “We’ll take our chances!” she retorted stiffly. The Matoran of Air cringed on the inside, annoyed at himself for singling her out. Connla was no warrior but she knew how to fight and she wasn’t afraid to die. All she wanted was to be treated equally, not as the helpless, dependant spare part.

“What about Fiancha?”

A beat of silence passed. Goll shook his head. “If he can’t walk that means he can’t run. He’s as good as dead... but he’ll probably die soon anyway.” He smiled bleakly at the Matoran of Earth. “Sorry to put it so bluntly old friend.”

“Don’t worry about it” croaked the Onu-Matoran, grinning back. “''I didn’t want any of you guys to be there when I died anyway... just wish I didn’t have to be either... anyway... will it work?''”

“I’m not sure” grunted Goll, doing some quick calculations in his head. “We could maybe make the distance back to the village in a day if split, but we’d have to run, and there’s no way we’d outrun anything between here and the boats. Assuming we survive that… we’d have to walk by night as well.”

“But we’ve more hope this way, so we’ll have to chance it, right?” asked Iolan inquisitively.

“If you’re willing to make that sacrifice.”

“You’re all insane” sneered Kyros. “You’ll kill yourselves for nothing instead of doing the wise thing.”

“And what’s that?” enquired Goll with all the sweetness of an Ice Bat’s bite.

“Leave a decoy… probably Fiancha… after all, he isn’t going anywhere. Then we can get to the river, take the boats and sail to the coast. We can get out of here and head to Metru-Nui without all the slaughter!”

Silence.

Torlo shook his head. “I never had a high opinion of you before, Kyros, but I wouldn’t have expected this, not even from a lowly worm like you. Flee when Santis is in danger? Run when there’s a war going on? I don’t believe you’re of our people.”

The Ko-Matoran growled menacingly and began to advance on Torlo, but the Le-Matoran shot him his own scornful glare. He stopped, recognized the severity of the Matoran’s wrath, then thought twice about stabbing him. In the end he only scowled and spat at his feet before turning away in a sulk. With a fatigued sigh Torlo glanced at the sky. “Well, if we’re going to try anything we’ll need to do it soon. The earlier we split up, the better. We’ll only get more tired and hungry from this point onwards… Does everyone remember the way back to the boats? Because I’m not putting my life on the line to give directions. I hope – ”

“Wait!” snapped Connla, directing the tip of one of her whips in an easterly direction. All heads turned to follow her outstretched arm. There seemed to be some kind of disturbance. Rahkshi and Visorak were mobilizing, retreating back into the trees, starting off slow then charging away, leaving the Matoran behind. Others gazed on after them, confused.

Creeping closer, Torlo squinted and focused, dimly aware that the others followed his example and crowded round. There was a flare of crimson as a Visorak Suukorak was sent flying. It withered and squirmed, landing on its back, legs twitching before a deep stillness overcame it. ''There was a perfectly straight line of magma dripping from its underbelly. ''

Toa Santis tore through the trees, blazing like a God.

The Toa of Fire bellowed a mighty roar and lava bubbled from his palms. His sword dripped with Plasma. His eyes blazing with red-hot fury. The temperature seemed to shoot up as the savage hero’s sword sliced through the air, sending heads rolling. The head of one unfortunate Rahkshi of Illusion ended up being hit with such force that it landed in the stone circle… ''without the rest of its body. '' But it immediately became obvious that the Toa was in bad form. The sun seemed to darken for that moment of realization. He was bleeding all over. Torlo could only barely see his right eye – it looked like his mask had been taken off and he’d had his face clawed at it. Plus he was missing the tops of all four fingers on his left hand, plus two on his right.

But then his eyes locked on the Matoran and the murder seemed to disappear from his expression, gone in an instant, as if a passing gust of wind had cleared it from his head. In that moment he looked vulnerable. He was open to any kind of attack from the circle of monsters. He drew to a halt halfway between the trees and the stones. It was like he’d just strolled into some arena match.

The Rahkshi and Visorak didn’t hesitate. They bunched together, snarling and drooling, reaching out towards him, each wanting to be the first to snag him and feast on his flesh. But the Toa dodged the claws, pincers and teeth of the creatures then started to… to… No! Torlo couldn’t believe his eyes. He blinked in utter disbelief, wondering if he’d finally given in to insanity.

Toa Santis had started to dance.

It was crazy. Foolish. Ridiculous. But he danced anyway. It wasn’t a graceful dance, or a dance of tradition or power. He just threw his sword tip-first into the ground and hopped from one armored foot to another, clapping his hands, waving them around, grunting a few off-key tunes.

The demons in the dark went wild, infuriated by the display. Santis was taunting them, dancing around within their reach, mocking them. They fell over one another in their fury, clutching, grasping, desperate to drag him down and end his insolence. Some even stepped out of the shade of the trees and lunged at him, risking the burning rays of the morning.

