User blog:BobTheDoctor27/Falling in the Black

Well, as those of you who paid attention to my last blog will know, User:Abc8920 and I are working together on a shared story named Falling in the Black, a story that we will release later on in the year. Now, while we're still slaving away, thinking of plot lines, characters, and themes, we've decided to give you good people of CBW a small sampler of what is to come. Yes, that's right, I'm going to release a short spoiler-chapter that will take place at the end of Whispers in the Dark and will connect the two stories. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy reading it and please feel free to tell us what you think in the comment section below. Your opinions could change the shape of the story completely in this early stage. :D

Chapter 1: Timely Intervention
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 their 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. The world around the Zatth-wearer suddenly shimmered as a flash of light – that seemed to be every color at once – erupted from behind him. A strange feeling overcame the Matoran, as if he was everywhere and nowhere at once, both an entire universe and an insignificant speck. The Visorak screeched and recoiled, blinded by the sheer intensity of the light. Without hesitating, Torlo leapt to his feet and threw himself forwards, seconds before an explosion erupted from the space he had been about to die in. The sound was deafening as the Le-Matoran rolled himself over and wiped the blood from his eye to get a better view. Now the noise had started the light was beginning to dim. The Matoran felt like his audio receptors were about to burst. He pictured his skull cracking, his brain boiling away into sludge. Pain that was indescribable, the kind he couldn’t do anything about. But the noise didn’t stop. It continued to pierce the craftsman’s audio receptor, only now it wasn’t just blank noise. Now the sound had evolved into some kind of miniature storm, accompanied by a straining, thumping, thunderous echo. And then, tucked away in a discreet crater in the ground, was a solid, tangible shape. It was still hard for Torlo to see anything else. Sun spots of all colors and sizes were pulsing across his vision. It was hard to adjust and focus to the dull light once again. The Le-Matoran’s mind was spinning crazily in a bewildered whir. 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 fissure in the ground. The newcomer was clad in what looked like crimson and yellow armor in the shadows. In his right hand lay 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 the towering stranger in front of him 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 in 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 in 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 let down. There was definitely something strange about this Toa. 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.

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