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Terrorsaur

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About Terrorsaur

  • Rank
    Nuva Team Assembled
  • Birthday May 24

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  • Gender
    he/him/his
  • Location
    California
  • Interests
    Bionicle, obviously.
    Sci-Fi, action, and fantasy.
    Lego's original themes.
    Nintendo.
    Reading.
    Writing.
    Nature. I could just walk around outside for hours.
    Prototypes never cease to fascinate me. Especially Lego prototypes. For some reason I've always been more interested in what could have been than what was.

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  1. These are pretty cool. They almost remind me of Slizers/Throwbots in the simultaneous simplicity and complexity they have going on. I think Onua is my favorite, I love the Mata eye piece as a, well, different kind of eye piece. Wouldn't mind seeing the other three at some point down the line. Mangling any Stars mask is a service to mankind.
  2. Couldn't tell you what it is, but it is nevertheless familiar from the dozens of times I've seen it around the forums before.
  3. Some anime girl that is (to me) entirely indistinguishable from thousands of other anime girls.
  4. I was talking about his role in MNOG. Without him making friends that would later help defend the Kini-Nui, the Toa might not have won against Makuta.
  5. Excellent analysis on your part, but for me personally this movie doesn't hit at all because of all the story elements before it. In MNOG Takua pretty much has this same arc, he's the lazy outcast with strange behavior that leads everyone to mark him as irresponsible. But when the Toa prove to not be enough, he steps up to the plate and proves himself to be a capable and worthy hero in his own right. You're right that the movie works as a stand alone piece, but in the larger Bionicle story it feels like a cheap rehash in terms of character development.
  6. If it weren't for the crime syndicates and Westing attacks I wouldn't mind living in Jok-Kor Oh yes he's seen some things, but he's seeing them for someone else
  7. III. I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy this. I am walking up to the gates of Jok-Kor, Corvec in front of me. I am holding my hammer. He is holding his hands together near his pelvis, cuffed together as they are. The shackles are for show, of course, a fraction of his Toa power could shatter them like glass. But there are forces in Jok-Kor that would not have a Toa idly walk into the city, especially not one like Corvec. So he must play the prisoner. Although nowhere near as necessary, putting his hands in the cuffs before we even left Rar-Kor, to “provide a justification”, as I said, for his sudden appearance and disappearance from town, was equally enjoyable. The elation that carried me over so many dunes, however, fades as we draw nearer and nearer to the iron gate. Jok is the only place in Kor where the buildings can be seen from outside the city walls, and their shadows loom large over us in the afternoon sun. The Matoran in the watchtower, sullen and hunched, wearing a pockmarked Rau, sees me step out from behind Corvec. She raps twice on the wall with her fist, and two more Matoran appear from somewhere behind the wall, unlatching the gate before they each drag half of it inwards. The hinges creak and the sand hisses as the bottom of the gate halves are tugged through it. The eyes behind the Rau never leave mine. When the pair vanish into the wall again, like they are a part of it, I nudge Corvec in the back with my hammer and we move forward. Jok-Kor stands tall so its people can live in its shadow. It is a city from the stone, a gift from Kor that we have squandered. The walls surround a plateau rising from the sand. Much of the city was carved into, or on top of, this near-disk long before any Matoran can remember. It is the largest city in Kor, and the only one made where the rock that composes it originally stood. Naturally, it is also home to much of the evil in Kor. For most of us who exist or have existed here, Matoran or otherwise, Jok-Kor has been the only constant apart from the sand and the sky themselves. It is an anchor point; at the very least it is on the periphery of everyone’s existence. The ambitious, the greedy, the hungry, and the cruel all feel some natural claim, a birthright to it. Treachery and deceit have been carved into Jok-Kor as deeply as the tunnel system that circumvents the trip around the plateau’s perimeter. But lately a new malevolence has fallen over the city in an indescribable way, as if it were caked with the aftermath of a dust storm that could only be seen one grain at a time. This is what Corvec has caused. This is what he has been called to fix. Malice radiates from eyes seen and unseen as easily as heat from the sun as Corvec and I reach the top of one of the staircases carved into the plateau’s side. We are surrounded by the movement and noise of a busy city; each individual hushed, withdrawn, occupied with avoiding each other person. If any hatred directed our way is not from knowledge of who Corvec is, then it is because he is a Toa. “So where’s G’o’r’l’o’h?” Corvec asks. Falling back to walk next to me, seemingly oblivious to the attention he draws. “Ratuk,” I correct sharply and immediately. “We’re going to see your friend first and find out what else