The battered Danju-wearer dodged all of them, leaping here, darting there, dancing the whole time. He set off on a circuit, his attackers following him. He came within the range of those that’d been standing their ground, keeping an eye on the Matoran. As he passed they lost interest in everything but the dancing Toa and joined in with the rest of their monstrous allies, giving chase, lashing out, spitting poison.

Within minutes every Rahkshi and Visorak in the clearing was focused on Santis, stumbling after him, chasing each other, fighting amongst themselves. The Brotherhood’s foot-soldiers had never been the most logical of creatures. Now they’d lost their senses entirely and only cared about destroying this waltzing thorn in their sides. They’d completely forgotten about the trapped Matoran.

“I never would have believed it if I had not seen it” muttered Goll, stunned, watching the show with a wide, incredulous eye.

“He’s sliding through their fingers like smoke” chuckled Iolan, who wasn’t doing a particularly good job of disguising the fact his jaw was on the ground.

“There’s more to the fool than we thought” grunted Kyros dismissively, a hint of disapproval in his voice. He didn’t like surprises, even if they worked to his advantage.

“Come on” commanded Torlo. “He’s created a gap for us to slip through. Let’s not waste it by giving them a chance to regain their senses.”

“What about Santis?”

“He’ll be fine” laughed the Le-Matoran. “He’ll catch us up later, after he’s gotten tired and started massacring them. I think it would take all the Rahkshi in this land to snare that Toa!” Torlo marched forwards, secretly not liking the idea of leaving the Toa behind but knowing it was for the greater good.

But he came to a stop after a couple of steps, urging Goll to take the lead as he looked back at the Toa. He studied Santis as he continued to dance around the rim of the circle, teasing and tormenting the creatures. But, as he watched, he noticed that one of the monsters wasn’t chasing the hero. Strangely, it was neither a Rahkshi or a Visorak. An Onu-Matoran it seemed, almost completely hidden in the shade, masked by a dark veil.

The figure stood alone, ignoring the commotion, gaze fixed on the circle of rocks and the fleeing Matoran. He couldn’t see very well but Torlo was sure he could see the strange Matoran’s eyes blazing crimson. And his jet-black armor appeared pale and clumpy, as though made of wet clay. He wore a Kanohi Avsa, twisted and mis-shapen to have pincers and sharp spikes.

There was something especially disturbing about the Matoran amongst the Rahkshi. Why he hadn’t been torn to pieces by the monsters was another mystery, one that seemed to trouble the Matoran even as Iolan thumped him supportively on the back and pointed in the opposite direction, where the trees stood unguarded.

Then, before he could steal another glance at the strange Onu-Matoran, Torlo barked an order and the group broke into a run, surging forwards for freedom, heads down, knees kicking up clouds of dust behind them. In the heat of the moment all thoughts, except those of escape, slipped from the Matoran’s head and blew away on the cool morning breeze, though he still remained suspicious, and one certain fact would remain with him, right up till the day he died:

He had just seen Makuta Karabak.

Chapter 7
Written by Abc8920

One could say many things about the Southern Continent; for some it had once been a key commercial point between the northern landmasses and the unexplored south, for others a nice countryside. Some considered it to be the location in the Matoran Universe with the prettiest landscapes, while some pointed out at how it was a Makuta-made hell. But Fiancha felt something entirely different.

The Southern Continent was huge.

Even though the statement was simple and obvious, he didn’t think that any of the group had actually considered what took to cross the continent with the starting point being their village. Even he, who normally gave some thought to things, had not imagined how slow and sluggish would be the tread through the land.

Probably they should have taken some more food with them. Santis had argued that they could hunt on their way, but in reality that only made their trip even slower. But he had decided to not argue back. He only spoke when it was really necessary, and it hadn’t been such an occasion.

The thing was, overall he didn’t share the optimism with the rest of the group. He had decided to leave, but not for some idealistic dream, not for helping Santis, not even for getting himself a new, better life. Years had taught him that the world would be sick machine and his life bad, no matter where or when. Therefore, he had just agreed out of boredom.

And he was starting to get bored now. They were trekking along some woods as a dense fog crept through the undergrowth, advancing slowly but surely towards an undetermined point in the unknown.

Walking next to him was Turas, the Rode wearing Po-Matoran. Fiancha didn’t recall if he had decided to walk next to Turas or rather if it had been a result of fortune, but the Po-Matoran was probably the one who he got on well best in the group.

Turas was a quiet guy. More or less like him. The Matoran of Stone almost never spoke, always looked calm, maybe even too calm. His eyes always seemed to be staring into an unspecified direction, and unless a Rahkshi appeared, he just couldn’t be disturbed by anything.

