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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. 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
  2. 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
  3. I think that's just a visual storytelling thing to make it easier to understand.
  4. 2001 masks have a peg that fits in the mouth of the head. 2015 masks connect to the sides of the head almost entirely by friction.
  5. Terrorsaur

    New Epic

    Hello fellow citizens, I'm starting a new epic! I wouldn't say my previous works were particularly good, but one did get featured, so there's that. I would appreciate any feedback you have to offer because I've enjoyed writing this so far and would gladly take steps to improve my plans for the rest of it.
  6. Just had to drink a gallon of milk, mamma mia that was spicy
  7. Hope you guys like it. Been a long time since I wrote anything for BZP. More chapters in the works.
  8. I. The cardinal rule of trickery is this: attempting two deceptions at once typically results in the failure of both. This old sentiment flutters across the back of my mind as I spot the Jaga, and my grip on the hammer loosens as those words from the captain finish their flight through my skull. This would not be so hard after all. The scorpion is crouched amongst the rocks at the foot of the mesa. Were I not looking for it, I never would have picked out its dull, sun-bleached carapace and beady little eyes from the sand and boulders surrounding it. But I am aware of its first deception, and so its second means nothing. And it knows I am coming. It is hard to contain some deep, blunt sense of rancor or perverse excitement, maybe some of both, as I trudge through the sand. But I heed the captain’s words again, different ones this time. This is to be a clean job. Minimally brutal. He has come to me and made these provisions because he had no other choice, because my “minimally brutal” exceeds the worst his others could muster. And their worst is not enough for this. The Jaga is remarkably still as I begin to pick my way through the stones. I suppose its stillness would be what it has mastered. It will do little else. Before long I am nearly upon it, and it must finally drop its self-pretense that maybe I actually do not see it. The creature springs to life, lunging at me with a pincer. It is poorly aimed and if I didn’t know better I might think the Jaga did not mean to hit me at all. Nevertheless I stumble back, finding a foothold on a rock wedged into the sand. I bring the hammer about as the thing swipes with its other pincer; the hammer connects with it and sends the scorpion tumbling to the side. By the time it finds its footing down where the desert levels out, I am already nearly on it again, taking a swing for the armor just behind its head. It scuttles backwards, my hammer digging into the sand. Then the stinger comes at me and I am barely able to jerk to the left, wrenching my weapon from the ground as Ido. The beast lashes furiously with the stinger, and it almost seems there are many Jaga bearing down on me. It is pushing me back towards the rocks, and inevitably the wall of the mesa. I allow it. It doesn’t mind giving me the high ground in this situation. The stinger can follow me up. But soon enough, I see an opportunity it does not. I brace myself against the boulder my feet are planted on, gripping the hammer so the flat top of the head faces out like a shield. As the Jaga stops, coiling for a strike, I leap from the rock. A satisfying crunch breaks out as I land, my hammer having pinned the tail and stinger to the flat slab of stone embedded in the sand that I’d waited for the Jaga to pass over. It squirms and writhes and chitters, and I know I can’t hold it for long. But both of us know all I have to do is lift my foot and bring it down on the hammer to clip its tail in half. How badly I want to. But the Jaga relents, and gives up on its first deception. There is a glow beneath me, brighter than the desert sun above me, and then there is Corvec Ma, Toa of Stone, lying on the ground in front of me. Before he can even so much as blink, my hammer meets his face and sends his Mahiki skipping away across several stones. * * * I sit now in Captain Davik’s office, periodically looking between the captain himself, who sits at his desk, and Corvec, who sits behind bars. The room is silent. Davik holds the Great Mahiki in his hands, eyeing it wearily, almost fondly. Above all he is a tired man, tired of trying to run Rar-Kor in the absence of true leadership, tired of the almost daily updates to the lists of missing Matoran from around the region, tired of having to specify the parameters of “minimal brutality”. He was not pleased to see me drag in the Toa’s unconscious body, tossing the dented Kanohi on his desk. Somehow the captain has forgotten. Somehow he cannot see that this was minimal. Corvec is crosslegged on the floor of the cell Davik had installed in the office to make interrogations easier. I see in his eyes the easy smile of a man who has it all figured out, but if pressed could not explain what “it all” was. The powerless copper Komau he wears for the time being is the only thing out of place. His bleached, sandy armor might as well make him another crumbling wall in this town. Or a Jaga after all. If he is