he can tell us about what’s going on.” “What else is there to know? There’s another Westing attack looming, G’o’r’l’o’h is waiting somewhere in the canyons, and you want me to stop him. Seems pretty open and shut to me.” “How well did just ‘stopping’ Gorloh work out for you last time?” I say, and he falls silent. * * * Finding Ratuk is proving to be difficult. The only information we have about him is that he is who he says he is, from Corvec’s confirmation, and corroboration from other sources regarding his description of Jok-Kor’s current state. The ill will in this city was always more frightening than in other places because it was never afraid to show its face, in part or in full. Now, it almost feels as if we are walking amongst secretly violent corpses. For all that could be said of Jok-Kor, it was supposed to be a lively place. It is not now. Locating a nondescript individual in a sea of unhelpful gray masses is nearly impossible. “Now do you remember what he looks like?” I ask yet again. “Well, he’s definitely brown… and tan.” “A Kor-Matoran is the color of the desert. How very insightful of you.” “It was a long time ago-” “He’s supposedly your friend, and you can’t even remember what he looks like?” “Listen, he was technically my friend, alright? More of a fan, I guess. Someone I would talk to if there was ever a moment’s rest while I was here. Do you know how many Matoran I’ve met in my time, how many things I’ve tried to forget-” His voice is rising, and then he sputters and stops as he turns fully to me. With more strain than I expected, he snaps the chain in two, leaving the cuffs around his wrists. I raise my hammer to shield myself from his attack, but he instead moves past me in a brisk walk. I turn and jog to keep up. Ahead of us, down the compact, incredibly straight street, three Matoran are chasing after a fourth. We catch up quickly as they come to a stop, the three pursuers having pinned the other to the wall of a house. “What’s going on here?” Corvec asks, but it is not the authoritative tone of a hero ready to spring into action. Only a general curiosity permeates his words. One of the attackers turns to tell him off, and then realizes he also has to look up to meet the eyes of the person who just spoke, which causes him to back off. Their friend’s silence makes the other two turn as well, and then all three are stepping away. “Toa! We were-” begins the first. “He knows what we were doing,” the second one cuts in, glaring up defiantly. It seems he recognizes Corvec, “That’s why he’s stopping us. Can’t ever let anything get fixed,” he adds bitterly, stepping towards Corvec. “The Westing is dead. You are dead. It’s all dust now,” he spits. Corvec’s gaze hardens, but I can tell it is more out of confusion than anything. The three push past him, heading back up the street. The other Matoran has not moved the whole time, staring ahead at nothing. “You alright?” I offer with a grunt. The Matoran turns to look at me and even in the heat I am chilled by the void in his gaze. He blinks, looks at Corvec, and then at the black replacement armor he wears on his right arm, before shuffling off the other way. “The Westing is dead?” is all Corvec says after a long moment of silence. I shrug nonchalantly. “There are a lot of Westings. And he also said you were dead. That’s not true just yet either.” He turns to me and looks me in the eye and there is a searching, a sort of pleading there. * * * The canyons, as they are formally known, stretch across the entirety of Kor’s north end. They are an endless network of cliffs separated by spiderwebs of passages. They tower high above even Jok-Kor. If there is anything worthwhile on the other side, if there is another side, no one knows anything about it. Few ever go in and even fewer return. After nightfall, like now, they are nothing more than a shadow, a looming, amorphous shape a few miles from the city. This is where Corvec is running now, and where I am following. Our first day of searching for Ratuk ended unsuccessfully, and so we had made our way to an overnight inn located in one of the safer areas of the city. Corvec ran as soon as my guard was down. He is much faster than I, but I do not falter. Soon we are in the canyons. Corvec begins to slow down, stopping to consider each fork in his path. I start to realize he is not fleeing. He really is not as stupid as he looks. I am almost caught up to him as he slows at another intersection, looking at the ground and the walls of the passages. He makes his choice, and then again so quickly that I nearly lose him around a corner. We move up a slight incline that ends at a cave mouth and he turns back to me, breathing hard, but otherwise silent. In the moonlight his stare is pleading again, then he plunges into the mouth of the cave and I follow. There is a nasty crunch a few moments later; evidently he has tripped over a rock and lost his way. “Corvec,” I call out, my voice beyond my control and soft for once, “whatever it is you want to find, it’s not here.” He grunts somewhere in the darkness as he gets to his feet, again rushing towards the moonlight at the other end of the cave. I step into the open air only a few moments after he does, and I sigh. We are in a clearing of sorts, an oblong space among the cliffs that is without any walls of its own. In the center of the ring, shining faintly in the dim moonglow, is Gorloh, crumpled and dead. Review Topic
