Welcome to my second ever epic (and arguably the best one you will ever read in your lifetime)!
I want to thank bonesii for inspiring me with his 'Tapestry of Time' series of stories, which inspired me to begin work on a set of classic BIONICLE stories, with one single change made in each of them. Many of those changes have very surprising results...
But enough on that, let's get on with the story! Please read, review, and enjoy!
Chapter I - Hero
The wind was bitter that day in the Drifts. It had a cutting edge to it that it had lacked in the many years Matoro had navigated it. The chill it brought tore deeper, as if trying to peel his flesh away from his spirit. Highly unusual for this time of year.
It was strange, but then again, what wasn’t these days? Makuta’s darkness was seeping into every corner of the world, and unless something was done about it soon, the island itself would fall to his might, drowned in shadows.
However, at this moment in time, the Ko-Matoran had a more pressing concern to handle: like the Muaka staring him right in the face. Steam rose from it’s nostrils as it breathed in and out, staring at him with clouded eyes.
Clouded eyes? Matoro raised an internal eyebrow. Normally, Muaka had quite focused eyes, like lasers boring into you. So why was this one so different? Yet another question in a long list of impossible things on this island.
For a long moment, neither moved a muscle. Each combatant staring at each other, waiting to see who would make the first move, like gunslingers on the plains of Po-Koro.
Slowly, trying not to show any movement, Matoro reached the fingers of his left hand down towards the hilt of his pickaxe. In silent relief, he felt his fingers graze the hard, cold hilt of pure ice, gently gripping the weapon. Holding his breath, he slowly brought the axe up, higher and higher, praying that the Muaka would take no notice.
His prayers were not answered.
The beast roared, before sending it’s head surging at the attacker, neck extended, a jungle of teeth about to ram into Matoro.
Or it would have, had a wall of ice not intercepted the attack, the sounds of cracking slicing through the air even harder than the wind. No one knew what was cracking more, the ice, or the skull of the Muaka.
The Matoran was very grateful to whoever had summoned that wall, but thanks would have to wait. Matoro stumbled backwards, trying to gain as much distance as possible between himself and the beast. He staggered through the snow, almost blind between the icy wind and stinging tears of shock and relief in his eyes.
He groped for a handhold in the snow, but was met with only cold repulsion. If only he hadn’t dropped his pick back there. The translator cursed himself for his foolishness. They were supposed to have beaten habits (like letting go of your equipment) out of you in the Ko-Koro military.
There! A rock or something, Matoro wasn’t sure, but it was hard, and planted in the ground. He grabbed hold of it, clutching like a lifeline. He strained his audio receptors, searching for any sign of the Muaka. Nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it had abandoned him in search f better prey.
Suddenly, there it was. The crunching of snow right behind him. Matoro stiffened. Had it found him? Yes, he could already recognize the foul odor of meat hitting him. He felt the bile rise up in his stomach, and he almost groaned.
The translator clenched his eyes firmly shut. Alright then, he thought, If this is the end, so be it.
He waited for must have felt like forever, but all he felt was the wind cut into him. Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes.
Matoro looked around, trying to catch glimpse of anything, but was only greeted with an impenetrable wall of white. He opened his ears wide, probing around for the merest whisper of a sound.
He was rewarded by the faint but immediately recognizable sound of metal clashing against metal. It was far-off, but most certainly out there. Something was going on, and the translator was betting that the Muaka was involved with it.
Mustering as much courage as he could, Matoro slowly let go of the rock, his only anchor to stability, and began walking towards the sound. He was sure he was insane for doing it, but he kept moving. As a Matoran, he was rather cursed with profound curiosity, sometimes outweighing common sense.
He kept moving, which was hard in the Drifts. One had to navigate through knee-deep snow, with ice stabbing into any exposed skin, the stony chill permeating every part of his soul. With all that in mind, one had to wonder anyone would want to spend their days here.
But Matoro was a different breed of Matoran. Always had been. He could never quite explain it to anyone, but he had always felt...different. Like he was destined for something greater than he, or anyone else could imagine.
Of course, he wouldn’t be destined for anything but death if he didn’t find a way out of this blizzard. He pried his eyelids open, trying to glimpse around.
There, that sound again! What was it?
That was different, but for sure, of the same origin. The translator stumbled towards it, almost tripping the snow.
That noise made him stop in his tracks. It was the Muaka again, and by the sound of it, it was hurt. Matoro hurried forwards, against every sensible bone in his body. If the beast was hurt, that could mean it was either impaired, or even more dangerous.
He slammed through the waves of bitter cold, sprinting at full tilt towards the sound. His lungs burned, drowning in snow, and his muscles screamed, but the hunter kept running.
That is, until his foot, rammed into a hard something (a rock, maybe) and he plummeted to the ground. Matoro grimaced in pain, his hands going automatically to his ankle. Pain throbbed in it, and he feared it may have been twisted.
Eyes slick with tears, he raised his head, trying to check for danger. The first thing Matoro noticed, was how unnaturally clear it was here. It was as if the snow just...stopped, leaving an area of pure, white snow. The blinding winter sun shone down on the small circle of calm.
But frankly, that was the last thing on his mind at the moment. Right now, the translator was more focused on the Muaka to his left, it’s head reared back, howling into the air, it’s armor torn and stained with blood. It’s exposed flesh was already going white with frostbite, and the quickening atrophy of it’s muscles was evident.
And to his right, a tall, lean figure, covered with snow-white armour, sword hanging to one sword. The sun reflected off of the austere metal, making it look as if the figure was made of light.
It was his hero, his savior. The spirit of ice, the keeper of the blizzard, and bringer of storms.
Kopaka, Toa of Ice.
Edited by Emissary to the Void, Mar 24 2012 - 05:55 PM.