Wandering

Wandering is a short story written by about a Skull Warrior on Okoto.

Story
The first thing that hit him was the smell.

When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but blackness. When he wriggled, he found there was not much space to move around on. When he tried to breathe, the stench of rotted flesh struck his nostrils like the...the ice projectiles he had used to use. Everything came crashing in. Memories. He remembered being chosen and how honored he was to be assigned to protecting his home. He remembered being instructed on the basics of his armor and he remembered being handed his Freeze Bow, which he tested out on a training dummy. He was satisified with how his aim was naturally expertise.

Then...something happened.

He died. He had been so for the past thousands of years. He was in some kind of tomb or coffin and he somehow knew that it had been centuries since he first walked among the living. He couldn't feel the warm flesh he once wore over his skeleton, the muscles he required to flex his limbs had decayed into dust. And yet, he was able to move. He felt nothing but the cold as he raised his skeletal arms and pressed his boney hands against the lid hanging over him.

Whatever was willing him to get out, it was persuasive. The theory of something controlling him only flashed in his mind for a moment before it disappeared. Nothing about this was strange at all, he thought. He had been brought back. He should be grateful. Not only that, but he was undead. He has no heart, no meat, no brain to destroy to stop him. He was practically invincible as long as he didn't let anything tear him to pieces. Despite his skeletal visage, he still managed to push the lid off of whatever he was boxed in. He expected something along the lines of bright sun rays to blind him for a moment. But there was nothing but stars before him. It was night. The moon was out, as if to greet him. Him and the others.

As he sat up, he looked to his sides. Scores of tombs surrounded him in neat dusty, cobweb-covered rows and columns. Like his, all of them were either open or in the process of being opened. Fellow fallen warriors like him sat up, dazed and confused by unquestioning of the situation. No skin or flesh remained on their faces, so he couldn't know if any of them were former friends or rivals. Besides slightly altered skull structure, all of them looked the same.

Bones creaked as all of the undead moved, looking at their surroundings and curiously looking over their decayed forms. He looked at his as well. He was still wearing armor, the ceremonial protective gear that every warrior like him wore, with decorated carvings engraved onto varying flat surfaces. Time was not kind to it, however. He noticed that there were holes, cracks, dents. He summized that perhaps he was killed in battle? Perhaps that was what that sword-shaped hole in his chest was.

Some strange force commanded him and the others to stop what they were doing and looked ahead. At the end of the countless columns of tombs stood three figures and a creature. Like he and his fellows, they were undead. Skeletal and ravaged by passed time. As if a silent order had been given out, he got out of his tomb, as did everyone else. He walked over to where he remembered the armory to be. Like everything around him, it was abandoned, dusty, decomposing from lack of care for its maintenance. But much to his mild surprise, the equipment was still functional after all these years. He took the the most familiar weapon to him: a Freeze Bow. He examined the projectile weapon. With small modifications and assessment to ensure maximum efficiency, the Bow was ready for use within minutes. And for those close encounters, he took an Ice Spear.

Another silent order went out to all. Complying, he went over to a pile of masks, all of them identical in appearance. Whatever memory he had told him that these were ancient relics, precursors to what he somehow knew as the Masks of Power. In particular, these masks were worn by the ancestors of his people. He was from what was currently known as the Region of Ice, which was formally inhabited by primitive tribes in the past, as was the other Regions. Discovering some power, those ancestors found a way to embue objects with Elemental Power. In this case, these masks were stone carvings empowered with Elemental Ice. Anyone who wore it would have limited by sufficient control over the cold and snow. Those with him now must've been from the Region of Ice as well, he thought.

He placed the stone on where his face should be. He felt a surge of power course through his marrow. But it feels...uncertain. As if it was taken by surprise by the nature of its wearer. Nonetheless, he know had small power. The power to control the exact force of his Frost Pellets when he shoots them at his enemies. But what enemies?

The answer came to him.

Something called "Toa."

Defend this place from them. The order was given and accepted. Now it was time for him to patrol what he knew as the City of the Mask Makers. He was to wander the ruins he once protected. Though, he probably was doing so again.

He saw nothing wrong with that.

Everything was wrong.

He shouldn't be alive. He was free from Kulta's control, but everything feels wrong. He was undead, an abomination of nature. He should be dead and at peace, but that monster Makuta had to bring him back as a member of his sick army. How evil must one be to resurrect former heroes of this land to use for malicious intent?

Was it for irony? For a joke?

He watched from the edge of a jungle cliffside as the villagers once again made their home in the City of Mask Makers. The Toa had defeated Kulta, his army, and by extension him. He wondered if any of those innocents were his descendants. Which one was sired by his grandchildren? His great-grandchildren? Which one was his grandchild times ten?

But he could never know. The one chance at peace for him at least would be to know that he had a legacy and if that legacy was a positive one. He couldn't even remember how he died, so he was desperately wondering if he left something to be remembered for. Was one of his descendants one of these "Protectors?" Perhaps a village doctor? A farmer that feeds the entire region?

He can't ask them. He would be attacked. Ridiculed and screamed at to leave both for his recent actions and his appearance. In the Okotans' eyes he was now evil. A minion of the dark being Makuta. Entering even an inch of the grounds would cause for alarm.

"An attack!" They'd say. "The Skull Warriors are trying to invade us once more!"

In fact, as he watched, he saw a group of his bretheren. A collective of undead warriors entering the grounds of the City without any weapons save for the ones sheathed on their backs and never used. He silently begged for them to get away. You can't speak, you don't have the organs for it. Some force was keeping you moving and conscious, but for all intents and purposes you are dead. You have no way to tell everybody that you need help with what you're going through. To his distress, behind the trio were Skull Spiders, those dreadful creatures that can take control of your body by latching onto your face.

Sure enough, as soon as they were spotted. Everyone panicked. He saw the Toa, with new armor, run out with a Protector-sized golden armored being. They saw the group of undead and spiders and looked like they were ready to attack. Then the Spiders latched onto some of them. The skeletal warriors of the past became hostile with the spiders on their faces.

He hung his head low. He didn't look, but he could tell by the one-liners, the destructive noises, and the sounds of Elements being used that a fight has begun. If the warriors weren't fleeing, they, along with the spiders controlling them, would be destroyed by now. He stepped back into the trees. He has no purpose. He was going to forever live like this for all eternity unless some miracle granted him the destruction he wished for.

Now there was nothing left for him but to wander.

Trivia

 * This was BionicleChicken's first attempt at a Generation 2 story.