  8. Alas, poor Bricklink. I knew him, fans, a fellow of infinite bricks...
  9. Glad you think so, I typically think my settings are a bit sparse because I hate doing exposition (probably why I usually wind up in deserts)
  10. Another good chapter, I'm anxious to see who gets the Toa stone and if it's even someone we've met yet. And I love the way the decree was written
  11. II. “So what’s your problem with this Gorloh guy?” “G’o’r’l’o’h.” “That’s what I said. That Kanohi must be messing with your mind.” “No, you, -there’s- apostrophes. Westing names are bizarre.” “Rock, meet boulder.” It has been an hour of chaperoning Corvec around Rar-Kor, a village of no more than a hundred or so Matoran. How he has yet to find the one he sold his blades to is beyond me. I am digging in. I know what his “problem” is with G’o’r’l’o’h. I want to hear it from him. He is a quick learner; in the short time I have watched him stumble around this town, half from the sun’s brightness and half from the near-constant occupation of his field of vision with whatever cryptic images he conjures up, he has come to understand that any lapse in my aggressive needling is a prompt for him to open his stupid mouth and let forth whatever drivel it contains. “G’o’r’l’o’h is… an element of the circumstances leading to… the… loss… of my team.” He was a “circumstantial element” for a lot of other losses, too. Rar-Kor had always fostered a healthy market, but over the last two years it has truly become a city of traders. Every crumbling hut or shack a shop; any slab of stone not torn to bits by Westing assaults a makeshift stall. Rar-Kor lives on only in the exchange, in the refusal to let anything lie where it falls, in a constant shifting like sand in the wind, to keep anything from settling in the mind, lest the truth of our losses set in as well. Corvec continues winding through the shattered remnants of town. I notice he is limping slightly, no doubt from my hammer on the Jaga’s tail. I restrain a smile and, for the briefest moment, feel sick that the smile made itself a notion at all. The feeling is interrupted as Corvec halts ahead of me. Most other activity in our immediate vicinity, sparse as it is, stops as well. Two Matoran are lumbering through the center of the small crowd that has formed. Between themselves they carry the head of a Westing. Sleek, dark, angular as an arrowhead. The anonymity of the almost Rahi-like face is unsettling and captivating in equal parts. It is hard to look at it without hearing the slinking, rattling noises of its segmented body as it seemingly glides across the sand, decapitated though it may be. A would-be conqueror that may yet be. Outsider. Not From Around Here. Far End of the Desert. West Thing. Corvec looks utterly confused, to my satisfaction and irritation. “Where did you get that? And what are you doing with it?” His voice is overloud, not blustery, but rather like he is trying to defuse tension he assumes is there. His tone has its own constant sharpness nonetheless. The two Matoran, who I recognize as occasional hired muscle for Davik, simply glare at him the way I wish the captain had done himself. “Gonna sell it,” one of them grunts before they disappear down the street. “Turns out there are a lot more Westings than we thought there were before you… disappeared,” I say, stepping up beside him. “They probably caught this one by itself, scouting ahead for a raiding party.” “Things are that bad…? But G’o’r’l’o’h can’t be in Jok-Kor, can he? Otherwise your informant would be dead.” “You’re not as stupid as you look and sound. Right, Gorloh is apparently hiding in the canyons just outside the city, likely biding his time until he’s got a strong enough hand to ensure he can wipe it out in one go.” He nods quickly and there is a liveliness and urgency I have not seen in him before. * * * Another hour has gone by. I am beginning to believe there are no blades. They are just another illusion of the Mahiki. Even torturing Corvec has become tiresome, to the point that we have searched in silence for some time barring the inquiries posed to vendors. “Why did you sell those stupid swords anyways?” I growl as we hit what must be the dozenth dead end. The number of hands these weapons have apparently passed through is astounding. Our latest questioning has only revealed that they may be all the way in Jok-Kor. “After… G’o’r’l’o’h, I… well, you seem to know. I… retired, let’s say. I sold my mask so I could afford iambi juice. When I realized that wasn’t going to cut it, I tracked down the owner through a chain like this one and convinced her that blades were more useful to her than a mask she couldn’t even wear.” “...you sold your Great Kanohi, one of the most powerful and rare objects in the entirety of Kor, so you could get drunk?” “And promptly bought it back