The diversity of these monstrosities meant that the damage was always different; be it plasma-charged tornados, a weakening plague of silence, or any other terrible result, the people of the village feared it all the same. These attacks were meant perhaps to keep the Matoran in check, although thoughts of rebellion of any sort had long ago been eradicated. Even hope of peace was merely a fiction to them now.
This truth was unanimous save for a single person. He wore a weathered grey cloak, and nobody had seen him at all, save for his granite-hued feet and hands. The being’s voice was low and carried the weight of ages. The Walker, they called him. He was not of the same village, a nomadic traveler; still, he had remained there for a few weeks, his road onward being blocked by the ferocious windstorms, as well as their source.
But at the end of the storms, as the villagers emerged, the Walker set out with a purpose, striding stoically through the rubble, off west towards the hills and the fortress. Nobody knew what he intended, nobody knew why; but they all stepped aside as he walked on.
Straying from the village, though they knew not why, the Matoran silently lined the windswept dusty road into the hills. The path ended, and the traveler walked on; and still the Matoran followed in his wake. At last he reached the hills, not slowing down. Unblinkingly he drew a black, roughly triangular stone tablet from within his cloak, and continued on, clutching it in his right fist. Coming briskly and purposefully to the dread black gates, he raised his left arm across his chest without slowing, still a few bio away. Fingers splayed, he threw his arm horizontally away from him; the old iron flew open with a tremendous clang, and the Walker continued unfazed. His entourage slowly spilled through behind him, fanning out to either side.
The being went on. The Matoran of the decimated village continued behind as if in a trance. At last the Walker stopped, immediately at the vast black doors. There was a flawless silence. Finally a great creaking of rust and blight cut the quiet off, as though of a beast unwilling to be shifted; but the great black doors began to slide apart. The crowd and their leader held like stones. Only darkness emanated from within the fortress; no light, no joy.
The Walker noiselessly raised his arm, and held up the Tablet of Transit that he dared to carry. It was pointed towards the fortress, or rather the unseen occupants that no doubt lurked inside.
Another rumbling sounded from within. This was undoubtedly movement, not the stationary weight of the doors. A large form stepped into the light, though it remained clothed perfectly in darkness. Bifold points flared to life, bright lavender in the dark, though they lit nothing but themselves. Whorls of pure emptiness, the essence of the dark, spiraled out from the imposing figure, shadowed eddies reaching toward the Matoran, creeping along the ground like baneful smoke towards their feet.
Emboldened by the courage of the Walker, they remained where they stood, though whether this was truly foolishness or bravery, they did not know. The figure in the door still did not change his position, but an intense vibe of malevolence shone off of him. The Walker and his people did not move as black winds swirled around their heads. The tail of his cloak billowed to one side, though his hood stayed up, as did his hand, with the Tablet.
The barrage of umbrage and dark power ended abruptly. The Makuta had clearly seen the triangular stone. He blinked and spoke, his voice rich and deep, echoing wisdom and earth, rather than the corruption and fear that his species was associated with.
“You bear a Tablet of Transit. You... are a friend of the Makuta. I ask you, wise one, what is it you wish for these people?” He gestured to the Matoran.
The Walker had had enough. "Life. Harmony. No more destruction.”
“Perhaps I can do this. Give me the stone.” The Walker stepped forward. The shadows swirled thoughtfully about the rock, before it was lifted into the doorway and enveloped by the dark. The being in the door turned and walked inside. Before he was fully out of sight again, two lavender points gazed back over his shoulder. “You must know, wise one, that there is a price for using this.”
“I know. That’s why I brought it.”
The gates rumbled slowly shut. The Matoran began to slowly walk back to the ruins of their village, though the Walker stood right where he was. Nobody was still around that night to see him traipse off into the hills again.
Two years had passed from the day of the Walker’s excursion. The village was prospering, the fortress was abandoned, and the attacks had ceased.
A herald sprinted into the home of the town’s leader bearing melancholy news.
An old Turaga of Iron had been found lying outside the town’s perimeter. He was dead, arms crossed on his chest, a cloak folded neatly beside him, and a smile on his face.
Hope you all liked that. I decided to write another (better) entry, after my first one turned out poorly. Rings in at exactly 999 words! Decided to go with my strength- original, non-canon scenes and characters. This one portrays the Tablets themselves slightly differently than they are mentioned officially- more like a token than a free pass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, feedback is appreciated!
EDIT- Just noticed I typoed the title. Son of a gun. Can I get that fixed somehow?
Edited by Chro, Nov 05 2012 - 09:24 PM.