However, there was one trait that differentiated him from Turas; basically, he didn’t speak because he chose to not do so, whereas Turas didn’t speak most of the time because he lacked of the self-confidence for that. There was a very big difference between cynicism and shyness.

Fiancha was almost relieved when the forest ended, and what looked like a grassy valley extended in front on them. However, as soon as they neared one of the cliffs of the valley they realized how unnatural it was. The walls of the cliffs were almost vertical, and at the bottom of the valley there was some water, making the “valley” look like a pool.

“This” – started Krennato, the wise and creepy Ga-Matoran – “is the place where the Great Spirit landed, in the time before time, coming from the heavens…” The old one continued with her usual talk about religion. Fiancha didn’t even bother continue listening to her, for he already know what happened here, quite some time ago.

The truth was that this section of the forest had a complex series of tunnels – the Nui Caves- underneath. The Order of Mata Nui, back where they still gave a Burnak about what happened down in the south of the Universe, had decided that it would be fitting to use the Nui Caves as a place to plan out their advances on the regions under Brotherhood’s sphere of influence.

However, apparently something had gone absolutely wrong, and the Order blew up part of the caves, bringing down a gentle hill that became the ‘Great Spirit Valley’.

The crazy Ga-Matoran appeared to be the cleverest one in the group, but Fiancha knew that that was just a façade behind which an unstable mind hid. The fact that she was (or at least looked like) the oldest Matoran in the village didn’t make her the smartest. He himself hadn’t gotten any clever with time. Krennato believed boldly in the lies that her subconscious produced, and that was enough for everybody to consider her some kind of mystic shaman.

She didn’t know about the true history of the valley, just like nobody else in the group did. But he wasn’t going to tell them. He just was the fisherman of the village. He didn’t consider himself the smartest one either, but he at least was capable of reading standard Matoran, something which probably most of the group members couldn’t boast about.

And that was about it, he had just been lucky to pick up some stone tablets in one of his nets one day, detailing the disastrous Order of Mata Nui mission.

The group walked closer to the cliffs, until they were on the edge, and contemplated it. There was something strange in the centre. It was a diminutive patch of emerged land, just big enough for one Matoran to stand on top of, with what looked like some kind of metallic material on it. Unfortunately, the valley was far too deep for any of them to see clearly what it was.

There were a few seconds of silence, in which the same question floated around the Matoran minds, until Kyros was the one who decided to materialize it.

“Who’s going down there? That thing may be worth a check.”

Each of the members of the expedition looked one another, searching for an approval sing in them, but all they found was the same expression over and over, the one that was able to say without pronouncing any words ‘let another do it’.

Fiancha was already starting to grow sick of it all, but he controlled his emotions with the endless patience that a fisherman has.

For once in a long time he considered speaking up suggesting Santis as the one to descend to check the mysterious object, but he chose to oppress that though, and decided that it would be better if the rest decided for themselves. Life had also taught him that it was better to observe arguments than take part on them.

By the expressions on their faces, Fiancha could tell much of what each Matoran wanted. Kyros felt like he had excluded himself when he had pointed out the problematic. Fiancha didn’t get around much with the Ko-Matoran but he knew that it was better to not do business with him.

Goll on the other hand was clearly convinced that Connla was the one to be chosen. Goll himself was one who he did respect a lot. Unlike Krennato, Goll was probably wise in the right meaning of the word, and not just old and senile.

His arguments weren’t exactly well founded, but it made sense to think that Connla was probably the best swimmer out there. And Fiancha had to admit, with traces of embarrassment, that he couldn’t swim. A fisherman that couldn’t swim. That was an argument that he could use, but he really wasn’t going to enter the discussion anyway.

Connla argued back that she wouldn’t have the strength to climb the walls once she had examined whatever was down the hole. A valid argument, but from the look of her eyes he could tell that fear played an important part in that argument too. Fiancha didn’t see that as bad. All of the members of the expedition (including him) had been under constant stress since they had left. It was probably better to let it out like the Pakari-wearer did rather than let it corrode from the inside.

The Matoran of Lightning Sarnii was instead pointing at Turas, saying the Po-Matoran was one with the greatest physical strength. The Matoran of Stone didn’t even respond to that, and just laid on the grassy ground looking at the clouds in the sky, having some kind of herb in his mouth will he did so.

But Fiancha wasn’t the only one who found himself out of place in the argument. He could tell that Santis’ patience running thin, judging from his murderous looks at the Matoran. There was also Turas, absent as always, and Torlo, who was close to the discussing Matoran but saying nothing. The Le-Matoran was just staring at Sarnii and Connla, thinking probably about the past.

So he in the end decided to lie on the ground and stare at the clouds just like his fellow Po-Matoran companion was doing.

A few minutes later, he had to stop looking at the midday sky as Santis finally decided to intervene.