when I realized it had the same effect I wanted if I used it right, but less harmful… and more potent.” “Less harmful? You play those tricks so close to your eyes, you can barely walk in a straight line, with or without the illusions.” “There is absolutely nothing wrong with the way I walk,” he says, and right before he can trip over a stone ahead of him, “Corvec Ma?” comes a voice, and we stop. To our left, peeking from the doorway of a small stone hut, is a Matoran. I recognize the black Kakama, dented and scratched far beyond what I remember, but I cannot think of a name. His right hand is missing and under that arm he holds two blades. They are of a modest length, each serrated and tapering towards a point on one side, while the other is flat and dull. The dark metal, nearly black, looks like it has been recently polished. He approaches, slowly, stumbling worse than Corvec. I am watching the uneasy figure approaching with deadly weapons. Corvec looks only at the blades. “Corvec Ma,” the Matoran says again, and nods. He kneels, awkwardly offering up the blades with one hand. There is a pause, and then Corvec reaches out, his hand touching the smooth metal once more. The Kakama-wearer’s eyes meet Corvec’s. “We have been waiting a long time for you to return, Toa.” He is gone just as quickly as he arrived, backing away and then rushing off before Corvec can even fully grab the blades, and they fall to the sand. He kneels, brushing them off before returning them to their former place, attached at the forearm near the elbow, underslung. The tips extend perhaps six inches past his fingers. He rises slowly, eyes drifting from one blade to the other. There is almost a grace to his movements. When he reaches his full height he is still, and then suddenly hacks and jabs at the air with copious deftness. The urgency of his movement is punctuated by nostalgia, a certain wistfulness, like he’s accidentally fallen into a forgotten routine or called out a long-gone old friend’s name. He turns to me and regards me like he’d forgotten I was there and says, “These are them,” as if it wasn’t obvious. * * * Again the three of us are in Davik’s office, only this time no one is behind bars. “So, the captain says, grunting quietly as he takes his seat, “How much of this office’s budget has gone towards arming this man?” There is a hint of levity behind his words I am not used to. I set the untouched bag of widgets on his desk and cross my arms. “Someone just showed up and gave them to him when it seemed our search was going to be fruitless.” “Just gave him the blades? No haggling, no immaterial favors? No strings attached?” “No strings attached.” “Which is the biggest string of all. What did they look like?” “Black Kakama, red eyes. Brown armor… missing his right hand.” The captain pauses, eyeing me carefully. “You’re sure it was his right hand.” “Yes. Why?” “That sounds like one of the Matoran reported dead not too long ago.” Corvec shrugs. “Kakamas are easy to come by.” “And hands aren’t?” Davik sighs and then waves his hand dismissively. “You’re probably right. Did you see those two who brought in the Westing’s head? Who knows what’s out there that might be taking people’s hands.” He stands, coming around the desk to us. He takes in the sight of Corvec, and for a moment he almost looks like he was the one who picked those mournful blades from the sand. He lets out a breath, wishing us luck and reminding us that we leave tomorrow. * * * It is near dark and the air is starting to chill. Corvec sits on the wall again, and this time I do too, watching him with my hammer. I’ve gone out of my way to get him armed; now would be the perfect time for him to run. But he sits, his Mahiki idle for once, his eyes on the horizon. “Why do you need them, anyway?” I ask him, the first question with no strings attached. “What?” He comes out of his stupor. “Oh, the blades?” I nod. “You’re a Toa of Stone. Do you not have incredible elemental powers?” “I do. But I also have very poor aim.” He turns to me, “And before you say anything, no, it’s not because I use my mask on myself so much. I’ve always been a terrible shot.” A Jaga scuttles across the horizon near the setting sun and Corvec hops from the wall. I grip the hammer and watch closely in case he runs. He doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and then stomps the ground with his right foot. A boulder comes rocketing up through the sand, flying high over the town. He winds up as it comes down, his fist connecting and sending the rock off at incredible speed. There is a faint thud and crunch as it lands on the scorpion. I am about to admit to myself a grudging respect to him for having fooled me, for making the shot so expertly, just before he admits it was luck. Review Topic
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