on the verge of collapse like such a wall, his posture suggests a cool acceptance of it, which angers me. Why should he escape his own mess? His eyes meet mine and I pour all the hatred and malice I can into my stare, if I hadn’t already. His gaze does not falter. Mine does. The captain sets the Mahiki on his desk carefully, somberly, like it’s a tablet reporting an incoming Westing assault on Rar-Kor. He has finally chosen his words. Standing from his stool, he comes around the desk, standing between me and the cell. “Toa Corvec,” he offers with a modest bow. I nearly gag. But I do not disrespect the captain. This is a necessary evil. Corvec’s eyes now meet Davik’s, but he offers no other acknowledgement to the honorific address. The captain clears his throat. “I would have you know of my sorrow for your loss, -for our loss- for your comrades gave to Kor services we can never repay.” He stumbles in his mouth. “That is not to say you yourself are without a long list of great deeds,” he adds quickly. It’s been almost two years since Corvec did any deed, great or otherwise. “Secondly, I would like to apologize personally for the way my deputy-” “Just tell me what you want.” There is a great distance to his voice I did not expect, like he is here but his voice comes down on the wind from the mesa where I found him. The captain seems at once more tense and relaxed. “Alright,” he says, his old voice coming out more evenly now. “I’ll be upfront with you. We have a problem, the whole region does, really and it requires skills that only you possess.” “So what?” Davik’s jaw clenches behind his Huna and, in a rare moment of serendipity, he is thinking exactly what I am. ‘So what is that you are a Toa, and you swore an oath to protect this region until you’ve fulfilled your destiny, whatever that may be’. But these are not the words that leave his mouth. Instead, he sighs quietly and says, “Does the name ‘Gorloh’ mean anything to you?” We both know that yes, it does, and so are not surprised to see Corvec lean forward and then stand, the ease fading from his eyes. “What about him?” “We have reason to believe he is behind a recent string of murders and disappearances around Kor. I understand he is a delicate topic for you, which is why we were wary of simply approaching you to ask.” “Delicate topic for me. That why you sent her out to smash my head in?” “You attacked me first, you miserable rust-” “Halak, please!” The captain raises his hand to silence me, although he does not speak too harshly. He is surprised I lasted as long as I did without interjecting. “...minding my own business out in the wastes and she drags me in here…” “Toa Corvec, I understand your frustrations. I really do. We were perfectly willing to continue to leave you alone indefinitely-” I let the captain speak for me here, incorrect as he may be, “-but we heard from a Matoran in Jok-Kor who claims to be an old acquaintance of yours. He said the situation is becoming so dire that the only solution he could come up with was to have us try and ask you for help. That’s why we sought you out.” “What’s his name?” “Ratuk. He keeps me informed on happenings in Jok-Kor. Roads are dangerous these days; it;s not worth going anywhere on foot if it can be helped.” A second name from his past seems to make this more tangible to Corvec. His eyes grow distant, like his voice, and it seems to me for the first time in two years he’s giving something serious thought. “Alright. I’ll go to Jok-Kor and check things out. But not for you, and certainly not because she treated me so nicely. Because of… the guy,” he says with a nod, like he’s speaking to himself as much as he is to us. “And I have a few conditions.” I roll my eyes but manage to keep my mouth shut. Davik waits expectantly. “I want out of this cell before I leave for anywhere. I want my mask back. And I would like to track down my blades. I’ll need them.” “How do we know you won’t just run off?” I let out before I can stop myself. The captain glares but says nothing. Corvec meets my gaze again. “Because I want him dead more than you ever could.” * * * The copper Komau of victory is back in the drawers of the captain’s desk. The cell is empty, the Mahiki gone. I watch Corvec from the doorway of the enforcement office as he sits on the village’s border wall, facing the sunset. He is doing what we have watched him do for the last two years. Corvec litters the wind with the ghosts of ghosts, with faces and voices that exist only in memory, memory of a time when he was someone always, not someone sometimes and sometimes a thing. The Mahiki will glow all night as he lives in his own private world where he can pretend he isn’t a nearly-useless failure of a being. The captain and I exchange a terse smile as he passes by on his way out of the office. We have not broken any rules; we are operating with just one deception. Review Topic
  9. Absolutely nostalgia. And the few friends that haven't fallen off the map. A lot of my stories here aren't great, but BZP really let me hone my skills and actually feel some pride and accomplishment about getting writing done. Always good memories and fuzzy feelings associated with that. Logging back in last week and talking to an old friend has led to me gearing up to write a new epic, in fact.
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