“Oh please for Mata Nui’s sake just stop!”

The Matoran, who had been arguing for a long while, but actually saying nothing, all shut up and looked at the Toa.

“Any of you” – continued the Toa, still angered- “are a lot better candidates then I am for doing this. The stone that makes up the walls is fragile and it will break under my own weight more than likely. But as none of you want to go down, I will do it anyway.”

Everyone then sat on the floor and stayed silent as the Toa started his descent. Santis was probably the most responsible member of the expedition. The other Matoran owed him a lot, and so he did. The Toa of Fire had been the one that had healed him with the Danju, and saved him from having to receive the treatments of Krennato.

He walked closer to the edge, and watched the Toa slowly climb down the wall of stone.



There are moments where time becomes subjective. Hours can fly like sand through a closed fist, and a few seconds can be enough to realise hidden truths, review one’s miserable life or even just become crazy. Santis was experiencing one of those moments.

He hadn’t actually descended a lot before he had fallen. Now, he didn’t actually remember if he had fallen because his Danju had showed him that he would fall in a brief spawn of time, or rather he had jumped off because he was already going to fall anyway.

It didn’t really matter, as anyway he was in the air, and the ground was rushing to meet him.

Instead of playing the role of hero, he should have kicked some Matoran down the hole and watch how they reacted to it. Probably they were having fun anyway watching him hopelessly kick the air. Sometimes Matoran humour could be a lot sicker than that of a Rahkshi.

Finally he met his fate. He crashed against the water, hard as a rock and cold as ice, and then hit a muddy floor. His whole body ached, and his mind was clouded as the instinct to swim to the surface overrode anything else in his head.

The Toa opened his eyes, but the water was murky and he couldn’t differentiate up from down. With a lot of effort the Toa managed to get his head out of the water, and took a deep breath. The hardest part was done, apparently.

Santis looked up, to the cliff top where in turn the Matoran were staring at him expectantly. Then, the Toa turned his head, and found the cross in the centre of the valley’s lake.

He started swimming towards the cross. The lagoon wasn’t that deep, approximately just three meters deep, and it became shallower near the cross. The floor of the lake was made of the same material as the plain above, and there were also metallic pieces scattered. The Toa started to doubt that that hole had anything to do with Mata Nui.

And there it was. The cross was made of equally long metal bars and probably it wasn’t a religious symbol of any kind, but rather the axes of some broken vehicle. There was some sort of robot impaled in the central bar, not bigger than a Matoran.

The robot itself was barely recognisable; it was way too oxidized to tell its original colour, and the armour was battered. In fact, it actually looked like it had been under a stampede of wild Mahi, judging by the state of the metallic components.

Santis stared for a moment at the unlit eyes of the robot, and realized that he had his hand on the robot’s head. And then a flash came.

The Danju activated, and he saw a scene of the robot’s past. It took place in a forest, similar to those that Santis and the others had just passed, and the robot walked through the undergrowth. Unfortunately, the fact that the memories were recorded from the robot’s perspective made Santis unable to unveil its identity.

It proceeded down a path in the forest, when suddenly something made the world spin. The grinning face of a biomechanical being appeared just before it banged its head against the robot’s, ending the scene.

There was no doubt in Santis mind. It had been a Skakdi.



Santis finally sat on the grass back on the plain. He was exhausted after having to climb his way back to the surface. He looked at the afternoon sky, with the clouds stained with red and orange light as the day started to fade.

When he had recovered from the effort, Santis raised and looked at the plain around him. The Matoran weren’t in any of the cliffs of the hole, where they had been during his descent.

After further examination he saw them next to the edge were the plain ended and the forest started once again. He ran fast, after seeing a preoccupied look in their faces. One of them was missing.

When the Toa arrived there, all the Matoran were listening to Iolan, who was in the centre, with wet eyes and mumbling something about Rahkshi.

“What happened?”

Goll comforted Iolan, assuming the role of the village leader once more.

“I decided it would be better if we split in groups of two to search for some food.”

The Ta-Matoran raised his head, and slowly made eye contact with the Toa.

“The Rahkshi threw him off a cliff. Fiancha is dead.”

Characters

 * Toa Santis
 * Torlo
 * Connla
 * Sarnii
 * Goll
 * Kyros
 * Iolan
 * Krennato
 * Turas
 * Fiancha
 * Rakui - Deceased
 * Kentran - Injured

Trivia

 * A brief introduction to the story serial was released at the end of Whispers in the Dark as a promotional text. The epilogue was centered around the events of Chapter 3 of Falling in the Black but from an alternate perspective.
 * The significance of the Avsa-wearing Onu-Matoran at the end of Chapter 6 was a hidden reference to the 2012 film Woman in Black, which Matoro1 recently saw.